Captured

by Victoria Lynne

  “This is my ship, Mr. Finch. I run it my way, and I don’t have room aboard for scum like Lerner.”

  “How do we know he’ll signal the fort that we’re clear to proceed?” Finch pressed.

  Monty smiled. “Unless he’s a complete fool‌—‌which, mind you, is not impossible‌—‌he’ll stay out of our way. If we don’t get past the fort, who do you think is the first one we’ll go after, with all guns blazing?” He pointed to the barge as a small green flag was raised from the main mast. “There! What do you know, looks like our good friend Mr. Lerner figured that but all by himself.”

  Cole nodded to the engineer, and the engines rumbled to life once again. They sailed in under the protection of Fort Fisher and settled offshore to wait until dark. Devon stayed on the bridge as Cole made the rounds among his men, checking the guns and ammunition, offering words of encouragement Finally they were ready to begin. Cole signaled to the man posted at the aft chains. Instead of raising anchor, the crewman merely pulled a pin out of the link, letting the chain slip quietly back into the water.

  The night was clear, the sea calm, a crescent moon shining bright in the midnight sky—-dangerous conditions for making a run. Nonetheless, the Ghost crept stealthily forward, moving like a phantom warship into an enemy sea. Their run had begun.

  Devon’s hope that she would be better able to stand the stress of their passage, since she’d been through it once before, was dashed within minutes of leaving the fort. Each stop and start, each near-miss, sent chills down her spine and turned her knees to jelly.

  Judging from the strained expressions of her uncle and Mr. Finch, she wasn’t alone in that feeling. Even the pilot looked done in; his face was pale, his shirt soaked with sweat. Only Cole remained relatively calm, his expression betraying nothing but fierce concentration. “Easy now,” he said in a low whisper, speaking to no one in particular. “We’re almost there, just another mile or so.”

  No sooner had he spoken the words than Devon heard him whisper harshly, “Pilot, hard aport! Cutter on the starboard bow!”

  Devon glanced ahead to see a small rowing boat with perhaps a dozen men patrolling the water. The ship jerked to the left, missing the cutter by a hair’s breadth. Apparently the men inside the small boat were taken as much by surprise as the crew of the Ghost. Devon heard their shocked cries as their oars split against the hull.

  They quickly recovered, however. Within seconds, the night sky was streaked with flares, signaling the Ghost’s presence to the other patrol boats. Monty clucked his tongue. “Damned ungrateful of them, I’d say. Downright unsporting, as well.”

  The brilliant sparks illuminated their position. Smith Island loomed dead ahead, marking the point where the mouth of the Cape Fear River opened into the sea. Devon glanced behind them and her mouth went dry. Coming up strong in their wake were three warships: a fifty-gun sailing frigate, a forty-gun steam frigate, and a twenty-four-gun sailing sloop. There was no chance of the Ghost being able to stay and fight it out. Nor could they run for the protection of Fort Fisher. Nothing lay ahead but the wide open sea.

  “Open her up!” Cole shouted to the engineer. “Give me full speed! Men, hoist the sails‌—‌let’s move!”

  “Hoist the sails?” Finch protested. “They’ll be shot to shreds!”

  “Not at this range,” Cole answered curtly. “Why do you think they’re not firing? As long as we can keep this distance, we’ll be all right.”

  “What are you going to do?” Finch demanded.

  “We’re going to make a run for it‌—‌unless you have a better suggestion.”

  “You should have ran that damned boat over, that’s what you should have done!”

  Cole ignored him and shouted to his men below, “Move all that cotton off the bow,” he instructed. “I want it piled aft, as thick and deep as you can get it.”

  Devon puzzled over the order until the men leaped to obey and she felt the subtle shifting of the deck beneath her feet. The cotton had been distributed evenly across the ship for balance, but now Cole wanted speed. Moving the heavy bales aft lifted the bow out of the water and submerged the screw propellers even deeper, giving them greater momentum. She only hoped that it would be enough.

