Another shake of her head. “No, it’s quite tragic, really. The hero is dark and brooding…such a tortured soul. His death—”
“The hero dies?”
She nodded. “As I said, it’s actually rather sad.”
“Dead, tortured hero—no wonder you like it.”
She lifted her chin and gave a haughty little sniff. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
Ah, there it was, that flash in her eyes. Did she have any idea how pretty she was when her eyes were as lush and green as a forest at dusk? “Tell me this—is he a barbarian, too?”
Her lips twitched as though she fought a smile. “Actually, he’s English.”
“Of course. Damn shame you couldn’t find a story about a barbarian.”
This time, the smile hitched the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps I’ll write one someday. I fear he will come to a bad end.”
“Isn’t that always the way with barbarians?”
“Those who are too stubborn to save themselves while they still can.”
“They’re probably too busy saving restless maidens from bad men.” Cole raked a hand through his hair. “And snakes.”
“Even a barbarian can be a hero from time to time. Especially when there are serpents in the vicinity.”
Her lips eased into a smile that suited her. Soft. Genuine. And tempting as hell.
He shifted the subject back to the novel in her hand. “So, you’ve read this story before…even though you know the ending?”
“Every time I read it, I discover a new aspect of the characters. Their love is star-crossed, but so very rich.”
Intelligence beamed in her luminous eyes, animating her features. She spoke of the story with passion and insight. And longing.
Her fingers curled around the locket at her neck. Her smile faded. “I’m going to lie down for a while. I’ve developed a headache.”
“The heat getting to you?”
She reached for her shoes and stockings and slipped them on her feet. Rising, she tucked the book against her like a shield. “Most likely.”
She made her way back to the cabin. Cole’s gaze tracked her steps. A curtain had fallen over Emma, shading her smile, blocking the spirit that had shown so vibrantly in her eyes. Something had triggered the shadow’s descent. Whatever it was, it didn’t have a damn thing to do with the weather.
Was she mooning over Staton? Had she convinced herself the yellow dog was the tortured hero in her own star-crossed romance? Or was she troubled by something much darker than an infatuation? In forging her bond with Staton, had Emma turned her back on her home, her father, and the Union?
Her accusers had mounted a strong case—Emma’s journey to join Staton in Missouri only added fuel to their arguments. She’d rummaged through her father’s desk the night she left. A careless mistake. She hadn’t bothered to lock the cabinet door. What had she hunted for in the middle of the night?
He’d search her satchel once she went to bed—if she fell asleep long enough for him to get a good look. God knows she’d been up and about so much the night before, he should have appointed her to stand watch. Out of the three of them, only his partner had managed to get some sleep. Dunham had happily snored the night away, while Cole might have passed for a dead man still stuck on duty.
Whatever Emma had in that bag, it was important to her. She held onto the thing like it contained something precious to her—or important to Staton. Did she realize Staton wasn’t the only one who was after her, that what she’d ferried out of Washington had made her a target?
Circumstances pointed to her involvement in Staton’s treacherous schemes. Staton typically pursued society widows whose open beds, political connections, and deep purses could be tapped for his purposes. Emma Davenport was a pretty girl. Beautiful, even. But with no money of her own, she had little to offer the opportunistic cur. Unless he’d seen Emma as his key to Union secrets—classified information he could sell to the highest bidder. Being the daughter of a powerful man like Jeremiah Davenport had its advantages. Who knew what confidences she’d been privy to…and how willing she was to pass them along to a man who’d snared her in a web of sweet lies?
One thing was sure—whoever the hell gave pursuit as they rode away from the train wasn’t interested in rescuing the senator’s daughter. The bastard didn’t give a damn if Emma was wounded or killed. Was he trying to stop her from getting to Staton, or was the son of a bitch more interested in getting his hands on what she’d taken from her father’s study?
