“Exactly. At our protest, their inspector went out to look at the ships. His report concluded that he found no warlike structures of any kind on the vessels.”
“Was the man blind or just stupid?”
“Neither. He was interpreting British law to the letter. Their Foreign Enlistment Act prohibits the outfitting of warships in their ports but, interpreted narrowly, does not forbid the building of vessels that might become ships of war. Once they leave harbor, they simply dock at a non-British harbor for the addition of armament.”
Cole threw the sketches down. “So much for British neutrality.”
Admiral Billings sighed, peering into his empty glass of brandy. “The Brits are holding the cards right now, and they know it. They haven’t openly come out in support of the Rebels, but they have no reason not to. They have everything to gain if the South wins, after all. The word from our men in London is that they’re playing it cautious right now, waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For the next Southern victory. We’ve been hearing rumors that Lee is planning to invade the North. If he does, and he’s successful, Lord Palmerston will waste no time in recognizing the Rebels.”
“Which will mean war with England,” Cole predicted grimly.
Billings shook his head. “You know as well as I do that we can’t go to war with England. Not now. Lincoln has enough on his hands trying to put down the rebellion. Palmerston knows it too, and that’s why he’s playing this little game, putting a face of neutrality on his actions while he continues to send ships and arms to the South.”
While the news wasn’t surprising to Cole, it was still hard to accept. England was on the brink of recognizing the Rebels. According to rumor, so was France. McClellan’s Peninsula campaign had resulted in a wave of inglorious defeat and bitter stalemate, until the Union commander finally found something he was good at. Retreat He and his men were currently camped in the mud at Harrison’s Landing, awaiting the platoon boats that would carry them back to Washington.
A heavy weight settled over Cole. Lee was on the offensive. Men like Sharpe were punching holes in the blockade. Lincoln was fumbling in the search for a commander capable of leading the U.S. armies. And the powers in Europe were one Rebel victory away from offering the South formal recognition. The future of the Union looked grim indeed.
“How is Sharpe connected to these ships?” Cole asked.
“His agent was captured carrying these papers, as well as instructions for the network of blockade runners Sharpe has in operation. The agent’s mission, apparently, was to solicit the funds necessary for the completion of the ships. As you can see, four of the vessels won’t be ready to sail for at least another six months. Those we can stop.”
“What are you planning?”
A glimpse of a smile broke across the admiral’s craggy face. “We intend to start a different kind of war. A bidding war. Those ships are all being built by private firms. The South might have a preferred trading status with England, but the North has a deeper pocket-book. I’ve authorized my men in London to use whatever funds necessary to secure those vessels.”
“What about the fifth ship? The frigate?”
“Unfortunately we’re too late to do anything about that one. Word is that she’ll be ready to leave harbor any day.” Billings cleared his throat and finished gruffly, “That’s where you come in.”
Cole understood immediately. “If I find Sharpe, I find out where they’ll be routing the ship.” He thought for a moment. “What about Sharpe’s agent? Any information there?”
The admiral shook his head. “Denies everything. Knowledge of the papers, working for Sharpe, even denies having murdered Lieutenant Prescott. We’re getting nothing but lies.” Billings paused, forming his fingers in a steeple over the sketches on his desk. “Any problems picking up the prisoner this morning?” he asked.
Distaste rushed over Cole. “With all due respect, sir, surely there’s someone else who’s capable of escorting the woman to Washington. I would prefer to begin the hunt for Sharpe immediately.”
“I’m sure you would. And I would prefer you do your duty as assigned, Captain.”
Cole stiffened. The chore of escorting a prisoner was usually reserved for only the lowest of the low. But what had he expected after the debacle at sea, a medal? “Yes, sir.” He came to his feet, standing rigidly at attention. “Anything else, sir?”
“Damm it, McRae, this isn’t a punishment. What happened out there could have happened to anybody.”
Cole clenched his fists at his sides, ignoring the obvious lie. What happened out there hadn’t happened to anybody. It happened to him, to his men.
