Captured

by Victoria Lynne

  Devon laughed at that, a soft, husky sound that Cole had never heard before. She gazed up at him, her eyes shining and two tiny dimples curving the corners of her lips. He stared at her mouth, astonished by the wayward path his thoughts had taken. Rather than focusing on their discussion, he found himself wondering what it would feel like to kiss those dimples. “So I take it you decided not to stick around and build coaches,” she prompted.

  Cole shook his head. “Hell, no. I left when I was seventeen, determined to make it on my own. I signed up with a ship sailing to Constantinople and loved every minute of it. The spray of salt air, the roll of the deck beneath my feet, the feel of freedom when a burst of wind fills the. I knew then that I’d found what I wanted to do with my life. I saved my wages, learned everything I could about captaining a ship.”

  “And you went out and bought a ship of your own,” she concluded.

  He smiled ruefully. “Fifty-foot schooners don’t exactly come cheap. As I was only twenty-one at the time, getting the money for a ship meant swallowing my pride and going back to my father for a loan. Fortunately he believed in me enough to give me the money.” He paused, then shook his head as he reconsidered his words. “Truth is, he thought I was still a damned fool kid, but gave me the money anyway. Within three years, I was able to pay back the loan, plus a handsome profit.”

  Devon hiccupped. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

  Cole turned to see her smiling at him with warm approval. He’d become so wrapped up in his own reminiscing that he’d nearly forgotten what he’d set out to do. He was supposed to be getting information from her, not the other way around. “Now it’s your turn,” he said.

  Devon stiffened and turned away. She reached for the brandy bottle and took another sip. “I told you,” she said after she swallowed, “I’m not that interesting of a person.”

  “Tell me about your parents,” he said. “When did they die?”

  She looked startled. “I never said my father was dead. I don’t know for a fact one way or another, but I doubt he’s dead.”

  He frowned. “You don’t know? Did you run away from home?”

  “Actually, it was more the other way around.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s… complicated.”

  “Then why don’t you explain it to me.” When she stubbornly refused to reply, he tried another tack. “Tell me where you grew up.”

  “Fordsham. In England.”

  “Did you like it?”

  He watched as Devon nodded, and ran her hands over her skirts, smoothing them down, a gesture he’d come to recognize as one of nervous agitation. “We didn’t have as fine a home as yours, of course,” she said finally. “Just a simple cottage. But my mother liked to grow roses, and that made it pretty. And once I stitched red gingham curtains for the windows. They didn’t last through the winter though, because the roof leaked and the water ruined them.”

  Cole tried to picture Devon growing up in a small, drafty cottage with a leaky roof.

  She shrugged. “My father was in trade. He traveled all the time when I was growing up. He sold dress patterns, farm equipment, furniture from catalogs—-always something different. I imagine he was fairly successful, for he sent enough money home for my mother, Billy, and me.”

  “Billy?”

  “My younger brother.”

  She hesitated, staring blankly out at the darkened countryside. “My mother used to be so excited whenever my father came home from one of his trips. She would spend days fixing up the cottage, dressing up Billy and me so he would stay longer. Getting everything perfect for him. Like your mother, I suppose. My father would bring us all presents, and for a few days it would be better than Christmas, better than anything.” She paused, twisting the ring on her finger.

  “But it never lasted long. Within a week, maybe two, nothing was good enough for him anymore. I talked too much, or got my dress dirty. My mother’s biscuits were too dry. And Billy…” Her voice trailed off, then she looked up at Cole, a brilliant smile pasted on her face. “Billy was a beautiful child. And so smart, so bright… but he was born with a crooked back. He couldn’t walk without crutches, and not very well even then. Sometimes I would catch my father watching him with this pained expression on his face, as if it hurt just to look at him, and I would get so mad…”

  Cole waited as she lifted the bottle of brandy and stared at the label, as if it held the solutions to all the world’s problems. He sensed he was finally getting closer to the answers he wanted, as long as he kept her talking. “Go on,” he coaxed.