  The chase went on through dawn and well into the day. Maneuverability was the Ghost’s single advantage over the larger ships that trailed her, and Cole made the most of it. When the frigates closed in, he skirted the ship hard aport or hard starboard, leaving their adversaries twisting clumsily behind to adjust to their new path. Every now and then the frigates would fire their guns, testing the distance, but they had yet to close in enough for their weapons to reach.

  The chase was exhausting body and soul. The crew worked in hour shifts, shoveling coal into the furnace as fast as possible, the men emerging covered in sweat and coal dust. Cole too, took his turn below in the scorching steam of the engine room.

  Finally the bright light of day began to fade as hints of twilight showed in the sky. Devon approached Cole for the first time since they’d begun their run. “We’re going to make it, aren’t we,” she said softly. It was more a statement than a question.

  Cole reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “We are. Once night falls, I can lose them in the dark. We’ve only an hour or so more to go—”

  “Captain,” a crewman interrupted as he rushed to the bridge. “Captain, I’m sorry, I didn’t see it. We’ve been shoveling the coal so hard and fast, I thought we had enough to last—” He stopped, dragging deep gulps of air into his lungs.

  Cole abruptly released Devon’s hand. “Are you telling me we’re out of coal?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  A heavy silence fell over the bridge. Devon glanced at the ships in rapid pursuit, knowing there was no way they could outrun them using sail power alone. Without the force of their engines, the Ghost would be brought to her knees in minutes.

  “What about Wilmington? I thought we restocked there.”

  “We did, but all we could get was soft Southern coal, dug straight out of the mines. We can’t use that.”

  Cole gazed up at the sky, studying the soft lavender twilight. “Stoke the engines,” he commanded. “I want you and the men to pour it in as fast as you can. Shovel the coal dust in as well.”

  “But sir, the smoke…” The crewman halted his words as a slow grin spread across his face. “Aye, sir. Right away, sir.” He leaped from the bridge and took off running toward the engine room.

  Cole handed Devon a handkerchief and instructed her to tie it over her nose and mouth. As the Ghost’s engines faltered, the enemy warships drew in and began firing off shots, exploding in the water only meters away.

  “What are you doing, Captain?” Finch demanded. “Aren’t you even going to try to fight it out?”

  “I’d put that on if I were you,” Cole answered, gesturing to Finch’s handkerchief. “You’re going to need it.”

  Finch reluctantly obeyed. The rest of the men cloaked their faces as well, masking their mouths and noses. Within seconds, Devon understood the necessity. The acrid smoke they’d endured during the search for runaways had been nothing compared to what poured from the ship’s flues now. The stacks made a loud belching noise, then thick, choking smoke gushed out, black as midnight, enveloping them all. It settled over the ship like a dark, heavy cloud. Soon it spread beyond them and over the sea itself.

  Devon understood. Since Cole couldn’t wait for the night, he was bringing the night to him. The thick smoke, combined with the twilight mist, rendered the Ghost nearly invisible. Gazing behind her, Devon could see nothing but black haze where just moments before the warships had ominously lurked. Only the thunderous explosions of their guns told her that they still followed.

  Cole pulled down his handkerchief to shout to the men below, “Now lower the sails! Bring them in!” The men let loose the ropes, and the sails went slack. Cole turned to the pilot. “Hard starboard, then cut the engine.”

&nbs
p; The pilot obeyed, jerked the ship hard right, then let her drift into the murky black smoke. After their frantic sixteen-hour pursuit, the gentle drifting motion felt almost eerie. The Ghost sat absolutely still, cloaked by smoke and silence. The ploy worked. Devon held her breath as the warships continued to steam straight ahead, their guns blazing, blindly firing away at a prey that was no longer there.

  The crew let loose a low roar of exuberant relief. Cole reached for Devon and spun her around in his arms. Before she could catch her breath, he yanked down the handkerchief that cloaked her face and kissed her hard on the mouth. Devon kissed him back, mindless of the others around them. He tasted like coal and sweat and smoke, his lips raw and gritty against her own.

  “Well done, Captain, very well done indeed,” Monty said as she and Cole pulled apart.

  “The kiss or the escape?” Devon asked cheekily, too happy to care about propriety.

