“Go ahead. Take it.” Had she really addressed him so boldly? She adored that locket—she’d never expected to remove it—but if the value of the necklace would placate this scoundrel and avoid further violence, parting with it would be a small price to pay.
Expecting him to tear it from her throat, she braced herself. Instead, he grasped her hand with a surprising lack of violence. Emma twisted to escape his hold, but long, tanned fingers restrained her.
“Let go of me,” she bit between her teeth. “Other than this locket, I have nothing of value.”
His eyes flared with something akin to admiration. “Come with me, Miss Davenport, and no one will be harmed.”
The gunman knew her name. Emma gripped the handle of her traveling bag. The walls of the passenger car closed in, and her lungs struggled to take in air. He’d come for her, not a cache of weapons or a safe full of cash. But why? Surely he didn’t think her father could pay a substantial ransom. Papa was a powerful man, but not a rich one.
Lifting her chin, she forced herself to drag in a breath. Her knees wobbled, but damned if she’d let this cur see it. He wouldn’t cow her. She was made of stronger stuff than that.
Defying the gunman would be futile. As long as she was on the train, she was trapped. Once she was out of this cramped compartment, she might be able to disable him with the small pistol she carried in her satchel. Digging her fingers into the base of her seat, she forced the panic from her limbs and reached for the bag.
He watched beneath hooded lids as she rose to her feet. His fingers coiled over her forearm. Gentle, as though he were escorting her to a ball. Somehow, she would have hated this—hated him—less if he’d acted the brute. At least that would have made sense. But this deed was beyond reprehensible.
Emma’s entire body tensed. She raked him with a scathing glare.
“Don’t touch me. I will go with you, but you will not pretend to be a gentleman.”
“As you wish.”
He released her. Clutching the traveling bag against her chest, Emma buried her nails in the thick tapestry. She drew in a sharp breath. Then another, as if that would calm her.
No, there’d be no cure for her nerves. Not until she got her hands on her derringer.
“I’m not going to harm you.” His husky rasp was little more than a whisper.
“Don’t do this.” She struggled to keep her voice steady. “My father will never pay a penny in ransom.”
The gunman’s expression was strangely devoid of triumph. He placed his hands around her waist and lifted her off the floor.
“Time to go, Miss Davenport.”
“Put me down, you heathen,” she gasped. Air whooshed out of her lungs as she landed on his shoulder. “You can’t do this!”
“Watch me.”
Chapter Two
Major Cole Travis had never doubted his ability to carry a mission through to the end until the moment he hoisted Emma Davenport over his shoulder and carried her from the train.
Toting his squirming cargo from the passenger car to the well-trained gelding waiting by the tracks, he silently cursed everyone who’d involved him in this fool’s errand. Grant’s forces were in Virginia, but he was here, snatching some esteemed senator’s conniving daughter from the train that carried her to a rendezvous with a traitor.
Not to bring her to justice.
But to protect her from her own duplicity.
He deposited her in the saddle, seating her so her legs dangled against the sides of the steed. She clasped her traveling bag against her body like a shield. Eyes the color of a forest on a sunny day glared beneath charcoal lashes.
“Don’t touch me.” She bit off the words between her teeth.
The single teardrop streaming down her cheek hit him like a fist to the gut. But he had to get her away before someone decided to be a goddamn hero.
“My father will see you captured and hanged.” She blinked back tears.
Cole joined her in the saddle. He snaked an arm around her middle and pinned her to his chest.
“Take your hands off me.” She wriggled against him, bucking against his restraint. “You have no right—”
“No, ma’am, I don’t.” Determined to ignore the lemon-tinged scent of her long, chestnut hair, he swallowed hard as his legs flanked her rounded bottom. “But it beats riding belly down.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” The words came out in an outraged little huff.
“You and I both know a man who’d steal you off a train isn’t going to give a tinker’s damn about your comfort. Don’t tempt me to prove it.”
