Captured

by Victoria Lynne

  He reached for her and gathered her into his arms, cradling her in his lap. He ran his hands over her, trying to transfer the heat from his body to hers. “Devon,” he said, “I shouldn’t have left you alone today. You’re experiencing delayed shock from running the blockade. It’s a terrifying experience for even the most seasoned—”

  “No. No, that’s not it.” She tilted her face up toward his. Though she wasn’t crying now, her eyes were red and swollen; the tracks of her tears still glistened on her cheeks. “We can’t go after Sharpe, Cole. If we do, it’s going to be bad. It’s going to be very, very bad.”

  Cole looked down at her, his entire body aching with regret. Obviously she was more shaken up by the run than he’d suspected, “Where did this all come from?”

  “I was sleeping and I saw it all,” she said with a shuddering breath. “I saw exactly what’s going to happen.”

  “You had a bad dream.”

  “No, not a dream. More than that. I had one before my father put me on that train, then again before Billy died, and once about a hotel at which Uncle Monty and I were staying. I saw that there was going to be an awful fire and there was, the very next night.”

  “And now you dreamed about Sharpe.”

  “You’re not listening to me!” Devon shook her head against his chest, his shirt clenched in her fist. “It wasn’t a dream. I felt it, Cole. It’s exactly what will happen if we go after Sharpe. You’ve never met him. He’s evil. Truly evil.”

  “Shhh,” he soothed, rocking her back and forth. “I’m right here, Devon. I’m listening. Tell me about it.”

  She closed her eyes, her voice trembling as she said, “I don’t know where we were, it’s all so hazy. Everything had gone wrong. I was there, Uncle Monty was there, and you were there… but you weren’t there. I couldn’t make you hear me. I don’t understand it.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Sharpe had a gun. There was blood all over my dress, all over my hands, and I couldn’t stop screaming.”

  Cole’s stomach clenched as he fought back the image her words created. He tightened his arms around her, thinking of his own dark premonitions the day they’d set sail for Wilmington. “That’s not going to happen, Devon,” he swore. “None of it, do you hear me?”

  She pulled out of his embrace to study his face. “Does that mean you’re not going after Sharpe?”

  “Devon, I can’t—”

  “Cole, please…”

  He stared into her eyes, hating the fear and desperation he saw there. “I have to do this,” he said, refusing to lie to her. “We’ve come too far for me turn back now.”

  She regarded him in silence, then let out a shaky breath. “I know.”

  “I promise you, everything’s going to be all right.”

  Her eyes welled with tears as she let out a choked sob. “There was so much blood…”

  The sight of her tears slashed through his body like the sting of a whip. He pulled her tightly against him, brushing his hand gently over her hair. “It’s going to be all right,” he swore. “I promise, Devon.”

  Her nightmare wouldn’t come true, and for one simple reason. When it came time for a showdown with Sharpe, Cole would make damned sure Devon was nowhere near.

  Cole moved swiftly through the streets of Wilmington, stunned at the changes that had befallen the city in the year and a half since the war had begun. The streets were muddy and unkempt, the shops empty and barren. An air of poverty and distress hung over the town like a dark cloud.

  He felt the furtive glances of people he passed, and wondered if there was something that gave him away. He wore pants and a shirt of decent quality, not too rich, but not shabby either. No Rebel uniform. He’d never claimed to be in the Confederate Navy, for that could be too easily checked by Sharpe. Instead he called himself a profiteer. Someone who ran the blockade for money, but who had strong Southern leanings. It was a bit ambiguous of a background, but he preferred it that way. No, there was nothing about him that gave him away. It was just that his nerves were still a bit on edge.

  Devon had thoroughly shaken him three nights ago with her talk of visions and disaster. That, combined with his own dark premonitions, filled him with a deep sense of foreboding, despite the fact they’d gamely tried to brush it off the next morning as nothing but the result of strain and exhaustion. Monty seemed to be the only one who was handling the situation well. As a matter of fact, he appeared to be thriving.

