The sun’s ebbing light beckoned over the mountains to their west. It wouldn’t be long before darkness overtook the land. He couldn’t chance her roaming about in the night. Rising, he stretched his legs and went after her. Even in the dim light, tear stains stood out against Emma’s fair complexion.
He’d killed in battle. He’d lived through a bullet to the chest, and he’d watched his brother die on a field in Pennsylvania. A few tears shed by a sweet-faced woman who wasn’t nearly as innocent as she looked shouldn’t get to him.
But they did.
“I asked you to leave me alone.”
“I need to get you back to the cabin.” He brushed the fat drops from her cheeks. “It’s nearly dark.”
Emma bristled against his touch. “I will do what you ask. But don’t try to pretend you’re anything other than a heartless cur.”
He shrugged. “You’ve got no worries on that account.”
Damn shame he didn’t believe his own words.
Chapter Five
Settling into a rocking chair so worn and well-used George Washington might have sat in it, Emma leaned back against the spindles. The dry wood creaked in protest. Undeterred, she opened the novel in her hand and huddled closer to a small oil lamp perched on a crudely hewn wooden chest. The words printed on the pages would be her only escape this night. She’d no hope of fleeing her captors while darkness shrouded the hideout. After daybreak—that would be another story.
The door hinges squeaked, announcing her captor’s entrance. Cole marched into the cabin, his shoulders and back taut with strength as he hauled in a load of split logs. Emma forced her attention back to the book in her hand, but her rebellious eyes sought another glimpse, lingering over the sleek muscles rippling beneath his shirt while he went about his task with skillful ease.
Without a glance in her direction, he set the wood on the floor by the stone hearth and hunkered down to kindle a fire. He shot her a wry glance over his shoulder. He’d known she was watching him—she was certain of it. Such an infuriating man. Emma dropped her gaze to the page, but the author’s words drifted through her distracted mind.
Drat him! Before Cole had returned to the one-room abode, she’d taken in the story with great interest. But suddenly, the tale had grown as enticing as undercooked oatmeal. Her interest drifted back to her captor.
Drat, drat, drat.
He rose and headed to a crudely fashioned pine trunk in the corner. Tugging out a blanket, he turned and handed it to Emma. Scratchy wool grazed her fingertips. “You’ll need this tonight.”
Emma pressed her lips into a stiff line. “I won’t stay in this cabin with you or your partner. It’s—”
“Unseemly?” he supplied. Returning to the hearth, he crouched before the fire and stoked the lapping flames to a full blaze.
“Precisely.”
He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “I don’t have any intention of staying cooped up in here.”
“And your partner?”
He shrugged. “That’s up to him. If he chooses to bed down on the floor, you can rest assured he’ll be sleeping, not savoring your charms—whatever those might be.”
She dragged the blanket nearly to her chin and stared down at the last page she’d read. “Barbarians,” she muttered. “Cursed barbarians.”
“What happened to desperado?”
Did the man have the hearing of a timber wolf? He eyed her expectantly, as if pleased he’d riled her once again. She tucked away the entirely improper response that sprang to mind and mustered a prim, bland expression.
“I’m coming to see the term is far too civilized for the likes of you.”
“So it’s a promotion - barbarian outranks desperado, in my book.”
Her fingers tightened around the cover of the novel. The urge to hurl it at him nearly overtook her efforts at restraint. Picturing the neat dent the hefty book might make in his forehead, she bit back a smile.
“Indeed, I’m sure that’s the case. Your mother must be proud to have raised a man with such lofty aspirations.”
He shrugged. “She might have been. No way of telling. She died when I was nine.”
A vise clutched her heart. He’d been so young—younger than Emma had been when her beautiful, vivacious mother was stricken with fever. She knew the pain of loss, and despite herself, her heart ached for him. Mutinous tears threatened to erupt. She had to change the subject.
“Very well then, your father.”
Cole shook his head. The arrogant mischief had fled his eyes. “He died in the same accident that took my mother’s life.”