  “When I was twelve and Billy six, our mother died. She’d been ill for a while, and Father had been home for the end of it. About a week after the funeral, he told Billy and me to get all of our things together, that we were going to go on a special trip with him.”

  She looked up at Cole, her eyes cloudy from the brandy, a wistful smile on her face. “This is going to sound awful, but even though I was sad that Mother had died, part of me wasn’t so sad. I knew that Father could never leave us again. I’d make sure that Billy and I were always perfect, and that way he’d have to love us.”

  “So where did you go on this special trip?”

  “We boarded a train for Liverpool, which was the nearest city. Billy and I were so excited, it was the first time we’d ever been on a train. At the first stop, my father got off to get us something to eat. I remember he kissed me on the cheek, told me to watch Billy, and said he’d be right back.”

  She stopped abruptly and took another swallow of brandy. The wind blew around her, stronger and cooler now, tossing her hair like dark flames around her face. Cole saw lightning flash in the distance and heard the low grumble of thunder, and knew that the storm was sweeping in. He felt suddenly tense, as if the weather was stirring his own blood. “What happened?” he asked.

  “When the train pulled away from the station, my father wasn’t on it. I screamed and cried, begging the conductor to wait for him, but he wouldn’t. He handed me some meat pies he said my father had bought for us and just walked away. But I knew it was all a mistake. It had to be a mistake.”

  Lightning streaked through the sky, illuminating the dark interior of the car. A crashing boom of thunder immediately followed. The sky split open and rain poured down, as though the black underbelly of the clouds had been slashed with a knife.

  “Was it a mistake?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “When we finally got to Liverpool, Mrs. Honeychurch, of the Lady of Mercy Children’s Asylum, was there to meet us. They tell me that I didn’t speak for a month after that.”

  Cole clenched his fists in his lap, thankful for the dark so she couldn’t read the expression on his face.

  “You know,” she continued in a tone of forced brightness, “I’ve always thought that was a rather twisted bit of logic. When a parent abandons his children, why is it always the children who are locked up? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

  He ignored her feeble attempt at levity, realizing now what she’d meant when she said she’d never allow anybody to lock her up again. She’d been talking about the children’s asylum, not prison. “Was it very bad?” he asked.

  “I suppose not. Not if you always listened, always obeyed, and always did whatever Mrs. Honeychurch told you to do. Not if you were very, very good.”

  “And were you very good?”

  He could feel, rather than see, Devon’s soft smile in the darkness. “What do you think?”

  “I think… not.”

  She laughed. “I’m afraid Mrs. Honeychurch spent a lot of time beating me with her shoe.”

  Cole found no humor in the statement. “How often—”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” she reassured him.

  He scowled. “Is that where you got that scar?” He reached over to touch a spot right above her shoulder blade. He’d noticed it before, along with one other, near the base of her throat. She jumped when his finge
rs brushed her skin. “Easy,” he said, not moving his hand. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Devon stared up at him, her gaze soft and unwavering. “I know,” she answered, with an expression of such complete trust that Cole felt strangely humbled.

  A need to protect this woman surged over him. The feeling was not only inappropriate but inexcusable, considering their circumstances. Yet he couldn’t seem to shake it. Nor could he prevent himself from touching the faded mark near the base of her throat. “What about this scar?” he asked.

  Devon hiccupped, then giggled. “I think I like brandy.”

  “Where did you get the scar, Devon?”

  “Oh, that.” She made a dismissive motion with her hand. “Uncle Monty and I learned of a duke who had murdered his wife. We contacted him and told him that we specialized in dealings with the dead. When we told him that his wife was appearing before his servants and spreading incriminating rumors of her untimely death, the man was properly horrified. He hired us to stop his wife before the rumors reached his friends and business associates. We’d wait until he was well into his cups‌—‌usually after midnight‌—‌then I’d make an appearance gowned in gauzy white robes, white powder blotted over my face and hair, moaning that my husband had murdered me. Uncle Monty would promptly begin chanting spells to get rid of me. The duke, completely shaken, paid us handsomely for our performance‌—‌and for our vow of secrecy. We figured that after the fifth visit his wife’s dearly departed soul could finally be laid to rest.”