She swiveled within the circle of his arms. Her hands tore the mask from his face. Retrieving it from her clutched fingers, he hurled it to the ground, smiling to himself as the horse trampled over it.
“That thing was a damn annoyance.”
Her eyes narrowed, cat-like. “You will be executed. Of that, I have no doubt.”
“You enjoy the thought, don’t you?”
“Very much so,” she replied primly.
“Miss Davenport, I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty.”
Her cheeks flushed, she squared her shoulders. “Considering your actions, you will soon feel fortunate hanging—or a firing squad—is the extent of the punishment you may receive. If my father has his way, I’ve no doubt he’d see you drawn and quartered.”
Drawn and quartered. Given the anger blazing in his prisoner’s eyes, he didn’t doubt she’d secure a front-row seat to the event.
“The rack might be an option,” he offered. “Or an iron maiden.”
The fire in her eyes heated to an inferno while the perfect arch of her bow-shaped mouth thinned to a razor’s edge. Dammit, he should have assigned the duty of transporting Miss Davenport to his partner. Dunham might have been able to use his drawl and his smile to charm this living, breathing iron maiden into cooperation. No chance of that where he was concerned. Behind those sparkling eyes, Emma Davenport was no doubt plotting his demise in some dark, dusty torture chamber.
Cole spurred his mount to a gallop. Dunham had definitely drawn the long straw where this mission was concerned. His partner had ridden ahead to scout the security of their destination. With any luck, they’d transfer Emma Davenport to an eastbound train and be done with this mission before the sun set. They’d separate until they reached their predetermined rendezvous point. That time couldn’t come soon enough.
Resting his arm around his prisoner’s slender waist, Cole held her tight. Her flesh smelled of lavender, a soft, subtle scent, indefinably female. Heat surged through him. Instinct demanded a response to her nearness. Damn. He sure as hell didn’t need to alarm the senator’s daughter with his arousal announcing its presence, much less pressed smack up against her tempting behind. He needed to counteract his body’s innate response. And fast. A naked crone with flaccid skin hanging from skeletal limbs floated into his consciousness. Yep, that helped. But the impact of the siren in his arms was stronger. Flooding his thoughts with a battery of repulsive images, he breathed deeper as the wrinkled hags and fish guts did their job.
“Why are you doing this?” Her tone was crisp, clear, and sounded madder than hell.
“That should be obvious.”
“Where are you taking me?”
His arm tensed around her, holding her so closely he felt her heart beating. The faint aroma of lavender filled his senses again. He spurred his mount, urging it on. The sooner he got the senator’s runaway daughter on the train to Washington, the better.
“Are you going to answer me?” she asked after a long silence.
“No.”
Picking up a rustle in the distance, he cocked his head toward the sound. Hoof beats. Closer. Closer. Someone was on their trail.
Son of a bitch.
He uncoiled the arm around her middle and pressed his captive closer to the saddle. Seizing the reins in his left hand, he drew the revolver from its holster with his right.
“What on earth do you thin
k you’re doing?” Her voice was breathless, whether from the pressure against her chest or fright he couldn’t be sure. Not that it mattered. There was no time for explanations. The hoof beats grew louder. Faster.
Faster than his mount could travel with the weight of two on its back.
“Stay down,” he grated. She’d find out what was going on soon enough.
A shot rang out. Then another, so close it clipped the branches of a tree in their path.
Whoever it was, this wasn’t a rescue. No one in his right mind would fire when it endangered the hostage. Even if the shooter hit his mark, the slug could pass right through Cole and into the woman in his arms.
Or was Emma Davenport the target?
* * *
Emma clung to the saddle horn like a drowning woman to a buoy and uttered a silent prayer for courage. The man who’d stolen her from the train spurred his mount to a frenzied pace, each strike of its hooves against the earth faster and more urgent than the last. Between the pressure of his body against hers, ensuring she kept low against the well-worn leather and the constant jolting against the saddle, she could scarcely fill her lungs with air.