This was supposed to be a simple mission, a grab and transport. Emma should be home, tucked away in Georgetown, far from danger and ruthless men. Cole wasn’t supposed to get to know her—her gentle touch when she’d tended his wound, the spark of humor in her eyes when she whipped out yet another moniker to describe the scoundrel he’d become, the way the woman’s cooking could drive a man to a diet of army rations. And he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to develop a hankering for her kiss or the way she’d felt in his arms.
He wasn’t supposed to give a damn about her guilt or innocence or anything in between. All he was supposed to do was get Emma back to Washington and the pretty cage her father would erect around her.
That was his job, and he’d get it done. He’d bring Emma back to Washington, traitor or not. He’d see her to her father’s fortress, and he’d keep her safe. Or he’d die trying.
* * *
Staring dully at the locket she clutched between her fingers, Emma huddled on the mattress. She’d received the necklace on a dreary morning some two weeks earlier, delivered by a rain-soaked courier while her father held court for some visiting dignitary at the Capitol. If their housekeeper had made it to the door first, the plainly wrapped package most likely would not have made it past the threshold, but Mrs. McGinty hadn’t noticed the visitor until Emma bustled past. The housekeeper’s raised eyebrows and pursed lips did not deter Emma.
“You’ve no need to take up Papa’s valuable time informing him of this delivery,” Emma said, softening her tone as she went on. “I’ve been expecting this package for some time.”
The concern in Mrs. McGinty’s eyes had not lessened, but she’d reluctantly agreed that Senator Davenport need not know about the package nor its source.
Frederick had pressed the locket between the pages of a volume of poetry. A note hidden in the book provided the instructions for her journey to St. Louis, while cash strategically spread throughout the pages provided the means for her travel.
The romantic gesture had thrilled her at the time, but now, a quiet misery filled Emma’s heart. The simple touch of the pendant against her skin should stir a deep-seated need, a longing for the man she planned to marry.
But she felt only emptiness.
Emma squeezed her eyes shut. A jumble of questions wreaked chaos in her heart. She knew so little about Frederick’s past. He’d never spoken of his parents or his family, and the name of the textile heiress he’d wed and lost within a year never crossed his lips.
The same could not be said of the Washington elite. Innuendo about Anna Staton’s tragic tumble down a flight of stairs swirled among society gossips with the force of a twister. Men disparaged him, while the same women who whispered tales of scandal and villainy behind Frederick’s back batted their lashes and flaunted their corset-enhanced assets in hopes of warming his bed.
On the night Emma first laid eyes on him, his sapphire gaze drank her in, intoxicating her with his interest. He’d taken her hand and led her to the dance floor. Tall, handsome, and ebony-haired, he’d had his choice of many beautiful women.
But he’d chosen her.
Her father’s outrage fanned the flames of their wildfire courtship. In the end, he’d left Emma no choice. She had to leave Washington if she were ever to be with the man she intended to wed.
She clasped the necklace more tightly. Why didn’t her heart call out for Frederick? Amber eyes flashed against her closed lids. Her nails dug into her palm, but it did no
good. Another man’s face taunted her heart.
Another man’s touch stirred longings deep in her soul.
Another man’s kiss had branded her.
Chapter Ten
“Ouch!” Emma gulped a breath, and then another. As she stared down at her finger, a crimson bead formed near the tip. She’d never imagined cooking could be so perilous.
Cole inclined his head to examine the damage she’d inflicted. “You know what this means. We’re going to need more of your petticoat.”
She bit her lip against the slight throbbing in her fingertip. “There’s no need to trouble yourself. Besides, there’s not much cloth to spare.”
Cole crouched beside her. “Your sacrifice is for a good cause.”
“Oh, very well, go ahead.” Digging her fingers into the folds of her skirt, she hiked up the fine wool to expose the frayed white fabric. What difference did it make? The petticoat wouldn’t even cover her knees once he was finished and her dignity would be utterly lost, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Opening his pocket knife, Cole shrugged. “Once you get back to Washington, you can buy yourself another one.”
With that, he took hold of the cloth and sliced off a thin strip of fabric, then another. He rose and took her hand. “Let me see your finger.”
