His gaze swept over her from her freshly brushed hair to the hem of her dress. One dark brow quirked. “Proper?”
Emma gulped in a breath. “I haven’t put my shoes on yet.”
He nodded solemnly, though the corners of his mouth lifted. “We wouldn’t want a scandal, would we?”
“When I’m finished dressing, then…then you can find the mouse.”
Cole offered a solemn nod. “If there’s time after I finish raiding and pillaging the local villages.”
She cocked her chin, wishing desperately that she were a foot taller. She’d relish looking down her nose at him. “Very well, then. I imagine I will have to solicit Steven’s assistance.”
He leaned against the doorway, regarding her with unreadable eyes. “In that case, you’re going to have a wait a spell. Your champion isn’t here.”
A weight as large and heavy as a boulder landed in her stomach. “He’s gone?”
“Yep.”
Another massive rock tumbled into her stomach. She was alone with Cole. Why, she’d bet there wasn’t another soul for miles. They might as well have been marooned on some remote island.
Why did he have to be such a handsome man? His sweat-dampened shirt clung to the taut muscles of his torso. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled with unfamiliar awareness.
His smiling eyes betrayed his understanding. “You’re flushed, Miss Davenport. You might be too warm with your collar buttoned so tight.”
The arrogant slant of his mouth filled her with quiet fury. “My attire is none of your concern.” Nonetheless, her fingers moved to the lace at her throat.
“If you unfastened your collar, you’d be much more comfortable,” he suggested. “I give my word the sight of that single inch of flesh will not fill me with lust.”
Emma’s cheeks burned. She didn’t doubt she was red as a ripe summer berry. She swiveled on her heel, snatched up the thick novel she’d been reading the night before, and hurled it at him.
Cole deftly sidestepped the improvised missile. The man had the reflexes of a cat. Drat the luck. The heavy volume thudded to the floor. “Ah, the lady has a temper. What would your father say?”
“Knowing my father as I do, he’d only be disappointed that I failed to hit my target. No one has ever spoken to me in such a rude manner.”
A crooked grin lit his features. “What do you expect from a desperado?”
Chapter Six
Emma pulled a chair by the window, situated her skirts, and dove into Wuthering Heights with renewed zeal. She’d use this time and the rare quiet it afforded to immerse herself in a life so very different from hers, a fictional life far across the Atlantic on the English moors.
She’d taken in two more chapters when Cole’s sudden entrance tore her from the story. His hair was damp, and the faint aroma of lye soap drifted to her nostrils.
He’d bathed. The words rang in her mind like an accusation.
She flicked a gaze over his still-moist hair. “My, I didn’t realize it was raining.”
“It’s not. I washed at the creek.”
“You have soap?” A bath would be a luxury she hadn’t counted on in this lonely place.
He nodded. “If you’d like, I’ll take you down to the creek later on, when it warms up.”
“How am I to bathe with you around?”
“I’ll wait for you from a respectable distance. I can’t guarantee I’m the only man in these parts. Your chemise will provide some semblance of modesty if you’re interrupted.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
“Make sure you do.” His tone had taken on a rougher edge, and the arrogant gleam in his eyes had dulled. Emma’s gaze drifted from Cole’s drawn features to the shirt sleeve he’d rolled past his elbow, partly revealing a makeshift bandage. Bright crimson patches stood in marked contrast to the darkened areas where his blood had dried.
Against her better judgment, Emma left her perch and came to him. She studied the haphazardly tied strip of cloth. “That needs to be changed.”
He regarded her with a hint of wariness shading his eyes. “I stopped the bleeding.”
“The wound needs to be cleaned and rewrapped.” She reached out to touch his arm.
He winced. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Examining the bandage. You’re bleeding again.”
“There’s not much to be done about it. There’s no way to suture it here.”
He’d tried to mask his pain, but the set of his jaw betrayed him. He was hurting, and he was losing blood. She shouldn’t care that he was wounded. After all, it wasn’t as though he’d been injured rescuing a gaggle of orphans from a fire. He’d brazenly derailed her journey and been shot in the process. He lived by the sword—the gun, actually—and he’d most likely die by it.