Oh, dear. She’d grieved her mother’s death for so long—at times, she still yearned to look into her mother’s sweet face. But to lose both parents in one brutal stroke of fate—the pain must have been devastating. Even now, she saw it clearly, a look of loss he couldn’t hide. The dull pain in her heart swelled to a throb.
“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out as she dabbed away a rebellious tear.
“Nothing to be sorry about.” He rose to his full height and walked slowly to the door. “This barbarian is too damn tired to wreak any havoc tonight. I’m going grab some sleep before I go on watch. I suggest you do the same.”
* * *
Cole sank to the ground and rested his back against the base of an oak tree. His blanket lay near his feet, still rolled tight and tied. Every muscle in his body was tense as a bowstring.
A dull throb coursed through his arm. He rubbed his shoulder above the bandage he’d fashioned over his bicep. He’d been lucky. Damn lucky. The bullet had only grazed him. It could have done a hell of a lot more damage. Thank God the son of a bitch shooting at him couldn’t hit a bull’s-eye the size of a barn door.
The bastard could’ve hit Emma. She could’ve been wounded. Or killed. The fist permanently lodged in his gut twisted. Cole had managed to protect her then, but how many men were on their trail? He would defend her, but he was only one man. After the sunrise, he wouldn’t have Steve to count on for backup—not until his partner returned from the rendezvous with their contact. Cole would be on his own, with a woman who hated his guts—a woman he had good reason to believe was as treacherous as the man she planned to marry.
Emma seemed naïve, but that might be a carefully crafted act. The senator’s daughter had hitched her future to a smooth-talking wolf in rich man’s clothing, an unscrupulous bastard who threw his loyalty-of-the-moment to the highest bidder. If Staton had groomed her to be a spy, there was no telling what lengths she’d go to in order to reach their rendezvous point—or to what depths he’d sink to silence her.
Even if Emma hadn’t turned her back on the Union, her connection with Frederick Staton had put her freedom—and possibly her life—in jeopardy. Two powerful members of Lincoln’s cabinet—outspoken adversaries of Emma’s windbag father—chomped at the bit to bring her in for questioning. If they could prove she’d ferried privileged material to the enemy, her position in Washington society wouldn’t protect her. Since Staton had been too cunning to leave any evidence of his covert activities, Emma Davenport’s head on a platter would have to do. Her fiancé’s seeming invincibility only compounded the pressure in Washington to make someone pay for his treachery.
Cole had to prevent Emma from reaching St. Louis—from reaching Staton—by any means possible. Instead of gathering intelligence on Lee’s troop movements, he wasted precious time playing bodyguard to some spoiled, infatuated girl who’d already pulled a gun on him once. A fool’s errand if he’d ever seen one.
And he was the fool—designated by Ulysses Grant, himself. Why the hell had he agreed to be a part of this mission, a plan thrown together by the general and senator to rescue the runaway bride from her own schemes?
Under orders to keep their purposes a closely guarded secret, Cole and his partner were on their own. Emma Davenport wasn’t to learn her father had called in an old favor from the most powerful general in the Union. For his part, Grant didn’t want any
War Department chair-warmers second-guessing him if the mission went wrong. As far as the Army was concerned, the men who hauled Emma Davenport off that train were renegades, soldiers gone rogue. If they were captured or killed, only a handful of souls knew the truth.
None of them would be any help if Cole and Dunham got in over their heads.
He wasn’t immortal. If he were going to die in this war, he wanted to be on a battlefield, not holed up in the woods trying to protect a woman who might be as duplicitous as her betrothed. He’d approached the mission cautiously, but the need to protect the senator’s daughter at all costs had already driven him to one damn fool decision. Bringing her to the remote outpost known as the fox’s den had compromised its security. Even if he’d blindfolded Emma along the route to the safe house, she would have been able to describe the location. He’d deal with the repercussions once this farce of a mission came to an end. There’d been no choice. He had to get her to safety, and this was the best alternative—hell, it seemed the only alternative.