  Monty owned a different suit for every day of the week, and as near as Cole could tell, they were all plaid. That made the large man easy to identify. Especially now, as he stood on a crate before a swelling crowd. He was smiling, shouting, and carrying on, his grand gestures visible even from across the street. Cole shook his head and stifled a groan. A low profile, that’s what Monty had promised him. But with Montgomery Persons, that obviously wasn’t possible.

  Cole glanced at the banner that hung over Monty’s head: Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup. Miracle Cure-All. Bottles of the syrup were stacked up neatly in the booth behind him, blazing with impressive red and gold labels that matched the banner. Cole had no idea where the syrup had come from, nor did he truly want to know. He spotted Devon standing next to the booth and went over to join her. She gave him a brief smile, then turned her attention back to her uncle.

  “Of all the blessings this life has to offer,” Monty boomed out to the crowd, “none can exceed the value of good health. Who among us has not fallen to grievous illness, only to recover and experience the bliss, the joy, the bounty of good health? And what a wonderful feeling that is, my friends, what a wonderful feeling that is!”

  Cole was grudgingly impressed. Monty worked the crowd like an evangelical preacher, offering praise and salvation one moment, heartache the next. “But what about those of you who suffer pain in silence, those who have loved ones who suffer? Do you think the world has forgotten you? Indeed, the world has not! Mrs. Winslow has not!”

  “Why ain’t you off fightin’ the war?” a heckler called from the audience.

  Monty handled the man with cool aplomb. “My good friend,” he beamed, “I’m delighted you asked. For you see, I have as brave a heart in my body as any man, but the most cowardly legs you ever saw.”

  A chuckle ran through the crowd, and the heckler was pushed back. Monty grabbed a bottle and waved it around. “Speaking of the war, don’t forget your loved ones in prison or in the camps,” he called out. “One bottle will relieve the worst cases of sores, ulcers, scurvy, fevers, and bowel complaints. You there!” He pointed to two young men who stood nearby. “A side benefit of the syrup: when applied to the face it promotes a luxurious growth of whiskers‌—‌without staining the skin! Remarkable, you say? Yes, but true! All true!”

  The townspeople surged forward, offering up their hard-earned bills. While Cole strongly doubted the cure-all would help any of them, neither did he figure it would hurt‌—‌except perhaps in the pocketbook. Most likely it contained a mixture of alcohol, water, peppermint, and whatever herbs were at hand when it was bottled.

  After an hour had passed and Monty’s stock was nearly depleted, a young girl fought her way to the front of the crowd. Cole’s indifference immediately fled. She was barefoot, her dress made of coarse brown wool. In her arms she carried a squalling baby. The girl unclenched her fist, holding up a few coins. “Please! Please, sir, I have to have that syrup!”

  Monty frowned. “Are you ill?”

  “No, it’s not for me, it’s for the baby. She’s been sickly ever since she was born.”

  Monty bent down and pulled back the thin cotton blanket that covered the child’s face. “Your sister?” he asked gently.

  The girl shook her head, a shy smile flashing across her face. “No, I’m her mama. Her daddy’s off fightin’ the war.”

  “I see,” Monty said as he straightened. He looked at the girl for a second longer, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. The syrup is too strong to give to a baby.”

  The girl�
��s smile faded as panic transformed her features, “It’s the money, ain’t it? I know it’s not enough but it’s all I’ve got. I don’t have any more.”

  “I’m sor—”

  “Wait!” she cried desperately. “I can dig up my garden! It’s got carrots and potatoes. I’ll give them all to you. Please, I don’t need the food. I just need something for my baby.”

  Monty let out a deep breath, no doubt seeing what Cole was seeing. The girl was nothing but skin and bones. She needed every ounce of food she had and then some. “I don’t want your food—”

  “Oh, please,” she choked out. “I’ll give you anything. Anything. But I have to have a bottle of that potion.”

  “My dear girl—”

  “Please, you don’t understand,” she said as she clutched Monty’s leg. “Last night I prayed for a miracle for my baby, and now you’re here. The bottle even says Miracle on it. That’s why I have to have it I know it’s going to cure her, I know it will.”