“There’s a reason I picked you for this duty, Captain,” Billings continued brusquely. “Your prisoner is not only dangerous, but devious. She’s embarrassed us by escaping twice from her former guards. She’ll he, she’ll steal, and she’s not above using her charms as a woman to seduce her captors into releasing her. That’s why I need you.”
Cole found an almost grim humor in the turn the conversation had taken. “You believe I’m above seduction?”
“In this case, yes.”
“Any particular reason I should inspire such unwarranted confidence?”
Rather than being irritated by his junior officer’s impertinence, Admiral Billings settled back into his chair, looking supremely satisfied. “Devon Blake,” he replied slowly, “is Jonas Sharpe’s agent.” He let that sink in, then lifted his gaze to Cole, all traces of levity gone from his face. “Now tell me, Captain, is there any reason I should doubt you’ll do everything within your power to make sure she gets to Old Capitol?”
Devon Blake was Jonas Sharpe’s agent. Cole felt his blood run cold as he absorbed the news, picturing the woman in his mind: petite, vulnerable, yet unafraid to show her scorn for the men who held her captive. The grudging respect he’d held for her turned instantly to seething contempt. Unfortunately a good deal of that contempt was directed at himself. Before he’d left the gunboat, he’d given one of the crewmen money and instructions to buy the woman a pair of shoes. He clenched his jaw in silent rage, sickened by the weakness he’d displayed in the gesture. That he should have been concerned about her bare feet when his men had been blown to bits so that there weren’t even enough parts left for proper burial…
Damn her. God damn her. She would talk, he swore silently. She would tell him exactly where to find Sharpe. His eyes locked on the admiral’s. “I’ll take care of her myself,” he said.
Devon jumped to her feet the instant she heard Captain McRae approach. She’d already taught herself to distinguish his brisk, purposeful tread from that of the other men who moved past her tiny chamber. Within seconds, the door flew open, causing her to blink against the bright glare of sunshine that flooded the room.
“I suppose it would be asking too much for you to knock before entering a lady’s room,” she said.
“Lady? You must mean yourself. What a novel interpretation of the word.”
Devon hesitated uncertainly as a thick silence filled the chamber. The words he flung at her were undeniably hostile, yet the crewman who’d brought her the pair of dainty demi-boots she now wore had told her that Captain McRae was responsible for the gift. Even though she’d tried to hide it, he’d seen her abject humiliation at being forced to walk through the streets barefoot. Deciding that the gesture deserved to be acknowledged, she chose to ignore his verbal jab and focus instead on the small kindness he’d shown. She raised her filthy skirts, allowing the dark leather of the shoes to peek out from beneath the hem. “I wanted to thank you for…”
Her voice faded away as she glanced up at him, watching his expression darken as he stared at the boots, his face becoming a mask of cold fury. Obviously the footwear had been a mistake. Captain McRae loomed in the doorway, light bouncing off his broad shoulders and menace emanating from him. Confusion and fear raced through her as Devon struggled to understand why the sight of the shoes
he’d bought her would make him so furious. As he moved forward into the cabin, she bravely held her ground. “What do you want?” she asked.
“Tell me where I can find Sharpe.”
So that was it. Again. Devon had been through this exercise in futility so many times she’d lost count. If she was going to go through it once more, she might as well make herself comfortable. She let out a sigh, then turned and seated herself on the bed, taking her time in arranging her skirts. She folded her hands in her lap and daintily crossed her ankles. “I have no idea where to find Captain Jonas Sharpe. Shall I repeat that now, or do you prefer to ask the question over and over again first?”
When he didn’t reply, Devon suggested, “I know, perhaps you can rephrase it in some clever way and trick me. How about, ‘Where was Sharpe heading when you last saw him?’ Or—”
“Do you deny that Sharpe arranged your passage from Liverpool?” Cole cut her off.
“No, I do not.”
“Do you deny that you were carrying sketches of battleships being built for service against the United States?”
“How could I?” she asked reasonably. “They were found in my luggage, after all.”