  “Both,” returned her uncle. He dug into his pocket and came up with a fistful of cigars. “I do believe the occasion calls for a celebration. Smoke, anyone?”

  “Where to, Captain?” the pilot asked after the men had lit up and were puffing away contentedly.

  Cole looked at Earl Finch. “I believe that’s your call, Mr. Finch. Did I pass the test?”

  Finch pulled the handkerchief off his neck and took his time wiping the grimy smoke off his face and hands. He dragged in deep on his cigar, then slowly let out his breath. “Captain, there were at least a hundred times I thought we were all dead for sure. You took risks no sane man would take. And not once did you fire a shot at the enemy.” He paused, a fierce frown of disapproval on his face. “But you got us in and you got us out, and that’s all Mr. Sharpe asked me to bear witness to.”

  “Captain?” the pilot repeated, his hand on the helm.

  Cole looked at Finch.

  “Mr. Sharpe will be waiting for you in Nassau,” Finch said. “I’ll set up a meeting once we arrive.”

  Cole didn’t move, nor did his expression change. But for just a second, Devon could swear she saw the ghost of a smile flash across his face. He nodded to his pilot. “You heard the man. Chart a course.”

  Devon stood alone at the ship’s rail, gazing up at the stars as a midnight breeze blew over her skin. The sea was smooth and calm, a sheet of dark glass that mirrored the sky above. They skimmed lightly across the surface, propelled by just the wind. She tipped back her chin, letting the breeze fan her neck and shoulders. She’d been too restless to stay inside, so she’d wandered out on deck to do her thinking. The sound of Cole’s voice broke into her rambling thoughts.

  “I looked for you in the cabin.”

  Devon turned to him and softly smiled. “I bet I wasn’t there.”

  “You weren’t.”

  “Imagine that.”

  Cole smiled and reached out, running his fingers gently along the nape of her neck. He settled in beside her, bracing his elbows against the rail. They stood in silence, absorbing the peace of the night and the silence of the ship.

  Devon studied him from beneath a sweep of lashes. Like her, he must have bathed earlier, for all traces of soot and grime were removed from his skin. He looked virile and bronzed; his rugged profile was chiseled perfection in the moonlight. Her eyes went to the jagged scar that marred his cheek. Every day the healing progressed a little bit more.

  He turned toward her, eyeing her with tender concern as he asked, “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No aftermath shakes?”

  She held out her hand; it was smooth and steady.

  Cole shook his head. “Incredible. Most women would have collapsed at the first sign of trouble. Hell, most men. Half my crew is snuggled up in bed with a brandy bottle as we speak.”

  She shrugged. “I’m a professional, remember? I’ve been trained since an early age not to show fear.” She gave him a rueful smile and amended her lofty state-merit with, “Except, of course, if you have me dangling over the side of a cliff in a rickety old carriage.”

  “A situation I will endeavor at all costs to avoid in the future, Mrs. McRae.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McRae.”

  A silence fell between them as his gaze ran slowly over her. “What are you doing out here?”

  She shrugged again. “Nothing really.”

  “Wishing on stars?” he guessed, glancing at the brilliant midnight sky.

  She laughed and shook her head. “Never.”

  Cole smiled and lifted a brow at that “What kind of a woman did I marry?” he asked. “You’re able to run the blockade without a single tremor, you can leap from a galloping horse onto a speeding train, start barroom brawls by just fluttering your eyelashes, but you don’t know how to dance, and you never wish on stars.”

  He was using the voice she loved best: low and husky, gentle and teasing. The voice she heard only when they were alone, usually whenever they made love. And sometimes the morning after as well, when they lay with their limbs entangled and their eyes closed against the soft dawn light, neither one willing to come fully awake. Or to move at all. The voice that washed over her soul like a tender caress. A voice of murmured promises and tender passion.

  “So tell me,” Cole continued, “why don’t you wish on stars?”

  “I don’t do it right.”

  He grinned. “There’s a proper way to make a wish?”