Awareness shot through her at his gentle touch. The warmth of his skin against hers spread to her core.
If Cole had any idea of her reaction, he didn’t show it. Slowly shaking his head, he examined the cut. “It’s not too bad.” His quiet voice was gruff. “I’ll need to wrap it.”
“I’m going to have bandages on each hand.” She kept her eyes downcast. “I don’t know how I managed to cut myself again.”
“I’m sure it’s the potato’s fault.” His voice was quiet and relaxed but laced with humor. “You’ve never had to cook before, have you?”
She winced as he coiled the cloth around her fingertip.
His jaw clenched. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
She shook her head. “It’s fine. Really.”
He tied off the bandage. “You definitely need to stay away from knives.”
Releasing the wad of fabric clutched between her fingers, Emma straightened her skirts and then her spine. “I assure you I am fully capable of slicing potatoes without inflicting bodily harm upon myself.”
He leaned back on his heels. “You sure about that?”
Emma strolled to the door. She crossed her arms over her chest and fought back the amusement tugging at the purposefully bland set of her mouth. “I am quite confident.”
His broad shoulders lifted and fell. “If not, there’s still some fabric left in your petticoat.”
* * *
The sun crept toward the horizon as they sat down to supper. The aroma of fried trout wafted to Emma’s nostrils, shredding any pretense of a ladylike appetite. She speared a hearty bite and popped it in her mouth.
“Enjoying the meal?” Cole loaded his fork with perfectly cooked fish.
“It’s delicious.” Emma took another bite. Her gaze lit on a half-moon shaped mark above his wrist. Nearly as long as her palm, the scar was the only place on Cole’s forearm not shaded with crisp ginger-brown hair.
“Did you get that scar in the war?”
His forehead furrowed. “Which one?”
Emma rested her fork on her plate and reached out to touch the pale mark. As the pad of her finger made contact with his skin, the magnitude of her error hit her with dizzying force. The rough texture against her fingertips rippled pure, feminine awareness to her core.
She cleared her throat. “This one.”
“I’ve had that thing since I was a boy.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged. “It’s not a very interesting story.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“I was about eight at the time. We had a mouser in the barn. She birthed a litter that spring, but a fox got in and went after the kittens. I tried to save them.”
Emma rested her chin on her hands. “What did you do?”
“I grabbed a shovel and tried to run the fox off. I won the battle, but the critter didn’t go quietly. I did get there in time to save the cat and most of her young.”
An image of a dark-haired young boy grinned in her thoughts—a rascal with mischief-filled eyes who charged to the defense of helpless animals with rash, fearless confidence.
She blinked, as if that would banish the lad’s impish smile to some far corner of her mind. “That must have been painful.”
“Not too much.” He shrugged again. “My mother wasn’t happy about all the blood on my clothes.”
Emma lowered her gaze. She couldn’t allow herself to be charmed by his story. The courageous lad had grown into a desperado who’d stolen her from a train.
A warm gleam lit his eyes. “Ladies don’t usually play cards, do they, Miss Davenport?”
“I never have. My aunt would not allow it.”
“Would you like to learn to play poker?” He left the table long enough to fetch a small wooden box from the chest where the blanket had been stored. “I could teach you.”
Emma folded her hands and rested them primly in her lap. “I cannot imagine I would ever need such a skill.”
He flashed a grin every bit as devilish as the glint in his eyes. “You’ll be able to scandalize your aunt when you return to Washington.”
“You have a point,” she agreed. “You will keep in mind I’m just learning.”
* * *
Cole stared down at the pair of threes in his hand before he faced Emma’s faint smile. “What do you have?”
Her nose wrinkled a bit, and she narrowed her eyes in apparent bemusement. “Three cards with people and a couple of cards with numbers.”
“Let me take a look.”
She placed the cards before him. “Is this a good hand?” Her voice was bland. Purposefully so, if he’d judged her right.
“I suspect you already know it’s a full house.”