“And you were apprehended while still holding the knife that was used to murder Lieutenant Prescott.”
“Yes, that was rather accommodating of me, wasn’t it? Made the whole matter so easy to wrap up.”
Her captor’s eyes narrowed into dark, golden-brown slits. “You appear to be taking this very lightly, Blake. That’s a mistake. I doubt very much the guards at Old Capitol will prove as lenient an audience as I have been.”
Devon didn’t miss the insult: Blake, not Miss Blake, thereby implying that she was clearly unworthy of the courtesy of a title. She tilted her chin, unable to keep the challenge out of her voice. “Oh, but you’re only telling half the story, McRae. Go ahead, tell it the way they did at my supposed trial. How I overwhelmed the lieutenant, a man nearly as big as you are, wrestled him to the ground, then tore the knife from his hand and stabbed him in the back. All without sustaining so much as a single bump or bruise myself. Amazing, isn’t it? I’m surprised you’re not quaking with fear at my sheer brute strength.”
A look of annoyance flashed across his rugged features. “You’re wasting my time with that pack of lies. If that were true, any competent solicitor could have—”
“Ah, yes, my valiant defender. He was either drunk or absent from court entirely. I spoke on my own behalf, of course, but the high-minded, noble men on the jury didn’t believe a word I said.”
“And you expect me to?”
Devon came to her feet, wishing for the hundredth time that God had seen fit to make her just a little taller. Standing before the captain in close quarters like this, with her neck craned back to meet his eyes, put her at a definite disadvantage. She pushed the idle thought away. As Uncle Monty had repeatedly told her, what she lacked in stature she more than made up for in spunk. She needed that now more than ever. Drawing on her calmest voice, she said, “I think it’s only fair to warn you that I have no intention of spending the rest of my days locked away in some filthy prison.”
His expression didn’t change. “Is that so?”
She nodded. “Since my escape is inevitable, you might want to consider the options that remain available to you.”
“Really. And what might those be?”
“I have an uncle in London who is extremely devoted to me. I can assure you that he will pay handsomely for any assistance you might render in securing my freedom. You need only name your price.”
That was a mistake. Devon realized it the second the words were out of her mouth. Her captor’s jaw tightened until the scar that marred his cheek stood out in white relief against the deep golden tan of his skin. His eyes turned to dark, fiery orbs. He reached out, locking his fingers around her upper arm in an iron grip.
“After what Sharpe did to my men, you think you can buy me?” His voice was no more than a low, hoarse growl.
It took all of Devon’s considerable willpower to keep from trembling. “What do you want, then?”
The captain’s eyes bore into hers for seconds longer, then he abruptly released her, turning away in one swift motion. She studied his profile, watching as he drew in a deep breath, as though struggling to bring himself back under control. “I don’t want your money,” he said at last. He turned back to face her, his eyes traveling slowly over her with scathing contempt. “Nor am I interested in what’s beneath your skirts. So you can spare us both the indignity of making that offer.”
Devon bit down hard on her inner lip, forcing herself to ignore the crude gibe. “What do you want?” she repeated.
“Tell me where I can find Sharpe.”
“I’ve told you already. I don’t know.”
Her words made no impact whatsoever. Like a cannon lobbing hot, explosive shells, he kept up the attack, firing away with dizzying speed. “How much was he paying you?”
“Nothing.”
“You strike a poor bargain, Blake. Surely risking your life for the man was worth a shilling or two.”
“I wasn’t working for Captain Sharpe.”
“Why did you murder Lieutenant Prescott?”
She grit her teeth. “He was already dead when I arrived.”
He regarded her evenly. “Sharpe chose well. Lying comes very naturally to you, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not—”
“Was Sharpe your lover?”
Devon sucked in her breath. “Insulting women comes very naturally to you, doesn’t it?”
The captain lifted his broad shoulders. “Was that an insult? I wouldn’t know, I’ve never met the man. Perhaps you should be flattered.”
“Perhaps you should go straight to hell.”
He made a tsking noise with his tongue. “And here all this time, I thought ladies didn’t swear.”
