“How would you know anything about my waist? You’ve only seen me with the cor—” Understanding washed over her. “You did see me…when I was bathing and the chemise was…”
“Wet?” he supplied. “You know, Miss Davenport, cotton is like a second skin when you get water on it.”
Words to describe her horror formed on Emma’s tongue, but her aunt’s scolding voice in her ear refused to permit such vulgarities.
“My undergarments are none of your concern,” she said, keeping her voice bland as boiled oats. She’d deprive him of any satisfaction he might gain from riling her.
He shrugged. “I’m right and you know it. You don’t need that thing anymore than my horse needs spectacles.”
“This may come as a great surprise to you, but I do not count you as an expert on ladies’ fashion,” she said with a sniff.
He cocked a brow. “Do I need to prove I’m right?”
“I assure you, that won’t be—”
Before she could evade his grasp, his large hands spanned her middle, almost, but not quite touching thumb to thumb. Emma’s heart leapt into her throat. She sputtered a weak protest, all the while her pulse raced and her senses drank in the slight essence of musk and the heat of his touch.
“You’re slender as a reed as it is,” he said in a husky rasp.
“I thought your partner was the flatterer.” Did her voice betray the tiny tremors in her belly?
He stared down at her, no trace of mockery in his eyes. One hand trailed higher, skimming her unbound ribs, over her upper arms, and cupped the curve of her jaw.
“Just speaking the truth. You don’t need that thing.”
“My aunt would disagree. A tightly cinched corset produces the perfect silhouette.”
“Your aunt is either blind, jealous, or has the sense of a goat. You’re perfect…” His hands fell to his sides. He raked a hand through his hair. “Just fine without that contraption.”
Emma shook her head as if that would clear the memory of his touch. Swallowing against the nervous lump in her throat, she strolled over to retrieve her shoes.
He fixed his attention on the low-hanging branch where she’d dangled her stockings. Breaking off a twig, he hunkered down on a large stone and dug at the ground with the stick.
Her heart still raced from their fleeting contact and his gravelly words, and yet, he now sat playing in the dirt. Good heavens, had the man decided to drive her entirely mad?
She gathered her things, watching as he probed the soil. “What are you doing?”
He dangled a fat worm between his fingers in reply. “I need bait.”
Emma shuddered in revulsion. He laughed under his breath.
“This might be a good time for you to go back to the cabin and dry off. You really won’t like what happens when I put this thing on a hook.”
Another little shudder ran through her. “Very well.” She retrieved her dress. “I wouldn’t want to catch a chill.”
“Nope. We wouldn’t want that,” he commented absently while he tied a fishhook to a line.
Making a point to avert her eyes as he readied the hook for the worm, Emma bustled back to the cabin. She opened her satchel and poked through the contents in search of the extra chemise she was certain she’d packed. No sign of it. Drat. Had she forgotten the undergarment in her haste to leave her father’s house?
She pulled each garment out in turn, shaking her head in disbelief as she failed to put her hands on the chemise. Had she forgotten to tuck the shift into her bag? Of course, she’d been in quite a rush to pack her things. Moments when her chaperone, a kind but bland-as-porridge woman who’d most likely carry the title Miss for the rest of her days, wasn’t clinging to her side were rare. Drat the luck.
Concluding she’d simply have to allow the heat of her body to dry the damp chemise that clung to her skin, Emma replaced the items she’d removed from her bag. Her fingers deftly folded a dress into a rectangle not much larger than a dinner napkin. Rather impressive, she had to admit. As she stowed the day dress into the satchel, her stomach felt suddenly weighted, plummeting to her toes. Something was wrong.
Where was the volume of poetry Frederick had sent by courier that dreary morning? She’d had no cause to remove it from the traveling bag. But now, it had seemingly vanished.
Oooh, the scoundrel! The desperado had gone through her things, hadn’t he? Why would a man like him dig through a bag of ladies’ garments? How dare he help himself to a gift that held no value to anyone but her?
Without bothering to don her corset, Emma pulled her dress over her head and wiggled the fabric over her shift. Her stockings and shoes came next. A storm roiled in her belly. How dare he search her possessions—again! It was bad enough when his partner examined the contents of the satchel. But this—this was inexcusable.
Slamming the door behind her for good measure, she marched out to his fishing spot. “You went through my things, didn’t you?”
He met her accusation with a poker-bland face. “Yep.”
“Your partner already searched it for a weapon. You had no reason to look through it again. And you took something of mine.”
He set his fishing pole against the stone he’d used as a seat. “Come with me.”
“You had no reason to take my book.” She held her voice tightly controlled as she followed him to the cabin. “Does irritating me bring you so much pleasure?”
A hitch of his lips broke through the placid front. “I suppose it does, Miss Davenport. But that’s not why I took your book.” He retrieved the small, gold-leafed volume from his saddlebag. “I have to admit, it’s more interesting than I would have imagined.”
She reached for the book, but he raised it too high for her to reach.
“There is no justification for such boorish behavior. That book has no value to a man like you.”
He gave a lazy shrug. “Who’s to say barbarians can’t enjoy a verse or two?”
“I fail to believe you have any interest in Walt Whitman’s poetry.”