The thought squeezed her heart. No matter what he’d done on the train, he’d shielded her with his body as the bullets whizzed by their heads. He’d protected her, and even now, he showed concern over her safety. Whoever this man really was, he wasn’t a depraved villain. A desperado, perhaps. But not a truly bad man.
Besides, it wouldn’t be to her advantage to have him weakened by blood loss. She tried to convince herself her concern had little to do with the man himself. Tending his wound would only be prudent.
She pulled in a breath and released it just as quickly. “I can rewrap the wound for you,” she said, allowing the words to tumble from her mouth before second thoughts held her back.
He shook his head. “Not a chance.”
Drat it all, she’d gotten her courage up. She wasn’t going to stand here and let this stubborn man grow weak. She wasn’t a fool. If whoever sent a bullet his way in the first place caught up with them, she’d need Cole’s skill with a gun. She knew how to handle a weapon, but she lacked the ruthless efficiency he’d put to use on the train. Her efforts were sensible, nothing more. They had nothing to do with his cocky grin or the heat in his eyes every time he looked at her.
She rested her hands on her hips. “Unbutton your shirt.” She could scarcely believe the command had tumbled from her own lips.
A hitch of his mouth brought a boyish charm to his face despite the pain in his eyes. “When I carried you off the train, did you hit your head?”
She fixed her features into her most stern glower. She’d used that same look on patients in the hospital on Seventh Street who refused to eat their supper. “I need to clean and rebind your wound.”
“Yesterday, you wanted to put a bullet in me. Why the sudden concern for my health?”
“If I’d intended to shoot you, I would have pulled the trigger. I wanted you to take me out of this place. Besides, I’m counting on you to defend me against any critters who turn up—especially the large and hungry ones.”
He watched her with incredulous eyes. “Do you know what you’re doing? I can rewrap it myself.”
Emma drew her brows together. Blood soaked the cloth at a rapid rate. Her gaze dropped to the crimson stains on her fingers. “Somehow, you’ve jarred the wound open. I’ve no doubt you can rewrap it, but I’ll be faster and more efficient. As for my credentials, my father allowed me to volunteer at the Armory Square Hospital. I’ve seen much worse than this.”
“An odd place for a senator’s pampered daughter.” His eyes followed her every move.
“I have never been pampered.” She struggled to find the right words. “I wanted to do my part. So many men were wounded. So many were dying. Now, please remove your shirt.”
“I understand,” he said, the humor ebbing from his tone as he unfastened the closures on the four-button placket. He pulled the garment over his head, then draped it on the back of a chair.
Her mouth went dry.
From his powerful shoulders to the flat planes of his abdomen, her captor was all lean muscle and bronzed skin. Copper-tinged brown hair dusted his broad chest, tapering to a line that disappeared beneath his trousers. A scar the size of a dollar coin marked the
flesh directly beneath his collarbone. A bullet wound, most likely. But he’d survived. He was a fighter.
Gingerly pressing her fingers to his skin, she examined the wound. He tensed beneath her touch. Invisible claws dug into her belly, piercing deeper as he sucked in a ragged breath.
Blood flowed from an uneven gash in his upper arm, staining his skin from shoulder to elbow. The bullet had not become embedded. The punishing claws eased their grip on her insides.
He seemed to read her expression. “I got lucky this time. I told you it was a flesh wound. I know what it feels like when a slug enters you.”
The image of a bullet tearing into his body startled her with sickening intensity. She pushed the thought far to the back of her mind and glanced around the cabin. “I need a knife.”
A glint of humor returned to Cole’s eyes. “Going to finish the job?”
“I need to fashion a bandage. The cloth you used on your arm isn’t at all suitable.”
“I’d planned to gag you with that rag if you started to scream.” His brows lifted. “Still intend to act as my nurse?”
The revelation doused any sympathy. Still, she couldn’t have his strength depleted. If a bear happened by, she might need Cole to defend her, at least until she could retrieve her gun.