Before Devon could come up with a suitable reply, she felt a gentle jarring beneath her feet and was suddenly alerted to the shouts of the men on deck as the ship’s engines rumbled to life. She glanced around the cabin, not even sure what she was looking for. Something to hold on to, something to stop this from happening. The ship was leaving—hours sooner than she’d anticipated. She took a deep breath, fighting a rising sense of panic. She could still get away. She had to.
She turned again to her captor, unnerved to find that his gaze had never left her. Her defenses shot back up, but she knew it was too late. A vague unease settled over her, leaving her feeling oddly vulnerable. Angry as well, as though he’d played some sort of dirty trick on her. For a fraction of a second, she’d let down her guard, and he’d been right there to see it.
Devon swore a silent oath, furious with herself. She’d lost control of the situation and given him an edge. There was absolutely no excuse for it. What was it about the man that turned her into a bumbling amateur? Even now, she could no more read the expression in his golden-brown eyes than she could snap her fingers and swim to China.
She gathered her dignity around her as best she could, determination stiffening her spine. “What happens now?” she inquired coolly.
He studied her for a moment longer, his rugged features locked in a mask of stern, silent appraisal: “That’s up to you,” he replied. “Tell me how to find Sharpe, and I’ll do what I can to make Old Capitol more bearable for you.”
Devon frowned. “Meaning?”
“Meaning linens without lice, food that doesn’t slither away, fresh water once a week for bathing, and a guard who’ll be paid regularly to assist you in warding off the unwelcome advances of other prisoners. As you might suspect, the inmates at Old Capitol are of less than sterling character. Hardly proper bedmates for a lady of your caliber.”
Not bad, Devon thought. In one breath he had managed to capitalize on the fear he’d seen in her eyes, as well as slander her claim to the title lady. A worthy opponent indeed. “While I find your offer extremely generous,” she replied, “and your c
oncern for my well-being truly heartwarming, I’m afraid I must decline. Prison, you see, holds absolutely no appeal for—” she paused, smiling sweetly—“a lady of my caliber.”
His expression didn’t change. For all she knew, his features might have been carved in stone. He stepped toward the door, pausing with his hand on the dull brass knob. “I suggest you rethink that position, Blake.”
“If I had all the time in the world, McRae—”
“You have three days.”
She drew herself up to her full height, her slim shoulders thrown back, ready to do battle. “I suppose you think I should be frightened.”
Cole McRae’s fathomless gaze swept slowly over her. “What you should be,” he finally replied, “is damned sorry you ever laid eyes on me.”
The statement was startling, unexpected… and Devon couldn’t have agreed more.
He waited, as if expecting her to say something. When she didn’t, he stepped out of the room, throwing her tiny chamber into a haze of dusky shadows as he pulled the door shut behind him. Devon sank onto the bed, her mind reeling. She sat without moving, her body adjusting to the gentle swells and rolling rhythm of the bay. The men on deck serenaded one another with a bawdy ballad. Or perhaps the offensive lyrics were meant for her to hear. She couldn’t say. The words drifted in and around her, then faded away.
The hopelessness of her situation settled over her like a thick, heavy fog. Her body suddenly ached with fatigue. A stinging sensation built behind her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, refusing to give in to tears. She tugged at the cotton string that hung around her neck, lifting it to reveal the thin gold wedding band she wore near her heart. Devon twisted the ring between her fingers as she struggled to rein in her fear. What would Uncle Monty do? She clung to the thought, repeating it over and over again in her head. What would Uncle Monty do?
After a few minutes, her courage returned. Well, she knew what Uncle Monty wouldn’t do: he wouldn’t sit here wringing his hands and waiting to be rescued, that much was certain. She gathered her wits and began to appraise her situation. As the blistering sun slowly sank, twilight descended over the ship. While the cooler air was a blessing, it would soon be impossible to see anything. Devon glanced around in vain for a lamp, not altogether surprised to find herself denied even that meager luxury.
Captured Page 4
