She glared up at him. “My head is pounding and my mouth tastes as if something crawled into it and died during the night,” she said, then mimicked his obnoxious grin. “Other than that, I’m fine.” She moved to sit up, then fell back with a groan. “What did you beat me with?”
“A bottle of brandy.”
Devon forced her eyes open and studied her captor. Something was definitely wrong. Cole was acting altogether too pleasant. While it was entirely plausible—highly likely, even—that he was simply enjoying her misery, her instincts told her that something else was afoot. But with her head aching so fiercely, she was in no shape to figure out what that might be. She rose slowly to her feet, then gasped and spun around, shielding her eyes. “What in God’s name is that blinding glare?”
“Blinding glare?” he repeated, then amusement crept back into his tone. “Ah. I believe that’s known as the sun. It’s been up for several hours now.”
Her lips twisted into a grim parody of a smile. “My, aren’t you clever.”
“Clever enough not to try to drink an entire bottle of brandy in one sitting.”
Her hand flew to her stomach. “Please,” she groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
“I found a tin of tooth powder in one of the crates. There’s also a pitcher of fresh rainwater and clean linens,” Cole said, pointing toward the rear of the boxcar. “Or do you need to be sick first?”
Devon stiffened, ignoring the queasy rumbling in her stomach as she brought up her chin. “Of course I’m not going to be ill,” she pronounced haughtily. “What sort of weak, pathetic creature do you take me for?”
No sooner had she gotten the words out than a blurry recollection shot through her mind of her being violently ill and lying curled up in Cole’s lap as he bathed her face with a cool cloth. Embarrassment streaked through her. No, please, it couldn’t have been, she thought in mortified disbelief. Looking into his eyes, she saw laughter glinting in their tawny-brown depths and knew without doubt that the memory was real. No wonder he was acting so smug and superior this morning.
Realizing there was nothing she could do about it now, Devon pushed the humiliating memory aside and moved across the boxcar with all the dignity she could summon. Fortunately he was no longer watching. Cole stood with his back to her, allowing her a modicum of privacy as she attended her toilette. Likely because he was more interested in the passing scenery than out of any courtesy he might wish to bestow on her, she decided grumpily.
Her tasks completed, she dragged her fingers through the ratty nest of tangles that was her hair, wishing for the umpteenth time that her trunks hadn’t been confiscated. She glanced around disparagingly when it suddenly struck her that she hadn’t fully explored the contents of the crates last night. Devon went to work and was rewarded in short order with a beautiful sterling silver brush, comb, and mirror, a set of tortoiseshell hairpins, a bonnet she rather fancied, and a lovely new bottle of scent. She found a sturdy carpetbag, emptied it of its prior contents, and refilled it with her newly acquired treasures.
“Finding everything you need?” Cole asked.
Devon looked up to see him calmly watching her. She heard no censure in his voice, only a trace of amusement. He sat on a stack of crates, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his long legs stretched out. The pose suited him. It was relaxed, rugged, and yet strangely appealing—in a rough, masculine sort of way. “You have absolutely no conscience, do you?” he asked.
She shrugged and returned to her looting. “Why should I? It’s all contraband, isn’t it?”
“True enough.”
She resumed her task, only to be interrupted again five minutes later while she perused a box containing an assortment of cures and ointments. She picked up a bottle of cockle pills and studied the label. It sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite remember what they were for.
“You have trouble with your cockles?” Cole asked, sounding suspiciously amused.
Devon tossed the bottle into her bag and replied coolly, “From time to time.”
He made a mock bow, his expression grave. “In that case, you have my deepest sympathy.”
She paused, disconcerted by his sincerity and feeling even more strongly that he was laughing at her, when she suddenly remembered why the label sounded so familiar. She’d seen the pills in an apothecary while with her Uncle Monty. When she’d asked him what they were for, he’d blustered something about “relieving the pressure to a man’s lower extremities” and hustled her out of the shop. Devon gritted her teeth, refusing to meet Cole’s eyes as rich heat once again suffused her cheeks.
“Now what in the hell do you need that thing for?” he demanded a few minutes later as she examined a lacy pink corset.
“It’s a corset.”
“I know what it is. What I don’t understand is why a woman your size, who clearly doesn’t need it, would willingly submit to having the breath strangled out of her.”
The truth was that Devon rarely wore corsets, and for exactly that reason. They made it difficult to breathe, and consequently harder to run. And since running was tantamount to survival for her, it considerably lessened the garment’s appeal. Still, one never knew. She folded it carefully and tucked it away in her bag. “I am not in the habit of discussing my undergarments with a perfect stranger,” she said.
“I’m far from perfect, Blake.”
She snapped her head up at that, staring at Cole in mute fascination as a slow grin transformed his rugged features. Devon abruptly reversed her earlier conclusion. Not only did the man know how to smile, he was damned good at it too. His teeth flashed even and white against his deeply tanned skin; his eyes glowed with warm golden light. Her heart slammed against her chest, then started beating again at double its normal tempo.
