In the encroaching darkness, a bit of ingrained wisdom from Uncle Monty slowly penetrated her mind: “Know your opponent, my girl. Know your mark better than you know yourself.” To that end, she closed her eyes and focused on Captain Cole McRae, letting her thoughts drift randomly. But rather than a series of strengths and weaknesses that she might be able to use against him, an image rose to her mind that was far more confusing than it was enlightening. An image that ran contrary to everything she knew about the man, yet she couldn’t seem to shake it.
She remembered a shaggy dog that she and her brother, Billy, had befriended back in Liverpool when they were children. One day when they went to pet him, the dog had snarled viciously, baring his teeth as they approached. As Devon protectively tugged her younger brother away, the dog backed off as well, dragging its hind legs behind it. It wasn’t until that moment that she saw the poor animal was hurt, probably run over by a passing carriage. By the time she realized it, it was too late. The dog slunk off into an alley, and they never saw it again.
Devon frowned as she tried to mentally connect Captain McRae to that long-forgotten, wounded dog, then finally dismissed the attempt as absurd. She was absurd, she told herself sternly. And unless she relished the notion of spending the remainder of her days locked up in an eight-by-ten foot cell, she had best quit thinking about Captain McRae and wounded dogs, and start planning her escape. Now.
CHAPTER 3
“That surely is a purty sight, ain’t it, ma’am?” From the deck of the gunboat, Devon glanced up at Justin Hartwood, the young ensign who’d showed her to her chamber when she’d first boarded. As he had also been assigned the duty of bringing her meals and fresh water for bathing, he was the only one with whom she had any sort of regular contact. She offered him a weak smile, and then turned her attention back to the shore. Though she’d been staring intently at the thick groves of cedar and birch that lined the banks of the Potomac, she hadn’t really seen them. She looked now, noticing the beauty of the river for the first time.
Golden waves of morning sunshine fell from a cloudless sky and verdant foliage hugged the white, sandy shore. Leaves filtered the brilliant light, creating pockets of cool, inviting shade. The musical whistles and chirps of birds filled the air. As the ship floated by, an occasional rabbit or squirrel darted down the bank, rewarding itself with a drink or a splash in the cool river.
Her brother, Billy, would have loved this. “It’s nice,” she agreed flatly.
A deep furrow lined her brow as her mind automatically returned to her previous thoughts. Two days had passed. They would be in Washington by nightfall. She had to do something. Anything. But what?
“Ma’am?”
Devon stifled a sigh and turned back to Justin, hiding her impatience. If the boy would just leave her alone, she could think. Instead he seemed to be always dogging her heels, torn between the exaggerated sense of duty he felt was required in guarding a dangerous prisoner and a full-blown, smitten crush on that very prisoner. It was sweet, and just a trifle irritating. She regarded him levelly, waiting for him to speak.
“I, er, that is…” he stammered. A crimson flush stained his cheeks.
“Yes, Justin?” she prompted.
“I don’t believe you killed that man,” Justin blurted out.
“You don’t?”
“No, ma’am, I surely don’t.”
“I see. And just how did you reach this conclusion?”
His cheeks turned an even deeper red as he gave her a sheepish grin. “Well, ma’am, seems to me that no one as fine a lady as you are—’sides how purty and tiny you are—could ever do something that mean.”
Regret knifed through Devon. The boy had no idea of what she was capable. None of it had been her choice, of course, but still…
“That’s the truth, ain’t it, ma’am? You didn’t kill that man?”
“That’s the truth,” she answered quietly. “I didn’t kill that man.”
Of all the crimes that could be levied against her, that was perhaps the only one to which she could justly proclaim her innocence. She supposed she should enjoy the bitter irony of the fact mat it was the very crime which would see her locked up for the remainder of her days, but she just couldn’t manage it. If only she’d never left England. If only Uncle Monty were here. Her stomach clenched in tight, nervous knots, and she fought to keep her hands from shaking. If only Billy hadn’t died…
Justin cleared his throat, shooting a guilty glance around the deck. In a nervous, sotto whisper, he said, “If there’s anything I can do to help you, ma’am, you just let me know.”