None of that mattered now. The contact they knew only as Morning Glory would have to establish another outpost. The fox’s den would be Emma Davenport’s home for the next forty-eight hours, until Dunham finalized arrangements to pass her on to their contact for transport to her father’s fractured kingdom. Senator Davenport’s princess would be someone else’s problem then, God help the poor bastard.
Cole folded his hands behind his head. This was going to be a long night. He’d agreed to stand watch. He wouldn’t have gotten any sleep, anyway.
Dunham’s snores grated against his nerves. Cole would’ve had more peace at the train station. At least the locomotive’s bellows were rhythmic. Not so with Dunham. The man sprawled on his back under a tree, putting out enough noise to frighten off critters for at least a mile.
Cole rose. He was restless, too damn restless to sit with his thoughts. Stretching his legs, he prowled around the cabin.
A small sound—leaves crunching underfoot—caught his attention.
He wasn’t alone.
With a soldier’s instinct, Cole moved his hand to his holster. He coiled his fingers around the grip and drew his revolver.
Another crunch. Damn! He knew better than to underestimate Staton’s thugs. How many men had come for Emma this time? Moving toward the sound with long, quiet strides, he came around the side of the house and crept toward the porch.
“Oh, my heavens!” Emma’s gaze fixed on the six-shooter.
Christ, what was the senator’s prissy daughter doing roaming around in the dark? Shouldn’t she be inside reading some fluffy sonnet or soliloquy?
“What are you doing out here?”
She eyed the gun. “Were you going to shoot me?”
He sheathed the weapon and raked a hand through his hair. Damn it, he seemed more startled than she did.
“What are you doing out here?” he repeated. Did she have any idea of the dangers that lurked in the night?
She paced in the moonlight. “I heard a noise inside the cabin. There’s something there.”
One of her hands went to her throat, toying with the buttons on the prim white blouse she’d buttoned clear to her neck. How could she breathe with the choker collar fastened so tightly? At least she’d loosened her chestnut mane. The long waves flowed to her waist. His gaze lingered over her mouth, over the bottom lip she chewed. Was her distress real, or an impressive act?
Truth of it was, it didn’t matter a hill of beans if Emma Davenport was miserable. It wasn’t his job to play nursemaid. So why did the fist in his gut twist again, adding a thump to the belly for emphasis?
Dammit, he wasn’t going to jump every time she crooked her finger. “It’s probably just a mouse,” he said, adding a shrug for good measure.
“You say that as if it were not a problem.” Her brows knitted together, and she folded her arms at her waist. “I despise mice.”
He shrugged again. “A mouse is the least of my worries.”
The slightly drowsy look in her eyes evaporated, replaced by a flicker of fire. “You, sir, are not expected to sleep with a rodent skittering around.”
“Are you proposing I stay inside the cabin and mount a defense against the little beast?”
“Good heavens, no!” She glared at him. “I should have known you’d choose to do nothing about this. It’s not as though you have a chivalrous bone in your body.”
As if on cue, his arm throbbed again, a silent contradiction of her words. Evidently, defending her against a gunman didn’t rank quite as high in Miss Davenport’s book as charging in against some scared-shitless rodent.
Cole moved closer, backing her toward the exterior wall of the cabin. He braced one arm at her side. “I’m more worried about the animals that walk on two legs.”
“Are you trying to frighten me?”
“Just telling the truth. You don’t know how ruthless men can be.” This close, the faint aroma of lavender soap and an essence uniquely hers filled his senses. Primal instinct replaced logic, propelling blood from his brain to his groin with lightning speed. Damn! “Go back inside, Miss Davenport.”
Emma pressed her fingers to her temples and rubbed tiny circles over her flesh. “Do dangerous animals roam these woods at night?”
He shrugged. “It’s been known to happen.”
She slanted Dunham’s sleeping form a glance. “Will you and your partner be safe out here?”
Her concern was no doubt centered on Dunham’s well-being. Somehow, Cole didn’t imagine she’d much care if he were torn to pieces by a pack of wolves. Actually, the idea might appeal to her, given the daggers that usually filled her eyes when she looked at him.