“Stay down,” he gritted again. As if she’d be foolish enough to lift her head while shots exploded around them. She may have come of age in a city where words were used as weapons, but she knew the sound of gunfire when she heard it. Did he think her such a ninny that she wouldn’t know to shield herself?
No, her captor was the target. She was going to be rescued. Just a little longer now. Her nightmare would be over almost as quickly as it started.
If she came out of this reckless chase with her neck still intact.
Another shot echoed around them, then another. Her captor did not falter. Spurring the mount with relentless vigor, he continued to shield her with his body. He was a gutsy one. She’d give him that. A spark of admiration kindled in her brain, but she doused it ruthlessly. This man wasn’t protecting her out of any sense of chivalry or concern for her well-being. He was protecting her because a live captive was infinitely more valuable than a dead one.
Gunfire exploded in her ears. Her captor jerked, a small, sudden movement. He muttered an epithet and dragged in a raw breath, but kept the reins under tight control.
“My rescue is imminent,” she said, surprising herself with the level, logical tone she managed despite the panic brewing beneath the surface of her thoughts. “If you’ve a brain in that thick skull of yours, you’ll surrender before he kills you.”
“Kills me?” He bit the words between his teeth as though they tasted bitter. “Did it occur to you he’s shooting at you, too?”
“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “Why would he shoot me?”
“You tell me, Miss Davenport.”
She couldn’t see his face, but somehow, she’d wager his brows had hiked a bit. Something hard and sharp twisted in her belly. He had a point. Whoever had been chasing them had certainly not hesitated to put his weapon to use, even though she was in the line of fire.
“He’s come after me. I’m certain of it.”
“That is a fact. He sure as hell has.” He pulled in a breath and released it between his teeth. “But it’s not a rescue mission.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I, Miss Davenport?” The way he said her name made her feel as though she’d fallen into a trough of pig muck, as though this outlaw had the audacity to hold her in contempt.
Another bullet whizzed by, shearing a limb off a tree seconds before they raced past it. So very close, it seemed a miracle they both remained alive and unharmed.
The truth slammed into her like a runaway locomotive. Whoever pursued them didn’t care if she lived or died.
Her captor was right. This was anything but a rescue.
Hope disintegrated before her eyes. A burning knot scalded the back of her throat. Fear snaked into her bones, a slithering chill she hadn’t felt until that moment. Not even on the train when she’d looked into her captor’s eyes for the first time.
One strong hand pressed into her back. Pushing her down, putting his body between her and the gunfire.
Lifting up, away from her, he swiveled in the saddle. She felt his muscles tense as he raised his weapon.
The gun’s report echoed against her skull. Sulfur, acrid and foul, swarmed her senses. Biting her lip to keep from crying out, she squeezed her eyes shut and uttered another silent prayer.
She didn’t know if his bullet struck its target, but the shooting stopped. Emma opened her eyes and stared in shock. A heavy crimson wetness marked his sleeve.
“Good heavens, you’ve been shot!”
“Nothing to worry about,” he murmured, his voice gruff with pain he couldn’t disguise.
“You’re bleeding,” she persisted. “You’ve been hurt.”
“It’s not the first time.” His uninjured arm taut with restrained strength, he shielded her with the length of his torso even as his blood seeped onto her blouse.
“Please. Stop this madness. You’ve been injured.”
“Can’t stop now,” he gritted. “There’s no way to tell if the son of a bitch was alone.”
“Let me go. Release me, and I promise you’ll get away unharmed.”
“Not a chance.” Was it her imagination, or was there a touch of raw amusement in his hoarse voice? “You’re in no position to make any promises.”
“My father is one of the most powerful men in Washington. He’ll ensure—”
“I know who your father is.” His hold tensed around her. “I’ll bet the other guy did, too.”