  Monty studied her for a long, silent moment. Finally he let out a deep sigh and held out his hand. “Very well.”

  The girl dropped her coins into his palm, her face wreathed with a glowing smile. “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.” She reached for the bottle but Monty pulled it out of her grasp.

  “Now, now, my dear. As I said, this is too strong to give a baby. Let me get you the other formula.”

  Cole watched in disgust as Monty pocketed the girl’s coins. He moved forward, determined to stop the sale.

  Devon caught his arm. “Let him be, Cole.”

  He stared at her in amazement. “What? We can’t let him—”

  “Let him be.”

  There was a quiet firmness to her tone. He shook his head, wondering why she wasn’t as sickened as he was. Still, he did as she bid, watching as Monty ducked behind the booth, then handed the girl a box containing the syrup. He admonished her not to open it until she got home, lest she spill a drop. The girl thanked him profusely and skipped away.

  Cole frowned and said to Devon, “You can’t believe that what he gave her will actually cure the babe.”

  Devon shrugged. “No,” she said softly, “it won’t cure the babe. But it will help, and that’s all we can do.”

  Cole watched her move to join her uncle, taken aback by her faith in the cure-all. She gave her uncle a quick hug, murmuring words that sounded like praise. Cole’s unease rose. Perhaps Devon had learned to tolerate her uncle’s schemes and wiles, but he definitely had not. Devon and Monty’s absolute lack of remorse at taking the girl’s only coin bothered him more than he cared to admit.

  Realizing that they’d lost the momentum of the show, Monty and Devon dispensed the few remaining bottles free of charge to the wounded Rebel soldiers who lined the area in front of the booth. The men eagerly accepted the tonic, then hobbled off. Cole assisted Monty in dismantling the booth as Devon folded the banner.

  When they finished, Devon excused herself and walked to the small shop across street, wanting to pick up a few items before they returned to the ship. Though Cole doubted she’d find much among the barren shelves, he welcomed the opportunity to talk to Monty alone. Cole had rented a wagon and a swaybacked old nag, the only horseflesh in town that hadn’t been impressed by the army. As they loaded everything up, he said, “Well done, Monty. I do believe you could charm the skin off a snake.”

  Monty shrugged. “So I’ve been told.” He nodded to a passing coach, tipped his hat to the ladies inside, then turned back to Cole. “Speaking of snakes, I received a message from our good friend Mr. Finch today.”

  Cole tensed. “Where has he been?” The man had left the ship the day they docked and hadn’t been seen since.

  “Taking care of business, apparently. Evidently you passed on both counts, Captain. The cargo was in good order and no one has ever heard of you‌—‌either as a blockader or as a runner. Exactly what we wanted.”

  “So now what?” he pressed.

  “Now we proceed as planned, of course. Your ship is loaded, ready to go. Finch will meet us aboard at five o’clock for departure, just as you requested.”

  Cole nodded. “Finch will be aboard for the return run?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  That considerably offset the possibility that they were being led into a trap‌—‌at least while Finch was aboard. The man was rabid about saving his own skin. Still, Cole felt uneasy. He wondered why Finch had sent a message about departure to Monty rather than to him, as the ship’s captain. There were hundreds of possibilities, none of which was very reassuring. His eyes locked on Monty’s as he said, “You know, it could be that Finch has no idea where Sharpe is routing that ship. In fact, he may never have even heard of Jonas Sharpe. He could be nothing but a stooge you paid to lure me into making this run and providing you with a handsome profit.”

  Monty brought his hand down on Cole’s shoulder in a gesture of solid approval. “Brilliant, my boy! Absolutely brilliant. I’m only ashamed I didn’t think of it myself.”

  “What I’m interested in is whether it’s true.”

  Monty smiled. “Do you know what your problem is? You trusted me, and now you regret it.” He sighed and shook his head. “My good friend, it’s a classic symptom‌—‌I run into it all the time in my line of work. You’re angry at yourself and you’re suspicious of me, but there’s no going back. I offered you Jonas Sharpe and my darling niece in one neat package, and you leapt at the chance to have them both. You should have examined this thoroughly before you agreed, but now it’s too late.”

