Captured

by Victoria Lynne

  Her eyes blurred with tears as her body went limp. She dropped her arms from around his neck and did what she swore she’d never do: she threw away her last vestige of pride and pleaded for her life. “Please listen to me,” she cried. “I didn’t murder that man‌—‌he was already dead when I got there. I wasn’t working for Captain Sharpe. I didn’t know about the papers in my trunks until it was too late. I swear it. Please, I’m telling the truth.”

  Cole froze above her. For a fraction of a second, his rugged expression softened as her words seemed to penetrate his cool exterior. But the moment didn’t last. He rolled off her and studied her in a detached, contemplative silence, then finally spoke. “That was a pretty performance, Blake. But I suggest you save your maudlin outbursts and crude offers for the guards at Old Capitol. They’ll have more time on their hands to enjoy them than I do.”

  Devon gasped as red-hot fury uncoiled within her. His words instantly renewed her fighting spirit. “You son-of-a-bitch!”

  He shrugged and rose to his feet, calmly ignoring the insult. “By the way,” he drawled, “if your flight was meant to prove to me that I cannot trust you, you’ve succeeded. If that was a sincere attempt at escape, it was merely foolish.” Taking her arm in an iron grip, he pulled her to her feet.

  Devon jerked out of his grasp, furious with herself for showing any weakness. She should have known he would simply throw her shattered pleas for help back in her face. Unwilling to let him believe he’d actually bested her, she glared at him, then pointedly shifted her gaze to the gun tucked in his belt. “I can only assume that you are out of ammunition, McRae.”

  He frowned. “Why would you think that?”

  “I can’t imagine what else would have prevented you from shooting an unarmed, defenseless woman in the back. Certainly not your high moral standards or your righteous code of honor, as you appear to be deplorably lacking on both counts.” Having scored her point, she turned her attention away from him and busied herself with brushing clusters of grass and leaves from her skirt. A shot rang out directly above her head. Devon shrieked and whirled about, staring at her captor with wide-eyed fear.

  Cole simply raised his brows and cocked his head toward the smoking revolver in his hand. “What do you know about that,” he said. “Looks like it was loaded after all.”

  It took her a full minute to recover from her fright. Finally she found her voice. “You are the most contemptible, vile—”

  He squatted down, stuck his hand beneath her skirts, and grabbed her ankle.

  Shock coursed through her once again, leaving her temporarily stunned. She slammed her fists against his broad shoulders. “Don’t you dare‌—‌get your hands off me! How dare you—”

  He released her abruptly, leaving her free to stagger backward. Her movement was accompanied by a telltale ripping sound as her thin cotton petticoat, which had remained firmly in his grasp, was torn to shreds. Cole came to his feet and tested the cotton strip in his hands. Satisfied, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward a thick, sturdy oak.

  Devon instantly realized his intent. Despite her vigorous kicking, scratching, and screaming every blue oath she’d ever heard, he subdued her with an ease that was embarrassing. He positioned her arms so that she was hugging the tree, and then secured her wrists on the other side.

  She glared up at him, fear and fury shooting from her soft green eyes. “You’re going to leave me here? You can’t do this. What if something happens to you? How will anyone find me?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “How do I know you’ll come back?”

  He stared her straight in the eye. “I guess you don’t.”

  Her fear escalated. Images of bands of lawless guerrillas, outlaws and deserters who were known to prey on refugees, war widows, innocent travelers‌—‌and just about anybody else who had the misfortune to cross their path‌—‌flooded her mind. She remembered the vague rumors she’d heard in Charleston of the unspeakable acts the Rebel guerrillas perpetrated on their helpless victims. Cole McRae might be a devil, but at least he was a devil she knew. It was the unknown that terrified her. Her heart slammed against her chest as she watched him walk away. “What if I’m captured by outlaws?” she called.

  “Pity the poor bastards,” he said without even bothering to turn around.