  “What happened?”

  “Unfortunately the duke was growing increasingly terrified of being found out. He lost faith in Uncle Monty’s incantations and came to the conclusion that the best solution was to kill his wife all over again. So late one evening when I made my appearance, the duke pulled a gun and fired.”

  Cole’s stomach tightened as he looked at the long, thin scar. “An inch to the right and you would have been killed,” he said grimly.

  She took another swig of brandy. “Admittedly it was not one of our finer moments.”

  “If you knew the man murdered his wife, why didn’t you simply report him to the authorities?”

  Devon stared at him as though that was the stupidest question she’d ever heard in her life. “Who do you think the authorities would have believed? The duke, a man with power, position, and sterling reputation; or two lifelong criminals like Uncle Monty and me?” She hiccupped again, then shrugged. “Besides, one doesn’t make any money by simply reporting people to the authorities.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m not usually such a mess,” she continued. “Those are the only two scars I have, and they’re generally well-covered, so it really isn’t too hideous, is it?”

  His thoughts strayed to the deep gash that ran the length of his cheek. “I suppose that depends on who’s looking,” he answered.

  Devon reached up and lightly ran her fingers over his cheek. “Uncle Monty says that everyone carries scars. Only they’re not always where you can see them. Sometimes people are scarred on the inside, and those are the wounds that take the longest to heal.”

  Cole felt something twist deep inside him, stunned by her words and amazed at the jolt he’d felt at her light, casual touch. Still he managed to keep his voice level. “What else did he teach you?”

  She smiled. “Oh, lots of things. How to deal an ace from the bottom of a deck. How to lift a purse without making a sound. Which spoon to use at tea in order to fool people into believing that I was & proper lady.” She paused and her smile faded. “Only I never did fool you, did I?”

  Cole flinched, neatly sidestepping the question. “He sounds like a remarkable man, your uncle.”

  Devon nodded, then hiccupped. “He is. Except, of course, he’s not really my uncle.”

  “Of course,” he agreed politely.

  “He taught me all about men, as well.”

  As Cole had abandoned any hope of directing their rambling conversation, he decided this was too good an opportunity to simply let pass by. “Really? What valuable insight did he share with you on that subject?”

  Devon frowned, looking vaguely displeased. “He said I should never believe a word a man says once he’s taken off his pants.” Her glance moved to Cole’s trousers, as though checking to make sure they were still there. Satisfied, she continued. “He also said I should never believe a promise that’s whispered in the dark. The two are connected, of course, but I haven’t quite sorted it out…”

  Cole fought to keep from laughing. “Let me know when you do,” he said, then gently pried the brandy bottle from her grasp. “I think you’ve had enough.”

  She frowned at that but reluctantly acquiesced. “Am I drunk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get me drunk on purpose?”

  Cole hesitated. “Yes.”

  “To ask me questions about Captain Sharpe?”

  God, she was quick. Even when she’d downed nearly an entire bottle of brandy, there was still no getting anything past her. “Yes,” he admitted.

  “I see.” She attempted to sit up straight, but swayed suddenly to the right instead. Cole caught her before she toppled over. “In that case,” she said weakly, “I won’t feel bad for getting sick all over you.”

  Cole instinctively jumped back, then immediately reached forward again to prevent Devon from falling flat on her face against the rough wooden floor. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were feeling ill?”

  “I didn’t know I was,” she protested. “Not until two seconds ago when everything started to spin so horribly.”

  “All right,” he soothed, collecting himself. “All right.” He grabbed Devon by the shoulders and eased her onto her back, then snatched a porcelain vase from one of the crates and set it beside her. “Do you need to be sick now?”