  “Listen, dammit, if you think this is some kind of a game—”

  “A game? No, Captain, it most assuredly is not,” Monty replied. For once, his tone was serious.

  Devon approached the wagon, and Cole let the conversation drop. He helped her aboard, seating her between him and Monty as they made their way back to the Ghost. “By the way, Captain,” Monty said. “Finch will be expecting a little payment from you. Five hundred dollars, to be exact.”

  Cole pulled up the reins and brought their tired nag to a dead stop. “For what?”

  “Dock fees have to be paid, of course. Then there are the export taxes on the cotton and compensation for the extra hours the stevedores worked to assist your crew loading and unloading the cargo.”

  “I’ve never heard of any of those charges. Sounds like Finch is getting greedy.”

  “Either that or it’s nothing but local graft.” Monty thought it over, then shrugged. “A bit of both, I suspect.”

  “Finch expects me to hand over five hundred dollars in less than thirty minutes?”

  “If we intend to leave Wilmington today, yes. The fees have to be paid first.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Monty frowned. “The money is of little consequence, Captain. We’ll make it up at least a hundred times over once we sell the cotton we’re bringing out.”

  “That’s exactly the point. I have about ten dollars in Rebel notes left to my name. The cargo I carried in was swapped directly for cotton‌—‌there was never an exchange of currency.” Cole had enough Federal currency in his cabin to cover the fees, but a Rebel blockade runner certainly couldn’t flash Yankee bills around a Southern port. He’d managed to get his hands on some Rebel notes before he’d left St. George, but obviously not enough.

  “I see. My, this is a tight fix, isn’t it?” Monty said, not sounding the least bit concerned.

  Cole let out a sigh of disgust, then brightened as he remembered the money the crowd had tossed at Monty for Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup. While he hadn’t approved, at five dollars a bottle Monty had earned at least what they needed to cover the fees. Probably twice that. “Pay Finch the money,” he said shortly. “I’ll reimburse you with Federal currency.”

  “Actually, Captain, I would prefer not to do that.”

  Cole stiffened. “And I would prefer not to pay the damned money in the first place. But it doesn’t appear either of u
s has a choice, now does it?”

  “Unfortunately I regret that I will not be able to oblige—”

  “Now listen, Monty—”

  “He doesn’t have the money, Cole,” Devon interrupted.

  “Now, now, my girl, there’s no need—” Monty protested as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “What do you mean, he doesn’t have the money?” Cole said. “I saw him take at least…” His voice trailed off as he remembered the elixir Monty had sold the young girl. Unlike the others he’d passed out to the crowd, hers hadn’t been in a clear bottle. Instead he’d handed her a tightly sealed box and admonished her not to open it until she returned home. He recalled Devon’s soft smile as she said, It won’t cure the babe. But it will help. He turned and stared at Monty in stunned disbelief. “You gave it to that girl, didn’t you?”

  “Every penny,” Devon answered for her uncle, “and probably every cent he had in his own pockets, as well.”

  Monty looked away, his expression thoroughly displeased. “Even I have my standards,” he grumbled.

  Cole shook his head in amazement. “I never would have believed it.”

  “I’ll thank you to keep your mouth shut about it too,” Monty snapped. “After all, I do have my reputation to consider.”

  Cole glanced at Devon, who wrapped her arm through her uncle’s, looking both pleased and proud. With a flick of the reins, he set the nag in motion and brought his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “That leaves us with less than thirty minutes to come up with five hundred dollars in Rebel currency.”

  Monty brightened, happy with the shift in conversation, particularly since they were back in his area of expertise. He rubbed his hands together, his broad smile firmly in place. “Thirty minutes? Plenty of time, my good friend, plenty of time.” He pointed to a waterfront tavern they were about to pass. “I think this should do nicely, Captain.”

  Cole drew to a stop and hitched the wagon. He secured the reins, knowing they had little choice. Obviously Monty was about to pick every pocket in the place. They moved into the dark, crowded tavern and took a seat at a table along a side wall. Monty studied a group of three men, listening intently to their conversation. Cole glanced at them as well.