She skillfully hid her reaction, merely arching one dark brow at his words until she was certain she wouldn’t sound as breathless as she felt. “It appears we’ve at last found something upon which we can both agree,” she said coolly as she turned back to her bag and secured the leather straps. She felt the train lurch beneath her and glanced outside, noting that they had slowed to a near-crawl as they chugged up a steep, grassy slope.
“Finished?” Cole asked. When she nodded, he moved toward her, hefted the bag up, and strode back to the open freight door. She smiled to herself, pleased. The brute was actually going to carry it for her. It was about time he started treating her like a lady. Cole looked straight at her, politely inclined his head, then tossed her bag outside without a word.
Devon lurched to her feet and ran to his side, too shocked to form any coherent words. “My bag! Why, you, you—”
He placed his hand at the small of her back. “You’re next.”
“What?!”
“When you hit the ground, tuck in your body and roll. Chances are good you won’t break anything that way.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Are you ready?”
“No!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you.” With those words, he gave her a firm push, sending her flying out of the car and over the tracks. When she hit the grassy bank, she automatically obeyed his instructions, tucking in her body as she tumbled down the hill. The train wasn’t moving as fast as she’d feared, and the impact with the soft grass was painless, but the steep incline of the slope prevented her from checking her fall. She didn’t stop until she reached the base of the hill and slid headfirst into a pit of mud and slime.
She sat up, sputtering mad and oozing filth, but otherwise unharmed, when she heard Captain McRae tumble to a stop a few feet away. He was on his feet and calling her name almost instantly. Devon opened her mouth, intending to singe his ears with a string of curses, then abruptly changed her mind. Uncle Monty had always told her she had a wee bit of the devil in her, and she was about to prove him right yet again.
Carefully arranging herself in the position in which she’d originally landed, she settled back i
nto the mud and let out a low moan. Cole stomped right past her. Devon stifled a curse and moaned louder, adding just a hint of long-suffering agony to her cry of pain. This time it worked.
She heard him hesitate, then the sound of his footsteps as he raced to her side. He let out a vicious oath and squatted down beside her. She forced her body to go limp as he hooked his hands beneath her and dragged her out of the mud. “Devon? Devon, can you hear me?” he asked as he brushed slimy reeds and thick sludge from her face and mouth. She slowly opened her eyes, hoping her expression was sufficiently dazed. “Hurts,” she whimpered.
Devon watched his face harden and grow grim, either with suppressed anger or regret, she couldn’t tell. “Easy, now, easy. Tell me where,” he crooned, and began to move his strong hands gently over her body. Devon froze, forgetting where she was and what she was doing, aware of nothing but his touch. It was a disturbing sensation; frightening and yet strangely pleasant at the same time. He moved with incredible gentleness for such a large man, she thought, content to let him continue. His hands traveled up toward her breasts.
“No!” she gasped. Cole’s head snapped up, his eyes focused intently on her face. Devon swallowed hard, abruptly recalling her purpose. “Hurts,” she said.
“It hurts when I touch you?”
“Yes.”
His scowl deepened. “Where? Where does it hurt?”
She parted her lips and whispered a word.
Cole leaned over her, tilting his head to one side. “I can’t hear you. Say it again, Devon. Tell me where it hurts.”
“Right… here!” She brought up her fist and slammed it as hard as she could against his jaw.
Granted, it was a sucker punch. But as far as sucker punches went, it was a pretty good one. Devon had the immense satisfaction of watching Cole’s eyes widen in shock as the unexpected impact sent his head reeling backward. She pushed with all her might at the same instant, knocking him over, then rolled on top of him, leveraging herself so that she was sitting astride his chest. She leaned over him, her breath coming hard and fast, her eyes blazing with fury. “Don’t you ever, ever push me out of a speeding train again! Do you understand me, McRae?”
Cole simply stared at her, then reached up and absently rubbed his jaw. “Not bad.”
Devon studied him for a second, then an awful realization swept over her as she registered the sheer size of the man stretched out beneath her, the barely leashed tension and power in his tightly coiled mass of muscles. No matter how much force she thought she’d put into it, her puny little punch wouldn’t have been enough to even make him blink. And she could just as easily topple an oak as she could knock him over.
Which meant only one thing. He’d known she’d been faking and had played right along with her. In fact, he’d done it even better. Feigning concern as he ran his hands all over her body. Whispering tender words in her ear. Furious, she lifted her fist again, but Cole caught it and held it easily. “Temper, Blake. Once was perhaps deserved. Twice—no.”
“You are the lowest, most despicable—”
“I presume this means that you’re not really hurt.”
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you are?” she shot back.
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
She shoved off him, her fury mounting as she examined her gown. Or rather what was left of it. Rags would probably be a more apt description. What hadn’t been ripped, slashed, or split apart was now dripping slime and thick black ooze. She not only looked but also smelled like something that came out of the business end of a goose. “I don’t suppose you could have waited for the train to come to a stop,” she bit out.
Cole followed her gaze in the direction of her gown and coolly shrugged. “I’m afraid not,” he answered, then went to collect her bag.
“Would you mind telling me why?” she demanded when he returned.