  “No… Yes!… No…”

  Cole helped her over onto her side, held her hair back with one hand, used his other to support her forehead, and waited patiently while she emptied her stomach. When she finished, he gently eased her down again and moved to stand up. Devon’s eyes flew open and she grabbed at his sleeve. “Where are you going?”

  “Shhh. Just lie still, I’ll be right back.”

  From another crate, he removed a china bowl and a bolt of rose brocade silk. He stood by the door and stuck the bowl outside, then returned to Devon. He propped her up on his lap and lifted the bowl to her lips. She groaned and turned her head to the side, refusing it. “It’s just rain water,” he coaxed. “Take a sip to rinse your mouth.”

  After she obeyed, he set the bowl down. With the storm sweeping in, the temperature had dropped a good twenty degrees, giving a chill to the air. Cole pulled the thick silk from the bolt and draped it over Devon, then dipped his handkerchief in the rainwater and gently began bathing her face and shoulders. She lay still, her breathing shallow.

  It wasn’t as if he’d poured the stuff down her throat, he thought, fighting back his guilt over her condition. Nevertheless, he’d shown a colossal lack of judgment in not taking the brandy away sooner. He felt her stir in his arms, then her eyelids slowly flickered open. “Do you feel better now?” he asked.

  “Hmmm… McRae?”

  “What?”

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  He sighed. She was still drunk. “Go to sleep.”

  “What color?”

  “Blue,” he answered, just to shut her up, and because that was the first color he could think of.

  She smiled dreamily. “Mine, too. McRae?”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “McRae?”

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t working for Sharpe. At least not the way you think I was.” She looked up at him, and for a fraction of a second, the cloudiness cleared. “Do you believe me?” she asked.

  Cole stared down at the woman curled up in his lap. Obviously his plan to get her drunk had been a miserable failure, managing only to get her sick and leaving him with mo
re questions. He knew now that her mother was dead and her father was a low-life bastard, but that was about it. The important questions, like who “Uncle” Monty was, and how had she gotten tangled up with Jonas Sharpe, and what had happened to her brother, Billy, would have to wait.

  He considered what he had learned. Devon called herself a lifelong criminal, and he didn’t doubt for a moment that it was true. She could haunt a duke, pick a pocket, lift a purse; and that was probably just scratching the surface of her audacious, felonious past.

  But nothing he’d seen in her indicated a willingness to hurt someone else‌—‌let alone kill a man in cold blood.

  Devon studied him, then let out a sigh as a look of infinite sadness swept over her face. She closed her eyes. “You don’t believe me.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  Cole leaned back against the crates, easing the tense muscles that knotted his spine. He shifted Devon into a more comfortable position in his lap and absently stroked her hair as he thought it over. He shouldn’t believe her. It was a disgrace to the memory of his men to even consider believing her. But a stubborn, nagging doubt still persisted. What if this wasn’t just another one of her elaborate cons? What if she really was innocent? The possibility was so remote that it didn’t even bear contemplation. And yet… it was a possibility.

  He glanced down at his lap. Devon Blake was fast asleep. There’d be no more answers tonight. Cole let out a ragged sigh as he considered his situation: he’d lost his men, lost his ship, and was currently hidden on a train that was racing behind enemy lines, his only company a drunken prisoner and two hundred Rebel soldiers.

  Another sterling performance, McRae, he thought in disgust as he closed his eyes.

  What the hell was going to go wrong next?

  CHAPTER 7

  “Wake up, Blake. Wake up.”

  Devon stifled a groan and slowly opened her eyelids, taking in her surroundings. She was lying on the floor of a dirty, dingy boxcar. Cole stared down at her, looking obscenely fresh and well-rested. His dark-blond hair was caught in a loose ponytail at the base of his neck, and his shirt‌—‌obviously one he’d stolen from the crates‌—‌was crisp and fresh. “How do you feel?” he asked in a gratingly cheerful voice.