  Cole moved north, taking note of landmarks as he walked. He was in unfamiliar territory, and that didn’t bode well. He knew they were on the Virginia side of the Potomac River, somewhere between Richmond and Washington, but that was all he knew. Whether the volatile area was now Union-held or Rebel-held, he had yet to discover.

  He slowed his pace as he moved from beneath the dense cover the cedar had provided him. The trees grew increasingly sparse, leaving him vulnerable and exposed as he crossed a dry, barren field. He didn’t like it, but he had no choice. He gave himself one hour to beg, borrow, or steal a horse for himself and another for his prisoner. He didn’t trust the woman enough to be away from her for any longer than that.

  The thought of his petite captive brought a dark frown to his brow. He knew what she was. Liar, thief, murderess. Devon Blake admitted it all. She was also probably more experienced than any street-corner harlot he’d ever come across. Yet as much as he tried to convince himself of that, every instinct he ever possessed refuted that conclusion.

  If the woman was a harlot, she was doing a piss-poor job of it. Her attempt at seduction had been absurd. Her smile had been nothing but a tight grimace; her normally throaty voice high and strained. Rather than shining with lust, her soft green gaze held only fear and panic. She’d been clearly terrified that he would take her up on her offer, and perhaps equally terrified that he wouldn’t. She’d pressed her body against his with a stiff awkwardness, a wooden ungainliness so completely in opposition to her goal of seduction that it would have been laughable had it not been so… disturbing. Disquieting. Desperate.

  Cole tried to push the thoughts aside, sickened by the fact that his body had betrayed him by responding to the woman at all. That for one brief instant when he’d heard her impassioned claim of innocence he’d almost believed her. He’d seen the tears shimmering in her eyes and felt himself to be nothing but a heaving, hulking brute for having driven her to that point. Fortunately he’d come to his senses quickly enough. Devon Blake worked for Jonas Sharpe. Obviously she’d do or say anything to gain her freedom.

  He shook his head, irritated by the train his thoughts had taken. He was making too much of what had happened. Or rather, what hadn’t happened. It was just lust, pure and simple. Contemptible perhaps, but understandable. After all, they’d barely escaped the ship explosion with their lives, only to toss and tumble atop each other following her ridiculous attempt at escape. She had offered herself, and his body had responded. There was no more to it than that.

  Having reached that decision, he came immediately to another: the sooner they reached Washington and he was rid of her, the better.

  A movement in the bushes ahead caught his attention and chased all thoughts of his prisoner from his mind. Cole dropped flat on his stomach, cocked his revolver, and waited. A tattered-looking group of soldiers emerged and moved noisily through the brush. The sun shone directly in his eyes, making identification impossible, but he could see enough to count their numbers. Five against one. Apparently nothing was going to be easy.

  They were heading west. Cole decided to hold his fire, waiting to see if they would simply cross his path and keep moving. For a moment, it seemed they would. Then they came to an abrupt halt as an argument broke out between two of the men. He could almost hear their voices. One of them lifted his arm, pointing directly to where he lay. After heated deliberation, the men turned and began marching straight toward him.

  Cole clenched his jaw. He’d had more than enough killing, but there didn’t seem to be any other choice. He raised his gun and took aim. Just a little closer…

  Justin Hartwood’s face swam into focus. Cole muttered an oath an
d lurched to his feet. That was a mistake. The men were green, too nervous to think straight, and he should have known it. Bullets began to fly before he could get a word out. Cole hit the dirt once again and rolled onto his side. “Dammit, Hartwood, it’s McRae!” he shouted.

  A lead shot struck near his head. He ducked but was too late. The shot ricocheted off the ground, kicking up a small rock that tore open the skin beneath his eye. The cut stung like hell and sent fresh blood trickling over his newly healed scar. “Hartwood!” he roared. “Fire one more shot and I’ll personally carve your ass with a paring knife.”

  The bullets slowed, and then stopped altogether. “Captain McRae?” a voice called back.

  Cole rose slowly to his feet and approached the men. As he neared, Justin Hartwood stared at the blood that streamed down his cheek and went pale. He pulled a dirty kerchief from his pocket and offered it to Cole as he stammered, “I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t know it was you, sir.”