“If my guess is right, that train’s headed for Richmond, which is in the exact opposite direction of where we need to travel. Nor did I want to wait until they stopped to refuel, which would likely have meant I’d have to kill whichever guard was unfortunate enough to be assigned the duty of checking on the cargo.”
Devon opened her mouth, then abruptly closed it, realizing that arguing about it now was pointless anyway. Her gown was ruined, she was a sticky, muddy mess, and her head was throbbing from the effects of last night’s brandy. To top it all off, Cole didn’t seem the least bit repentant. She decided to save her energy for something useful, like devising a way to make him as miserable as she felt. If nothing else, at least she’d get some enjoyment out of that.
They hiked in silence, once again staying off the main roads. The heat and humidity hung in the air like thick, shimmering waves they had to battle their way through. After about an hour without a hat or parasol to shield her from the sun, Devon felt completely done in. She’d been trailing farther and farther behind Cole as they went along, but now she came to a complete stop and sagged against a tall pine. It took him a full minute before he noticed that she was no longer trudging along behind.
He stopped abruptly and turned back. “Blake?”
His shirt was damp with sweat and clung to his broad chest; a light sheen of perspiration showed on his forehead. Other than that, he looked entirely prepared to hike all day and well into the night if need be. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Perfect,” she answered weakly, then sank to the ground. Her legs folded beneath her as she braced her back against the trunk of the tree. “You go on ahead, McRae,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’ll catch up with you at Old Capitol. I promise.”
“Is the heat bothering you?”
She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, fanning her face with her hand. “I barely noticed it.”
He frowned and set down her bag. “So I see.”
“How does anyone manage to live in this?” she asked after a minute.
“You get used to it.”
“No,” Devon countered immediately. “Being burned at the stake I could get used to. At least that’s dry heat. But this—this is awful.”
“Do you want me to carry you?” She smiled at that, opened her eyes, and looked at him, certain he was joking. There was no trace of levity on Cole’s face. “All the way to Washington?” she asked incredulously.
He shrugged. “If need be.”
An image flashed across her mind: Cole marching across the countryside, with her bag tucked under one arm, and her tucked under the other. Too hot and tired to care, she didn’t bother to restrain the giggle that welled up inside her. “Don’t you think we’d look the tiniest bit ridiculous?”
Cole shrugged again. “Probably.”
“Just give me a minute. I’ll be—”
The low, rumbling sound of an approaching wagon cut off the rest of her words. “Stay here,” Cole ordered curtly, and moved off through the brush in the direction of the road they’d been paralleling. Devon obeyed, but only because she was too exhausted to run. After a minute, he returned, and she soon found herself deposited in the back of a buckboard wagon, nestled between sacks of flour, canned goods, and various other sundries. It was better than walking, but not by much.
Cole sat in front next to the Union officer who drove the conveyance. Listening to the two men talk, she learned that the area was solidly Union-controlled, with the exception of a few roving bands of Rebel guerrillas who managed to stir up trouble from time to time. A Union cavalry company was encamped nearby, their headquarters having been established in the local town in order to keep the guerrillas and Rebel sympathizers in line. The driver had been on his way to the army hospital to deliver supplies when Cole stopped him.
Devon made herself as comfortable as possible and eavesdropped as the men turned to talk of the war. They discussed campaigns, strategies, and the men who were leading them. They were both disparaging of a general named Pope, a pompous braggart who had recently been given command. High praise was awarded, however,
to a man named Robert Lee. So much so, in fact, that it took Devon a minute to realize that Pope was actually fighting for the Union, and General Lee was an officer of the Confederacy.
Bored by their discussion, she glanced around, her eyes lighting on a small farm as they rolled slowly past. A woman stood in the front yard, tossing handfuls of cornmeal at the hens scattered about her feet. She was tall and slender, with lovely dark skin and a dress that was in as poor shape as Devon’s own. As if feeling her gaze, the woman looked up. Devon knew without asking that the woman was a slave. It occurred to her with some astonishment that although she’d always known slavery existed, she’d never in her life actually seen a slave.
She’d heard that slaves were crude and ignorant, that they were fit to be used by their masters. She’d also heard that slaves were very like contented beasts, singing songs as they toiled in the fields. But one look at this woman disabused her of all those shameful tales and falsehoods. Devon saw nothing but shining intelligence in the other woman’s eyes, quiet dignity in her proud carriage.
As Devon watched, the lady of the house stormed out, berating her servant for dallying and threatening to send her off without supper if the woman didn’t see to her task. The slave accepted the tongue-lashing with perfect indifference, then with slow, deliberate motions, resumed scattering cornmeal for the hens. The Wagon rolled away and the moment passed. But Devon, recalling Mrs. Honeychurch and the asylum, was left with a new and painful understanding of the slave’s plight. Sometimes the need for dignity was greater than the need for food or water.
They rode on for another thirty minutes, finally stopping at a large, wood frame house. The yellow flag flying atop the structure indicated it was also used as a hospital. Crisp white tents were encamped on the front lawn and cooking fires smoked cozily in shallow pits. Devon counted about fifty Union soldiers in the yard, all in various stages of repose. “You’ll be wantin’ to talk to the general,” the driver said.
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