“Unfortunately, that changes nothing.” She extended her hand, palm up. “A knife, please. Surely you have one on your person.”
“What self-respecting desperado would be caught without one?” He pulled a folding knife from his pocket.
Flashing a scowl, she took the knife in hand and got to work. Wasting no time on modesty, she hiked her outer skirt to expose her corded petticoat.
His hooded eyes watched with masculine interest. “This almost makes it worth getting shot.”
Ignoring him, she sliced the bottom of her petticoat into strips, then poured water into a basin and saturated a few pieces of fabric. “The wound needs to be cleaned. Where is your soap?”
He nodded toward a canvas bag he’d dropped at the entrance of the cabin. She rummaged in the bag until she found a cake of lye soap, then cleaned and dried the gash.
Emma tore another strip from her petticoat. “Extend your arm.” she said. With any luck, he wouldn’t notice her hands’ slight trembling.
He complied with her instruction, stretching his arm out and holding it steady while she wrapped the wound.
His skin was slightly rough beneath her fingertips while the densely packed muscle was warm and taut with restrained power. She’d never looked at a man before, not like this, and now she stood so close, touching him as her pulse thundered in her ears. Her behavior was scandalous, but she had no choice. His wound had to be tended, and necessity dictated she sacrifice at least a bit of her modesty.
“Finished.”
Strangely quiet, he pulled on his shirt. Had her unladylike behavior taken him aback? Her aunt was right. Even a desperado would find her actions shocking.
But when he looked at her, he regarded her with a look of respect. For the briefest of moments, it was easy to forget he was a man she should fear.
“You’re a surprising woman. I hadn’t expected such…resourcefulness.”
Steadying her hands, Emma smoothed her skirt back into place. Now that she’d finished the task, the intimacy of their contact flooded over her. His skin felt so warm, and he smelled clean and healthy and…male. Her thoughts wandered to the crisp dark curls on his chest. Would the texture match the slight coarseness of the hair sprinkled over his forearms?
He took her hand, silently examining her fingers. “It’s my turn,” he said after a long moment.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re bleeding. You must have cut yourself when you attacked your petticoat.”
Emma blinked. Crimson surrounded the tip of her index finger. She hadn’t even felt the knife slice into her.
He released her and went to the wash basin. After replacing its contents with fresh water from the pitcher, he moistened a few strips of fabric she’d cut from her petticoat and came back to where she stood.
His forehead furrowed as he cupped his hand around hers. Awareness of his touch rippled through her. No trace of brutality there. Only gentleness. She had no words to describe it. If he had been any other man, she would have thought his actions tender, but the notion was ridiculous. The man was her captor, not her lover.
She jerked away. He frowned. Did he think he’d hurt her? But then, he took her hand again. Brushing his thumb over her palm in a circular motion, he moved slowly, deliberately.
“Relax, Miss Davenport. Let me take care of you.”
Her tension easing, Emma’s fingers unfurled. He used the wet cloth to dab the blood from her fingertip. His eyes narrowed. “Hold still. Your hand is so small compared to mine.”
Using a dry strip of cloth, he formed a bandage around her injury. When he met her gaze, his eyes had lost all trace of the mocking humor he’d displayed as she bound his wound.
She looked away. The man was a scoundrel. She could not allow his kindness to deceive her. Perhaps she might employ this moment to appeal to whatever sense of decency he possessed—perhaps she could find a way to convince him to end this folly and set her back on her journey.
Once again, he seemed to read her thoughts. Unnerving, how he saw right through her.
“I will not send you into a viper’s den, no matter how prettily you ask.” A slow smile lit his features. “You might as well get used to this cabin. It’s going to be your home for a while.”
Chapter Seven
Emma forced her lips into a placid seam. Cole enjoyed provoking her. Of that, she had no doubt. But this time, she would not allow him that pleasure.
“I have no intention of making any such request, especially not from a scoundrel like you.”