Startled, Devon studied the boy. “You’d help me, Justin?”
Justin Hartwood nodded vigorously. “It ain’t right, you going to prison. Not if you didn’t kill that man.”
“I—thank you.”
Devon’s mind raced as she surveyed the space around them, making sure they wouldn’t be overheard. As usual, her captor was not far away. She’d yet to be permitted up on deck when he wasn’t in attendance. And though the man never acknowledged her presence by either word or gesture, hadn’t even spoken to her since his brief, stormy visit to her cabin two days ago, he was always there. Despite his casual posture, she knew he monitored her every move. Devon had tested her mettle against the finest shopkeepers and watchmen in London; she wasn’t fooled by the likes of Captain McRae.
Cole stood alone, his forearms resting on the ship’s rail, one booted foot propped up on a dense coil of rope. He was no longer in uniform, having abandoned the heavy blue jacket and pants for a white linen shirt and crisp navy slacks. A soft breeze messed his hair and tugged at his loose-fitting shirt, showing her a broad expanse of the deeply tanned skin of his chest. He stared at the passing scenery, seemingly lost in thought. She was struck again by what a handsome-looking man he was—or rather, would be, if not for those cold, fathomless eyes.
During the course of their journey up the Potomac, she had considered calling him back to her cabin so that she might explain how she’d become tangled up with Jonas Sharpe. Maybe he would believe her. But it didn’t take long for her to dismiss that fantasy. Cole McRae had shown her nothing but scorn and contempt from the time he’d first laid eyes on her. He’d made it abundantly clear that he didn’t believe a word she said.
Devon suppressed a shudder as she imagined what he’d do if he heard what she was about to say. Unwilling to chance it, she drew Justin closer. “I have an uncle in England. If I write him a letter, can you make sure he gets it?”
Justin looked supremely relieved. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered quickly. He’d been afraid, no doubt, that she would ask him to help her escape. But Devon wasn’t about to take advantage of the boy’s youthful sense of gallantry. No sense putting them both in jeopardy. A letter would have to suffice.
She’d written two previous entreaties to Uncle Monty, but as she’d had to give them to her previous captors for posting, the chances of them actually having been sent were nil. More likely, they’d just been read for amusement among the men, and then tossed away. Unless he received word from her soon, her uncle would assume that everything had gone exactly as planned. “I’ll need paper and ink. Can you bring them to my quarters?”
“Anything else you need, ma’am?”
“I don’t think so.” Devon paused, thinking what would happen to the boy if he were caught with her letter on his person. “Are you sure you want to do this, Justin?”
He stared at her silently as the crimson flush stole back into his cheeks. “Yes, ma’am,” he swore. “I’d do anything—”
“Hartwood!”
They both jumped at the sound of the deep voice behind them. Cole stood only inches away, a scowl marring his already stern features. He looked from one to the other, his dark eyes cool and appraising.
Justin came rigidly to attention, fear and guilt written all over his youthful face. “Sir?” he croaked.
“Far be it from me to interrupt such a tender
scene,” her captor drawled, “but I’d like a word with the prisoner.”
“Yes, sir.” Justin shot a meaningful glance at Devon, then turned to leave.
“Hartwood?”
The boy stiffened and turned back, his posture growing increasingly rigid as Captain McRae’s glacial stare swept slowly over him. By the time Cole finally spoke, the boy looked stiff enough to snap in two.
“It appears that you and the prisoner have become rather friendly. Would you care to enlighten me as to the subject of your fervent discussion?”
“That’s none of your business,” Devon snapped.
Cole ignored her. “Hartwood?”
“Well, er—” Justin swallowed hard and stared straight ahead. “The weather, sir?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“We were talking about the weather and the trees and the river, sir.”