Was that amusement in her eyes? If money had been at stake, she would have won at least a prince’s ransom. Beginner’s luck? Right.
“You sure you’ve never played before?”
“Positive.”
“You’re a remarkably fast learner,” he muttered under his breath. Why did he feel like she was making a fool out of him?
“Papa hosts a game at home every week.” Her eyes sparkled with the triumph of knowing she’d duped him. “He hates losing to General Grant, but he usually does. Grant’s the best out of all of Papa’s cronies.”
Cole put his cards on the table. “You’ve watched Ulysses Grant play poker?”
“Of course. He’s been a guest on more than one occasion.”
Why did it surprise him that the senator’s daughter had learned the game by watching a cagy son of a bitch like Grant in action?
Cole flipped his cards over. “Well, Miss Davenport, I think you know a full house heartily beats a pair of threes.”
She fluttered her lashes at him, her smile both teasing and beguiling. “I believe I do know that.”
He dealt another hand. “You don’t need me to teach you, do you?”
Her teeth grazed her bottom lip. “Not really.”
He leaned back against the chair and stretched out his legs. “You continue to surprise me.”
Her brow furrowed. “I wonder why Aunt Elizabeth believes playing cards is unladylike,” she mused as she arranged her cards. “I don’t see anything in the least improper.”
She pursed her lips into a tempting bow. The sight of that plump mouth pressed into a pout unleashed a frisson of need down his spine. He slapped his cards down on the table.
“I fold,” he announced. “I have a lousy hand.”
“Coward,” she quipped. “You didn’t even try.”
If she had any idea of the effort it took to wrest his attention from her tempting mouth, she’d run screaming from the cabin. He kneaded his shoul
der. The wound throbbed. Damn shame the dull pain wasn’t enough to overrule his body’s reaction to Emma. If he didn’t get out of there soon, the hunger to kiss her—to touch every inch of her primly dressed body—would get the better of him.
“Miss Davenport, you have no idea how hard I’m trying,” he mumbled as he rose from the table and headed to the door. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to get some sleep. I suggest you do the same.”
* * *
Emma shifted restlessly on the thin mattress and pulled the blanket to her chin. The noises of the night closed in on her. A screech here, a howl there. She was trapped in a menagerie.
She tossed. Then she turned and squirmed and tossed again until her lids were no longer the slightest bit heavy. Little wonder she couldn’t sleep. Her dress had been designed for shopping and casual suppers, not repose. The fabric twisted awkwardly around her limbs, while the high neckline seemed a minor torture. Making one small concession to comfort, she unfastened her collar. Discarding her dress for the night and sleeping in her flimsy shift was too scandalous to consider. What would she do if a rescue party happened upon them in the middle of the night? She certainly couldn’t greet the men while in a state of undress.
She’d have to face the indignity of traipsing about in the chemise soon enough if she intended to bathe. Scrubbing her arms and throat with water from the pitcher and basin had been some help, but she needed to soak her body to wash away the dust and grime from this unfortunate detour. At least in the light of day, she’d be awake and aware in the event she needed to quickly don her clothing.
Emma rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Not that she could see anything. The cabin was enveloped in darkness. Not even an ember glowed in the fireplace.
Her captor’s abrupt departure left her strangely unsettled. For heaven’s sake, Cole had slapped down his cards as though he’d lost the family fortune before he marched out of the cabin. Of course, he’d been irked that she’d duped him. Men always underestimated women, didn’t they? He’d simply assumed she would be utterly hopeless. All she had to do was smile sweetly and let him believe she was incapable of grasping a dratted game.
But she hadn’t guessed he’d be so childish. He might be a scoundrel, but she’d expected him to lose with a great deal more grace than he’d displayed. He was such a confounding man. His eyes had brightened when she mentioned General Grant—he’d seemed impressed that she’d learned the game from a master strategist. Yet, moments later, he’d folded his cards and skulked away like a child who found a fly in his custard.
Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies (Secrets & Spies) Page 9
