Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies (Secrets & Spies)

by Kingston, Tara

  A sudden howl unleashed a chill over her skin. She rubbed her arms. How could she be expected to sleep in a place that boasted more wildlife than the Central Park Zoo?

  Pounding the pitiful excuse for a pillow she’d fashioned from a threadbare quilt, she slung her legs to the edge of the bed, pulled on her shoes, and came to her feet. Perhaps it would do her good to stretch her legs. At the very least, she could stare up at the stars rather than this barren, dark ceiling.

  She stepped on the porch, cringing as a board squeaked beneath her feet. Every move she made announced her presence.

  Cole swiveled his neck and looked at her. He sat on the single step, legs stretched long and crossed at the ankles. So, he hadn’t gone to sleep after all.

  “Going somewhere, Miss Davenport? Don’t forget your bag.”

  “We both know I wouldn’t be foolish enough to take off through this dreadful woods at night.” A howl in the distance peppered her skin with gooseflesh. “There are some things in this forest even more unpleasant than you.”

  “You wound me.” He rested his elbows on bended knees. “What brings you out of your castle tonight? Did the fair maiden spot another vile, four-legged intruder?”

  “The only vile thing I’ve spotted so far is sitting on the porch.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, regarding her with a bored look. “Is something wrong? Do I need to tuck you in?”

  “My, aren’t you the cantankerous one? I’m sure you’ve lost your fair share of games.”

  “But never to a girl as pretty as you,” he said, his voice slick as a snake-oil salesman.

  “I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”

  “You can sit down. I’m not going to bite you.”

  Somehow, she wrestled her cumbersome skirt into compliance, draping the fabric with some semblance of grace around her folded legs as she settled down next to him. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

  “I’ll doze a bit, but I don’t feel much like sleeping.”

  Another howl echoed in the distance. Fresh shivers prickled her skin. “With all this noise, I can see how that would be the case.”

  “Animals don’t bother me.” He stared up at the sky. “You ever see anything like this?”

  “I do believe I’ve seen the sky before.”

  He shook his head. “There’s not a light around for miles. I can make out constellations I’d never be able to see in the city.”

  Emma followed his gaze, settling on a grouping that reminded her of a crab. She’d never observed so much detail in the patterns before, never noticed how brightly the stars twinkled and danced.

  “So, where is your home?” she asked. He knew so much about her. It seemed quite unfair that she knew nothing of him.

  “These days, nowhere.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Surely you must have a place you consider home.”

  “I grew up in Maryland.”

  “In the city?”

  “I was born in Baltimore, but I haven’t lived there since I was a kid.” He turned to her. “You miss the city, don’t you?”

  “If I missed Washington, I wouldn’t have left. So much of my time was spent trying to impress people I either didn’t know or didn’t like. Papa’s cronies. Matrons my aunt believed I needed to convince of my worthiness. I wasn’t much of a success.”

  “Used the wrong fork, did you?”

  “As I recall, I mastered that particular form of etiquette by the age of six. My downfall has always been my mouth. It seems I don’t suffer fools with much grace.”

  “Somehow, I have no trouble believing that, Miss Davenport.” Was that a twinkle in his eye?

  “I do miss Mrs. McGinty and her daughter. Without my interference, as my aunt deemed it, I worry that the child will suffer the effects of the old biddy’s viper tongue. Caroline’s a darling child. I’ve been teaching her to play the piano. Poor thing, she must wonder why I’ve left her.”

  “How old is the girl?”

  “Six. She’s so bright and inquisitive. Her father died at Gettysburg.”

  “That’s a damn shame. Does she know?”

  “She knows her papa is never coming home. They live with us now. I’ve always counted Caroline and her mother as blessings.” She let out a breath. “There is one other thing I regret leaving behind.”

  He crooked a brow. “Supporting the local dressmakers?”

  Despite his flippant tone, the interest in his eyes propelled a nervous shiver along her spine.

  “I will no longer be able to devote my time to the hospital. I was not allowed to care for the patients’ injuries. My father would have suffered an apoplexy if I’d so much as touched a patient during my visits. I was able to assist those who provided care to the wounded. Wrapping bandages. Assisting doctors when they were shorthanded, which was so often the case. But mostly, I provided companionship to those who needed someone to brighten their day.”

  “You never dressed a patient’s wound?”