“Scoundrel?” He cocked a brow. “What happened to desperado? Or barbarian? Let’s stick with that. Better yet, have you considered hun? I’ve always admired good ol’ Attila.”
“You…you are impossible.”
“Yep, and stubborn as hell, too. Even if I wasn’t, I’ll be damned before I’d take you to that crooked dog.”
“I suppose I have no cause to be shocked by your roughhewn language. I’m already well aware you are no gentleman. My fiancé—”
“The man you plan to marry is a ruthless bastard who would bribe or kill anyone who got in his way.”
“He is a businessman.”
“He is a traitor.”
“And you are an outlaw, a brazen criminal who preys on defenseless women.”
“Defenseless? You have an arsenal of weapons at the ready. All you’ve ever had to do is bat those green eyes at a man and he’d trip over his own feet trying to please you. Don’t even get me started on how skillfully you wield your tears.”
“You accuse me of using feminine wiles to sway men to do my bidding. Ah, that’s rich! Perhaps you should have a talk with my Aunt Elizabeth. The old witch thinks I’m an utter failure. After a discussion with you, the dear old girl might leave me to live my life in peace.”
Had she really said that? Had she really spoken in such nakedly honest terms? The crinkles around his eyes and the way his brows quirked made it all too apparent she’d given voice to her sentiments. Peculiar, how good it felt to leave this man at a loss for words.
And then, his mocking smile dissolved. He plowed a hand through his hair. “With those eyes, you shouldn’t have to try too hard to wrap a man around that pretty little finger of yours.”
“What does it matter? I doubt any amount of fluttered lashes or artfully shed tears would move you to take me away from this place.”
His mouth hitched at one corner. “Not a chance.”
“Have you considered how badly this scheme may end for you?” She softened her tone. “When my father gets word of what you’ve done, he’ll see you hanged.”
He rocked back on his heels. “Actually, he’ll probably have me shot. It’s quicker and easier. More eff
icient.”
Such an exasperating man. But the hint of arrogance in his rogue’s smile made her pulse race, and she knew her reaction had nothing to do with fear.
She dropped her gaze to the weapon holstered at his side, as if she could guard herself against the spark of humor in his eyes. She swallowed hard and composed her thoughts to form a rational argument. “If you’re not concerned about yourself, think about your partner.”
“He knows the risks. He was fighting with Grant at Shiloh while you were safely tucked away in your father’s study.”
The edge to his words disarmed her. Suddenly, she felt far less bold. “You were a soldier—you’ve fallen from the honor of serving your country to…this? Are you a deserter?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Why?” Emma demanded. “Why have you done this?”
“You’ll understand in time. For now, you need to hope my plans aren’t more sinister than I’ve led you to believe.”
Did he think to frighten her? She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin. “Perhaps I should swoon fearfully whenever you come near.”
“Miss Davenport, that would be an excellent start.”
* * *
The sun had risen high in the sky when Emma settled on the porch to revisit her novel. As she immersed herself in the pages, confounding images invaded the story. The hero had suddenly developed a hint of cinnamon in his brown hair, and his English inflections had been replaced with a husky, distinctly American rasp. It seemed her captor had somehow wormed his way into the story, courtesy of her own traitorous imagination.
Most infuriating, indeed.
Feeling someone’s—or something’s—gaze upon her, her attention flittered from the page. She met large, peaceful brown eyes that watched her with surprising calm. The doe regarded Emma with a curious stare before dashing through a cluster of trees surrounding the cabin. A dull blade twisted in Emma’s chest. How wonderful it must be to be so free.
She hadn’t felt free in a very long time.
Follow your heart, darling. Even now, Emma could hear her mother’s gentle voice, the words scarcely louder than a murmur. Her mother had been so young, so beautiful—far too young and beautiful to die. At least, that was what Emma told herself. She’d spent hours at her bedside, certain her mother would recover. After all, Mama had been vibrant and full of joy, eagerly anticipating the baby who would brighten all their lives. A son, perhaps—to carry on her father’s legacy, as Papa always put it.
Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies (Secrets & Spies) Page 6