  “Of course,” she answered, struggling to remain focused on their conversation. “One should wish for simple things. Like a few extra shillings, a bit of cake, or a new gown.”

  “But you don’t do that.”

  Devon gazed up into his eyes. “No.”

  “What do you wish for, Devon?”

  I wish you would love me. The thought sprang unbidden to her mind, fully formed and achingly real. She shook her head and looked away, swallowing hard past the lump in her throat. “Impossible things.”

  He moved a step closer. “Tell me.”

  She searched for a suitable reply, then finally answered, “I wish we could just sail away into the night. I wish we didn’t have to go after Jonas Sharpe.”

  Cole sobered immediately. “Did you have that dream again?”

  An icy chill raced down her spine. Devon bit down hard on her lip and shook her head, pushing that memory away. “No.”

  He slipped his arm around her and pulled her to stand in front of him. His arms wrapped securely around her waist, Devon idly traced her hands over his forearms, content to stand with him like that forever. “We’ve been through the worst of it,” he said. “Finch doesn’t suspect anything, and there’s no way for Sharpe to find out about us until it’s too late.”

  She rested the back of her head against his chest and closed her eyes. “You sound so sure,” she said. “So positive that everything’s going to work out.”

  “And you sound worried.”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  He tightened his arms around her and gently teased, “Trying not to sound worried, or trying not to be worried?”

  “Both.”

  “Devon, it’s only a matter of days now, and it will all be over. Try just to think of that.”

  That was the last thing in the world she wanted to think about. In two short days, they would reach the Bahamas. Once they’d captured Sharpe, she was honor-bound to keep her end of their bargain. Uncle Monty had blackmailed Cole into marrying her. She had no intention of holding him to a promise he hadn’t given of his own free will. Logically she knew it was the right thing to do. There was no place for her in his world. But the thought of not being with Cole, of never feeling his arms around her again, cut through her heart like jagged pieces of glass.

  “I don’t want to think about that,” she said.

  “Very well.” Cole rocked her softly back and forth. “I’ll teach you to dance.”

  She smiled. “Right here?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Are you going to sing for me as well?”

  He sighed. “
Have you ever heard a dog howl at the moon?”

  “That bad, is it?”

  “I’m probably insulting the dog.”

  Devon twisted around in his arms. She raised herself on tiptoe and tilted her head back to touch her lips to his, kissing him with all the fervor and passion and ache within her soul. Kissing him to memorize the taste of his lips, the feel of his hands on her body. Kissing him so she could conjure up the feeling on all the long, lonely nights that lay ahead of her. So she could capture the radiant joy that spread through her whenever he was near and hold it in her heart forever.

  She pulled away, almost out of breath, and gazed up into his eyes. They were dark with passion and fire, fit within by a golden glow that sent her pulses racing. “What was that for?” he asked huskily.

  “Do I need a reason?”

  “Never.” He took her hand. “Let’s go back inside.”

  Devon shook her head. “I’m not sleepy.”

  Cole reached down and lifted her into his arms. His long strides carried her swiftly through the maze of cotton and toward his cabin. “Even better.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The streets of Nassau pulsed with energy. The city was awash with color, framed by a sapphire sea and dazzling white beaches. Natives attired in vivid garb strolled casually by, calling out in the soft dialect of the island. Tall palms swayed in the gentle trade winds. Perhaps it was just the contrast with the dreary poverty and distress she’d seen in Wilmington that made the city seem so prosperous and happy. Whatever the reason, Devon was determined to enjoy it.

  She drank it all in as she rode in an open buggy seated between Cole and her uncle. As was his habit, Earl Finch had disappeared as soon as the ship had docked. She, for one, would not miss his presence. She pushed thoughts of Finch from her mind and focused instead on the sights around her.

  Although she knew Nassau was a Rebel gun-running port, just as St. George had been, the difference was amazing. St. George had been quaint and charming, but filled with a sense of giddy desperation and greed. She felt none of that here. The island was more formal than she’d expected, graced with stately mansions and classical government buildings, carefully tended parks and gardens. The narrow streets and dimly lit pubs had a decidedly British feel to them and made her feel right at home.