“I won’t sleep tonight. You don’t need to worry about us.”
A stray tendril grazed the curve of her face, taunting him. He swept a finger over her cheek, tucking the errant curl behind her ear. He’d been determined not to touch her. But he was human. And her softness drew him as a mountain spring enticed a man dying of thirst.
His fingers lingered over her thick tresses. He couldn’t resist teasing her, if only to see those intriguing emerald eyes flash. “You’re sure you don’t want me to stay inside to defend you from your intruder?”
“You’re incorrigible!” She wriggled away and stormed back into the cabin. The door closed with a resounding thud.
He couldn’t help but smile to himself. “I didn’t think so. Sleep well and don’t let the critters bite.”
Cole walked back to the tree that provided his temporary shelter. Stretching out on the ground, he rested his head on his folded arms. The image of Emma’s softly-curved bow of a mouth taunted him without mercy.
He stared up at the night sky. Decidedly impure thoughts of all the things he wanted to do to that prim, perfect mouth flooded his brain. Yep, this was going to be one hell of a long night.
* * *
Emma awakened with the dawn. Sunlight streamed through the undraped window, birds chirped beyond the wooden walls of the cabin, and her heart sank. How had her plans shattered within the span of a day?
In the clearing, the steady rhythm of metal striking wood drifted to her ears. Emma peeked out the window. Her captor had stacked the wood he split the day before and now attacked the remaining logs with vigor.
Why had he taken her prisoner? Her father was not a rich man. Decades in public office had not made him wealthy. He might have been overbearing and hungry for power, but he didn’t have a corrupt bone in his body. If a quest for ransom drove her captors, they’d soon be disappointed. Or were their motives much darker? Did they plan to hold her in exchange for military secrets or to blackmail her father into using his position to perform some underhanded act that would benefit the enemy?
Was revenge their motive? Had she been taken as an act of retribution against her father—or her betrothed? Cole hated Frederick. He’d given away that much. The barely repressed fury in Cole’s eyes left no doubt he’d strike at her fiancé using any means at his dispo
sal.
Emma forced herself to turn away. She’d have to face Cole and his partner at some point. She would be presentable when she did. At least her captor had shown the decency to tie her traveling case to his saddle before he brought her to the wilderness.
She unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it from her body. Stained with her abductor’s blood, the garment was ruined. She dropped it to the floor, then unfastened her skirt and pulled it over her head. The dirt-smudged sky-blue skirt was salvageable and worthy of more care. She carefully draped it over a chair before she searched in the bag. Smiling to herself, she retrieved one of the treasures she’d carefully packed for the journey, a delicate hand mirror with a mother-of-pearl handle—a gift from her father on her sixteenth birthday. The looking glass had once belonged to her mother, and even now, Emma could still picture her mother’s sweet face every time she peered into it.
The smile disappeared as her own reflection stared back. Small, dirty streaks marred her cheeks and her chin, while her hair hung in thick skeins, tumbling in complete disarray over her shoulders. She took a handkerchief out of the satchel, wet it, and wiped away the smudges. How she longed for a hot bath in a clean porcelain tub.
She fastened her corset around her chemise, then slipped a mint-green cotton dress over her head. Once the sun heated the air, the garment’s high collar would be warm, but she recalled Aunt Elizabeth’s admonitions about modesty and fastened the delicate buttons at the lace-edged neckline.
When she finished, Emma found the other treasure she’d tucked in her satchel. An elegant boar bristle hairbrush, a gift from her father from several Christmases past. She gently tugged the brush through her tangled hair, then tied the long, thick waves with a black satin ribbon.
“Where’s the scourge that terrorized you last night?” Cole filled the doorway. “I need to find the villainous critter before it arises to menace you again.”
Uncertain whether his mocking words or arrogant attitude infuriated her more, Emma shook her head. “You can’t come in here. I’m not quite finished dressing. It wouldn’t be—”
Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies (Secrets & Spies) Page 5