Cole gave a grunt of disgust. “Very good, Hartwood. The next time I need a nature tour, I’ll know who to ask.”
The boy flushed crimson from his neck to his ears. His eyes were suspiciously bright, glistening with both anger and embarrassment. His voice, however, remained admirably level. “Yes, sir.”
“You are aware, I assume, that lying to a superior officer is a punishable offense.” The words were spoken softly, just a hint of menace lying beneath the smooth, dark tone.
Justin didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir.”
Cole studied the boy a minute longer. “I believe Captain Gregory assigned you below decks this morning. I suggest you see to your duties.”
“Yes, sir. I was just getting to—”
“Now.”
Justin saluted smartly, and then spun about, leaving without another word. But Devon read clearly in his stiff gait the blow his pride had taken. Her heart instantly went out to him. She turned toward Cole, sparks of pure fury shooting from her eyes.
“You must be very proud of yourself,” she hissed. “Humiliating that poor boy. It must make you feel like a big man, doesn’t it, attacking someone who can’t fight back—”
“That’s enough,” Cole swore. “Go after me if you like, Blake, but stay away from Hartwood.”
“Go after? I don’t know what you’re talking about. That poor boy was simply—”
“That ‘poor boy’ happens to be an ensign with the U.S. Navy. Because of you, that ‘poor boy’ just lied to and disobeyed a commanding officer.”
“And that justifies humiliating him like that?”
“If that’s what it takes to see to it that he never does it again, then yes.”
Devon drew herself up, her delicate features frozen with scorn. “How very noble,” she replied acidly. “I suppose next you’re going to tell me that that was for his own good.” She gathered her skirts and turned to go, but Cole caught her roughly by the arm and held fast.
“Obviously you don’t give a damn about anybody but yourself,” he ground out. “But you’re going to listen to this anyway.”
Devon tried in vain to release his grasp. Failing miserably, she clenched her teeth, her eyes glittering green ice against her pale skin. She inclined her head, her hair a cascading curtain of dark mahogany around her shoulders. “It appears I have no choice. Pray continue, McRae.”
Her sarcasm did little to dim the fury in his eyes. “A team of men working together in battle has a chance to get away alive. A group of men fighting to save their own skins has none. If Hartwood wants to live long enough to see the end of this war, he’s got to learn to take orders the second they’re issued. Not when and if he damned well feels like it. If he’s smart enough to learn that, then he just may stay alive. That is, if someone like you doesn’t put it into his fool head that he can do whatever he pleases and get away with it.”
Pangs of guilt assailed Devon. Though she knew nothing about battles, there was an undeniable ring of truth to his words. Young, headstrong, impetuous—those had to be dangerous qualities to encourage in a boy heading off to war. And she was using Justin, if only to get a letter out. Perhaps even that one small act of defiance was too great a risk to ask him to take.
“There’s one other thing you should know,” Cole continued ruthlessly. “If Hartwood tries in any way to assist you in escape, I’ll see to it that he spends the remainder of his days in the stockades. I won’t like it, but I swear I’ll do it.”
One look at his harsh, chiseled features told her he wasn’t bluffing. “I see,” she replied coolly.
Cole dropped her arm. “Good.”
“If you’ve finished your speech, I believe I’ll retire to my chamber. I find the air up here has suddenly turned foul.”
Devon swept up her skirts and turned away, but her regal exit wasn’t meant to be. The deck suddenly gave way beneath her, and a horrid grinding roar filled in her ears. She fell hard, landing on her hands and knees. Behind her, Cole stumbled as well, but quickly righted himself. He peered over the side of the rail and let loose a string of expletives.
Stunned, Devon came awkwardly to her knees. She glanced around, watching as crewmen staggered up and rushed off to various positions on the ship. Urgent shouts filled the air. From the corner of her eye, she saw Cole’s hand reach out to assist her, but she impatiently brushed it away. “What happened?” she asked, rising on her own.