“Even Philistines can read.” His mouth edged up at the corner. “A gift from Staton?”
“If you must know, yes.”
He flipped open the cover. “That’s quite an inscription.”
“Frederick is a man of culture.”
“Culture, or horseshit?” Cole eyed her as if waiting for a reply.
“Are you always so crude?”
“Only when I’m knee deep in manure.” His gaze fell to the open page. “Souls divided, only to reunite when the moon is new and twins reign. Guard well the heart that binds you to me.” He pronounced each word as though it dripped with something quite foul yet utterly ridiculous.
She stuck out her hand, palm up. “I’d like my book back—now.”
He glanced up from the page. “First, tell me what the hell that means.”
“Nothing you would understand.” She clipped the words between her teeth.
“Who are the twins?”
“These words were not meant for you. If they were, you would take their meaning. I’ve no intention of explaining anything to you.”
“Pages have been removed. They’ve been cut out cleanly, probably with a razor. Why?”
“I hadn’t noticed—perhaps those verses hold a particular appeal for Frederick and he wished to keep them with him.”
“Appeal, huh? That’s one way to put it. The missing pages are not in any particular order, and in a couple of cases, part of a poem has been removed while the rest of its verses remain in the book.”
Why was this thoroughly exasperating man questioning her about a blasted volume of poetry? Cole’s expression had hardened, his gaze cold and penetrating.
“I have no idea. Even if I did, I wouldn’t waste my breath with an explanation. Perhaps I’ll inquire about that once I’m reunited with my fiancé. If you’re patient, I might be able relay a message to you, though I doubt you’ll be able to receive correspondence where you’re going.”
“From what I
understand, Hell has damn poor mail service.”
Was it her imagination, or did a spark light his eyes? No matter. She wouldn’t be swayed by his intimidation or any feeble attempt he might make to endear himself to her.
“The letter you concealed in here doesn’t make any more sense than the inscription.”
“The letter…you read my letter.” She heard her own voice drift off, distant to her own ears. A sense of violation flooded her, and she showed him her back.
His hand fell over her shoulder, his touch light but commanding. “I need you to tell me about this…I need you to tell me what Staton wants from you.”
“There’s nothing to say. You have my correspondence. You can read.”
With both hands on her shoulders, he drew closer. His breath was warm on her neck, nearly as warm as his touch. His grip firmed.
“I need to know what he means. Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re in danger.”
Slowly, Emma turned to him. If her captor thought he’d frighten her, he was mistaken. She’d already faced abduction and imprisonment in this remote place. He wouldn’t cow her with vague menaces conjured up for the sole purpose of bending her to his will.
“So, I’m to believe a villain will menace me to get to these poems. Or perhaps the cad is not an aficionado of Mr. Whitman’s verse.” She fanned herself for effect. “I must say, I’m quaking with terror.”
“Certain phrases in the poems have been underlined. In some cases, single words.”
“Perhaps Frederick noted verses he found particularly moving.”
Cole thumbed to a page in the middle. “On this page, he has two words underlined, leave and the.” He turned to another page. “Here, he’s underlined tree and night. Words like these do not inspire great emotion.”
“Precisely what are you suggesting?”
“This is a code, Miss Davenport.”
“A code? How very preposterous.” She hiked her skirts to her ankles and swooshed past him. “You may solve the riddle of underlined words and missing pages in that book until you are quite weary of it.”
He reached for her, catching her wrist. His dark gaze looked straight through her, and her stomach did a little flip.
“You need to tell me everything you know. Someone knows what’s in this book.” He slanted his bandaged arm a rueful glance. “And they’re willing to kill for it.”
Chapter Twelve
Cole knew a liar when he saw one. Years of dealing in deception had honed his ability to spot the tell-tale signs. Did they look away when confronted with evidence of their duplicity? Did they mask their emotions, covering anger with a smiling mask? Or did they layer on the horseshit so deep, it would take a shovel to dig their way out of it?
Emma Davenport was either the best liar he’d ever seen, or she truly didn’t have any idea why Staton had chosen a mutilated and marred book as a token of his affection. She’d met his gaze with an unflinching glare, making no effort to disguise her anger and worse—her hurt. Her horror at the realization that Cole had seized something so personal played on the terse set of her lips and chin. No sign of false emotion, and not one word to try to explain the markings and missing pages in the book.
He didn’t have time to decipher the markings—not yet. Once the book was back in Washington, he’d be able to work out the cipher. As far as he could tell, the missing pages were scattered throughout the book. Pages thirty-seven and seventy-seven were gone. Latitude and longitude for Richmond. Were the other missing pages coordinates, or were the remaining elements of the code more subtle?
Cole’s attention shot back to the inscription. “Who are the twins?”
“I have no idea what—”
“Staton says the twins will reign. What does he mean?”
Her slender shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t know. I felt he was being poetic.”
“But you don’t know what he’s talking about?”
She fixed him with a pointed glare. “I suppose you analyzed every word a woman ever wrote to you.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever had a woman give me a book filled with gibberish.”
“Gibberish!” She looked upward, as if beseeching the heavens for strength. “Frederick has the soul of a poet.”