  “Is that a fact?” he replied, glaring at the boy. Judging from the looks of him, Hartwood would rather be facing down General Stonewall Jackson himself. Cole ignored the kerchief, wiped the blood from his cheek with his sleeve, and turned to a more senior officer. “What the hell are you men doing out here?”

  He listened impatiently to the tale of how the men had come to be separated from Captain Gregory, then wasted even more time arbitrating the dispute they had been having when he found them.

  They were looking for the home of a farmer named Williams, a man known to hold pro-Union sympathies, in hopes of acquiring horses. They found Williams in a little over an hour; he did indeed have horses to sell. Scrawny, unfit beasts which looked as though they could barely support a saddle, let alone the weight of a grown man.

  Cole wasted no time bartering. He paid Williams twice what the animals were worth and considered himself lucky to get them. By the time he’d arranged for the purchase of saddles, food, and other supplies, the one hour he had allotted himself had stretched into two. Moving at as brisk a trot as the animals were able, they took another thirty minutes to make their way back to Devon.

  He found his captive exactly as he’d left her, slumped against the oak, her wrists still bound. Cole immediately dismounted, grabbed his canteen, and strode to her side. He untied her wrists, then lowered her to a sitting position on the ground. He knew she allowed him to help her only because she had no choice. Her limbs were probably numb by now.

  Cole fought back the waves of guilt and regret that washed over him by reminding himself that she was Jonas Sharpe’s agent, but it didn’t help. He’d had no intention of leaving her for so long. Not alone, and not in this heat. Perhaps she’d even believed that he wasn’t coming back, he thought, furious with himself for letting his anger get the best of him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly, supporting her back as he held the canteen to her lips.

  Devon drank greedily. When she finished, she pushed the water away and studied the men who’d returned with him. They remained in their saddles a few feet away, as ordered. “I see you brought reinforcements,” she said, ignoring his apology. “Do you think you’ll be able to manage me now?”

  In the space of mere seconds, she’d been able to gather herself enough to issue that cool, calculated challenge. Cole was both amazed and grudgingly impressed. “I never doubted it,” he replied.

  Her soft green eyes turned to ice. “Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought,”

  Cole took her arm and pulled her to her feet. If his prisoner was strong enough to engage in verbal sparring, she was strong enough to ride. He led her to the small blond mare he’d purchased for her. Devon stared at the animal stonily, then looked at Cole. “Exactly what do you expect me to do?”

  “We’ve a few hours until sundown. We ride until dusk.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The statement was made so politely, so matter-of-factly, it took a moment for her refusal to sink in. When it did, however, Cole’s response was equally matter-of-fact. “I don’t recall giving you a choice.”

  “You should have bought a buggy,” she insisted stubbornly.

  “We’re wasting time. Saddle up.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” He grabbed the mare’s bridle with one hand, then wrapped his remaining arm around Devon’s waist, intending to lift her up and place her on the saddle.

  She dug her heels into the dirt. “I don’t know how to ride!”

  That hadn’t occurred to Cole. He stopped, considered, then dismissed it as unimportant. “You’ll learn.”

  He stepped forward to put her in the saddle. Devon clawed at his arm. Unable to release herself from his grasp, she lifted her legs, using her feet to push the horse away. The nervous mare whinnied and danced skittishly backward, moving as far as the length of the bridle would allow. “Dammit, Blake,” Cole swore under his breath and tried again.

  Devon answered with an oath of her own, demanding he put her down. They chased the nervous animal in a circle, Cole holding the mare with one hand, his captive aloft in the other while she pushed the horse away with her feet. He swore again. Devon swore even louder. The mare’s eyes grew wild. It lifted its front legs, ready to bolt.

  “Put your legs down,” Cole growled.

  “Put me down.”

  “Dammit, woman, I was talking to the horse.”