“We’ve hit a shoal.” He leaned against the rail, his arms crossed over his broad chest, looking both irritated and resigned at the same time. “We’re stuck here until the current lifts us, or until the captain organizes a party of men to hook up ropes and try to pull us out.”
Devon swiftly digested that bit of information. They could be trapped in the middle of the river for hours. It was a reprieve of sorts, if only she could figure how to turn it to her advantage. She stood beside Cole in silence, watching the pandemonium that surrounded them.
After a few minutes, a chagrined-looking Captain Gregory appeared. “It looks as though we’re in a bit of a mess, doesn’t it?” he said.
Devon listened as the two men discussed the situation. While Captain Gregory was older and held superior rank, he spoke to Cole almost deferentially, as though eager for his approval. Cole McRae had that effect on people, she noted. Men seemed to either leave him alone or bend and scrape just to please him. To his credit, McRae seemed to prefer the former to the latter.
“You know, I recall this very thing happened back in April,” Captain Gregory was saying, “when Lincoln himself was traveling down the Potomac to visit General McClellan. Ship hit a shoal, just like this one. And you know what Old Abe did? Why, he borrowed the captain’s bathing trunks and went for a swim. Right there in the middle of the Potomac. Don’t that beat all?”
As far as Devon was concerned, the president’s response was eminently sensible. Now that the gunboat had come to a dead stop, they’d lost what little breeze they’d enjoyed earlier. The sun was suddenly a scorching, burning force, the air thick and heavy with humidity. Perspiration gathered on her skin, leaving her longing for a cool dip in the river’s gently flowing currents.
She glanced at her captor, noting the way his shirt had begun to cling to his broad, powerful chest. Obviously he was feeling the effects of the weather as well. She considered suggesting that they follow Lincoln’s sage example, but quickly dismissed the idea. The thought of Cole frolicking in the water was too absurd for words. She doubted the man ever did anything simply because it felt good.
Devon frowned as she considered the heat. If it was this bad after only ten minutes, how would they tolerate it if they were stuck like this for ten hours?
As it turned out, she needn’t have worried.
A loud, booming roar shattered the silence. The first roar was followed by another, and then a shrill, piercing whine filled the air. Devon instinctively lifted her hands to cover her ears, a position that left her entirely unprepared for what happened next. Cole flung his body over hers, hitting her from behind in a rough tackle that brought them both crashing down. “Don’t move,” he grunted.
/>
Move? With the weight of his body, two hundred pounds of rock-solid muscle, pressing her flat against the deck? She could barely breathe.
An explosion rocked the ship. Devon gasped, stifling the urge to scream. The shrill whine was louder now, coming directly at them. She felt Cole’s body tense on top of her. He pulled her arms down to her sides, covering her completely with himself.
The second explosion was deafening. The shell discharged only scant feet away, driving through the deck and spewing up red-hot timber in its wake. She heard a man shriek with pain, followed by the heavy sound of a body falling. Her heart came to a stop and then slammed against her chest, beating at three times its normal speed. The sharp, tinny rattle of musket fire rang out from all around them. Above her, Cole’s deep voice roared in her ears as he shouted out a command, but she couldn’t make out his words. There was movement, however, as men rushed to obey.
“Get ready,” Cole said, his breath fanning her neck.
Ready for what? She didn’t have time to ask. Devon felt his arm slide beneath her, locking around her waist. Cannon roared again, this time closer. It was one of the ship’s own, firing at the battery of Confederates who attacked from shore. She found herself lifted the instant the cannon went off and half-carried, half-dragged across the deck, Cole’s body the only shield between her and the Rebel artillery.
By some miracle, they managed to get across the deck. Cole made his way down the narrow stairs that led to her chamber. He flung her inside. “Stay here,” he ordered. He slammed the door shut behind him and was gone.
Devon sunk slowly onto her bed, too shocked to even think of disobeying. Though no more than thirty seconds had gone by from the time she heard the first shell fire and explode, it seemed a lifetime had passed.
Captured Page 5