“Who was he? Who was shooting at us?” She struggled to control her ragged breaths.
“I don’t know, but I’ve got a good idea who sent him.” Her captor ground out the words. “I’m not the only one who knows you’re worth a hell of a lot to your father.”
Chapter Three
“Who shot you this time?” Dunham leaned against the trunk of a tree, watching his mount water from the creek they’d selected as their rendezvous point. His partner sounded bored with the question, as if he knew the answer before he even asked it.
Cole held back the first words that came to mind. The language wasn’t fit for a lady, and whatever else she was, Emma Davenport was a lady. “A complication.”
Dunham twirled a blade of grass between his teeth. “You don’t say.”
Cole led his gelding to the watering hole. “You know as well as I do there’s more to come.”
“Yep.” Furrows dug into Dunham’s brow. “I spotted a couple of goons near the train station. They were watching for her.”
“You sure?”
“No doubt about it.”
“Christ, this means trouble.” Cole rubbed the back of his neck. He slid out of the saddle. His prisoner stared down at him, her features composed into a bland mask. Too bland. Did she think he’d leave her up there so she could gallop off on his mount? The woman really did believe he had the sense of a bag of oats.
“Let me help you down, Miss Davenport.” He swung her out of the saddle before she could protest.
He never would have believed a human being could hold herself so erect. She seemed stiff enough to crack in two at any moment.
“Take your hands off me,” she hissed as her toes dangled above the ground.
“As you wish.”
He released her, biting back a smile as she landed on her feet like a cat plopped from a tree. At least she hadn’t bared her claws. Yet.
His gaze settled on her traveling case. “What do you have in that bag?”
“Clothing. A few personal items.”
“Show me.”
Her eyes flashed ominously as she opened the bag. “Nothing of interest to a man like you. Except this.”
She leveled a derringer at his chest. “I am an excellent shot. Don’t make me prove it.”
“Your hand is shaking.” He advanced on her. “Not a good sign.”
“I am quite accomplished with a pistol.”
“Is that so?” He stared down at the snub-nosed barrel. Her nervousness worried him a hell of a lot more than any threat, but he wasn’t about to let it show. He had to get the gun away from her. And fast.
“Do you care for a demonstration?” The tiny tremor of her bottom lip contradicted her cool tones.
“Shooting a target is not the same as shooting a man.” He coiled his fingers around the barrel of the gun. “Have you ever put a bullet in anyone?”
“I’ve never had a reason until now.”
The glimmer of moisture in her eyes was like a slug in the gut. He hated placing a woman in this position. Even a woman who’d given her loyalty to a son of a bitch like Frederick Staton.
He told himself she was acting. But he knew he was wrong. Her distress was real. Problem was, Miss Davenport’s misery was irrelevant. He had a job to do, and he planned to do it. He also planned to avoid taking any more bullets in the process.
“Give me the gun, Miss Davenport. I can take it from you, or you can give it to me.”
Hesitation flickered in her eyes. Just the opening he needed. With one quick motion, Cole captured her hands, seizing the pistol. He removed the single bullet from its chamber and tucked the unloaded weapon in the back of his pants.
His gaze lingered over the set of her delicate jaw and the pert angle at which she held her chin. Angry tears shimmered in her eyes, giving the emerald irises an iridescent sheen. His blood marred the formerly pristine fabric of her blouse, the wind had torn her hair from its neat coil, and she pulled her mouth into a furious line.
But Emma Davenport was still a damn pretty woman.
His shoulder throbbed. Loss of blood had addled his brain. He forced himself to look away from her and motioned to Dunham. “Check her satchel and make sure she’s not carrying any other weapons.”
His partner took the bag from the spot where she’d dropped it.
“You can’t—you can’t mean to go through my unmentionables.”
The woman had aimed a gun at his heart, and she thought he’d give a damn about her lace-trimmed drawers.
Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies (Secrets & Spies) Page 2