“And the mind of a conniving traitor. How much do you know about the man?”
Her chin shot up, a subtly defiant gesture he figured meant she really didn’t have an answer but wouldn’t admit it. Damn shame she was pretty as hell when she looked at him like that. Parts of him wanted to focus on the sweet curve of her mouth and the color in her cheeks, but his brain badgered him to stick to the task at hand. He had to find out everything she knew.
The most insignificant detail might give him something to go on, some way to deduce the ultimate recipient of the cryptic messages. Why would Staton lure Emma into ferrying secrets to him that he’d coded himself?
If Staton was the one who’d recorded the messages. Could someone else have marked up the volume? The flourishes and overly large capital letters of the cryptic message resembled the samples he’d seen of Staton’s handwriting, but without a side-by-side comparison, Cole couldn’t be sure this wasn’t simply a skilled forgery.
“You’re sure the book came from Staton?”
Her chin went higher. At this rate, she was going to need a brace around her pretty neck.
“Of course it came from Frederick.”
“But he didn’t give it to you—he had it delivered.”
“You read the letter. You know why he sent it to me. My father counts many powerful men as his allies. He and his cronies ran Frederick out of Washington with innuendo and blowhard threats.”
Just as he’d thought. Someone in Washington could have written the brief note inside the cover. Someone in Washington with knowledge of battle plans or other intelligence might have marked up the book and delivered it to Emma—a gift she’d never willingly leave behind.
Staton was a cagy son of a bitch, Cole had to give him that. He’d recruited Emma as his personal courier, and she didn’t even know it.
The sense of triumph Cole thought would rear its head stayed quiet and still. Somehow, the thought that Emma had been duped didn’t sit well with him. She’d be hurt. Even if he could protect her from Staton and the men who wanted to see her punished for sins that weren’t hers, she’d believed Staton loved her. The truth of his betrayal would be bitter.
But that truth might keep her alive.
Unless her indignant defense of the man was an act. For all he knew, Emma Davenport could be as skilled at deceit as Staton. Best to keep his suspicions to himself until he was back in Washington. If Emma was a knowing participant in her lover’s scheme, who could predict what she’d do next. If she figured out she’d never get the volume to Staton, would she try to destroy it?
He couldn’t let that happen. There was a traitor in Washington, and Emma’s love token might well be the key to rooting out the son of a bitch.
Still, he had to ferret out whatever he could from Emma. If she was innocent, he’d do what he could to clear the suspicions hovering over her.
And if she wasn’t—it wouldn’t be the first time he’d dealt with an angel-faced woman who’d turned traitor. He didn’t have to trust Emma.
He only had to protect her.
Cole advanced on her. With any luck, he’d unnerve Emma into revealing something other than the barely restrained fury in her emerald eyes. “What else did Staton give you?”
She blinked, and her top teeth skimmed her bottom lip. “Nothing.”
The lie was plain on her face. If she’d been this unable to conceal her emotions when they played poker, she would have lost every hand.
Or was this another act, a distraction from the real deception?
“Staton’s letter mentioned a gift—he insisted you keep it secret from your father.”
Her brows arched. “And you believe I would tell you?”
“Do you want to stay alive, Miss Davenport?
”
“Are you always so dramatic?”
“You mentioned your father’s powerful friends. The man also has powerful enemies, men who wouldn’t waste any time on mercy if you stood between them and what they want.”
“Father regularly makes deals. At times, some of his associates aren’t pleased with the outcome. Other than playing hostess, I have nothing to do with Papa’s politics.”
She was wrong. This had everything to do with her. Was Emma truly unaware of the web in which she’d become tangled?
Whether or not she knew it, Emma was ferrying information to Staton. Or was someone else intended to receive the small volume? She was either a pawn in Staton’s scheme, or she was as conniving and cold-blooded as the traitor she planned to marry. The book would make a powerful piece of evidence against her. She’d look guilty as hell, whether or not she knew of Staton’s treachery.
He had to get the book back to Grant’s headquarters in Virginia—to the army’s contingent of code-breakers, expert cryptologists skilled at getting to the bottom of what he held in his hand. Whether proof of Emma’s innocence or guilt, he had to keep it out of Staton’s reach.
They had to get out of there. It was a matter of time before Staton’s thugs tracked them down. If Emma wasn’t a knowing partner in Staton’s scheme, she’d be a liability—sooner or later, the bastard would silence her.
The beat of hooves against the ground commanded Cole’s attention. He stowed the book in his trouser pocket and gripped the revolver holstered at his hip.
“Stay here.” He kept his voice low. Gun drawn, he went to the door.
Mounted on a large chestnut gelding, his partner lifted the brim of his hat, revealing his features. “You planning on shooting me?”
Cole holstered his weapon. “Jesus, I wasn’t expecting you until nightfall.”
Emma stepped onto the porch, a smile curving her lips. His partner tipped his hat, ever the solicitous gentleman—ever the goddamn burr in Cole’s rear end. Christ, maybe he should step aside and put Dunham in charge of questioning her. The tight-lipped miss might spill everything she knew about Staton including his hat size under Dunham’s honeyed encouragement.
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