  “Oh—”

  They chased the mare in another circle as his men watched the spectacle silently, their eyes wide, their mouths agape. Cole supposed he could ask for their help, but hell if he was going to. Devon Blake was just one woman, after all, and a small one at that. How hard could she be to handle?

  Five long minutes later, he was asking himself the same question. “Captain—” Justin called out tentatively.

  “Not one word, Hartwood,” Cole snapped, his jaw locked in grim determination. He knew he looked like a damned fool dog chasing its own tail, but he wasn’t about to give up. Or give in. He would get her on that horse if it took until the end of the war to do it.

  After a lengthy, heated struggle, he finally succeeded in placing her atop the mare. He adjusted her stirrups while she clutched the saddle horn with both hands. “What if I fall off?” she squeaked.

  “Don’t tempt me,” he shot back. His long, angry strides carried him swiftly back to his own horse. He tied the mare’s reins to his saddle, mounted, and gave his men the signal to move out.

  He heard his captive’s stifled gasp behind him but ignored it, setting the pace at a brisk canter. Since the gasp wasn’t followed by a dull thump, he assumed she’d managed to stay seated. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure. Devon clutched the horn, her eyes locked on the mare’s neck as she bounced up and down. Cole let out a breath as he shook his head. The woman was going to be sore as hell come morning.

  Good.

  He shook off the thought and turned his attention to more important matters. Though it was doubtful they would run into enemy troops in this area, he preferred to play it cautious. Their best bet was to stay off the main roads and follow the line of the Potomac due north, toward Aquia Creek. The last he’d heard, that position was strongly Union-held and with any luck, it still would be.

  They rode well into the summer evening, stopping only when the lengthening twilight shadows made it difficult to see. His small band, more accustomed to a pitching deck beneath their feet than the rhythm of a saddle, dismounted wearily and set about making camp. Cole drew two men aside to send ahead as scouts. He’d just finished conferring with them when he turned back to find Justin Hartwood reaching a hand to Devon Blake, who had yet to dismount.

  Anger surged through Cole. Neither his captive nor Hartwood had heeded his warning before, but they damned well would now. He had enough on his mind without worrying about how long it would take Devon to convince the love-smitten boy to hand over his money and gun, and ride escort with her all the way back to England.

  “Hartwood!” he roared. “What the hell are you doing?” />
  Justin tensed and spun around. “Why, er, nothing,” he stammered. “Just helping the lady—”

  “The lady,” Cole repeated, his voice dripping sarcasm, “does not require your gallant assistance. She taught herself to ride in one day, I’m sure she can teach herself to dismount as well.”

  Devon’s eyes flashed fire. “Obviously,” she replied, directing her remarks to Justin, “your brave leader here is disappointed that I didn’t fall off my horse earlier. How ungracious of me to have managed so well. Perhaps I can oblige his evil nature and fall off in dismount.” With that, she swung her left leg around, and then hung on to the saddle horn as she slid off the mare on her belly.

  With a satisfied smirk, she looked up at Cole, bringing her hand to rest briefly on her backside. “Sorry to disappoint you,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll feel better to know that I am rather sore. Does that help?”

  Cole took a deep breath. “Push me a little more and I guarantee you’ll have cause to regret it.”

  Her eyes widened in feigned shock. “Oh, dear. Not that. What would you do next, McRae? Beat me? Tie a rope around my neck and drag me behind you tomorrow? I can assure you that nothing could be worse than another minute spent upon that cursed animal’s back.”

  Cole met her gaze for long, cool seconds, then he too directed his remarks to Justin. “Hartwood?”

  “Sir?” the boy gulped.

  “You said you wanted to help?” Cole asked, his voice a low growl, his golden-brown eyes never leaving his prisoner’s face.

  “Well, uh, that is, sir—”

  Cole’s arm sailed above Devon’s head. Despite her cool facade, she flinched as he reached for the saddle behind her. With a quick jerk of his wrist, he freed a length of rope and tossed it at Justin. “Tie her up,” he commanded.

  Justin blanched, looking at the rope in his hands as if he didn’t quite understand the command. “Er, uh, you want me to—”