  “Oh, heavens no. As I said—”

  He slanted his bandaged arm a glance. “Well, you knew what you were doing.” The words seemed high praise from his lips.

  “You can learn to bandage a wound as readily as when to fold one’s cards, if you pay attention.”

  He chuckled. “Twisting the knife?”

  She smoothed her skirts. “Simply stating a fact.”

  “So, what kinds of things did you do to brighten patients’ lives?”

  “Little things, really. Seeing to their comfort. Helping them pass the time. If they were able, I’d play checkers or chess. Other times, I’d read to them.”

  “From that book you’ve left dog-eared?”

  “Goodness, no. The last thing those men needed to hear was a tragic love story. I’d find dime novels—adventures and such. Most of the time, I’d simply talk with them.”

  “You ever play cards with them?”

  “No. Papa would have—”

  “Suffered an apoplexy,” he supplied. “The man seems to do that a lot.”

  “Papa has high standards. He is rather exacting in his expectations for my conduct.”

  “And yet, you wound up here.”

  She wove her fingers into a knot. “With a desperado.”

  “Not what you planned, huh?”

  She came to her feet and stepped away from the porch, far enough to put distance between them, yet close enough to rely on his assistance should some howling creature make its appearance. “You’re an impossible man.”

  He came to his feet and closed the gap between them. “I suggest you get back in the cabin and get some sleep. I’m going to take a look around the perimeter. You don’t want to be out here by yourself…you never know what might slither by.”

  Her nails dug into her palms as her hands clenched. “You think you’ve derailed my plans, but you’re wrong. I don’t know why you want to stop me from reaching St. Louis…from reuniting with my fiancé, but I assure you this is nothing more than a detour.”

  For a moment, a beat of her heart, Emma thought he’d reach for her, but he kept his hands at his sides as he slowly shook his head. “Keep telling yourself that, Miss Davenport. Who knows, you might even convince yourself.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Cole spotted Emma’s book on the porch, lying open beside the chair she’d occupied the night before. Damn shame he hadn’t noticed it while she slept, but given what a light sleeper Miss Davenport had turned out to be, he didn’t doubt she would have caught him searching it.

  He scooped it up and opened the leather-bound volume. Wuthering Heights. In the back of his mind, he recalled his little sister swooning over the novel a few years back, before the war, when she was still a wistful girl. The thick book would provide a clever means of storing documents or other secrets Emma intended to ferry to Staton.

  Thumbing through the pages, he searched for a letter, a map, a journal entry—any scrap Emma might have ferried to the man who awaited her in St. Louis. Nothing. Not so
much as a sliver of paper. Taking another approach, he skimmed the tome for notations she might have recorded in the margins or between the lines of the story. Still nothing.

  “Find anything of interest?” Emma spoke from the open doorway. She’d finally finished dressing—damn shame she couldn’t have taken more time at the task. Not that there was anything wrong with her appearance. She was pretty, too pretty for his own good. But he needed more time with the novel.

  “Yeah, it’s a helluva story,” he said, making no effort to cover the blatant lie in his tone. “I can see why you don’t want to put this down.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she gave her head a disgusted little shake. But her lips curved into a prim imitation of a smile. “I’ll have my book now.”

  “Try not to lose my place,” he said with as straight a face as he could muster.

  She took the book from him and turned to the first page of text. “I suppose this would be about right.”

  He shrugged. “I’m a busy man, Miss Davenport.”

  “Of course.” Her attention shot to the clearing behind him, past the mounting pile of firewood he’d split and stacked to stave away the boredom of bodyguard duty in this remote patch of forest.

  She strolled past him, pale green cotton flaring from her slender waist, her hips swaying with a natural ease. She’d pinned up her hair, the dark tresses coiled into a bun she’d probably intended to be prim and proper. The effect was anything but—the simple style displayed the slender column of her neck, baring yet another expanse of creamy flesh. As if drawn by magnetic force, his gaze fixed on the tiny pulse point at the base of her throat.

  “It’s rather warm today, and I desperately need to bathe,” she said. “I’ll venture down to the creek in a bit.”

  Was this her idea of vengeance? First the god-awful potato concoction, and now, this. She really did want to torture him, didn’t she?

  She looked tempting enough as it was, with her dress buttoned up to her prim collar. Once again, he visualized a wart—this time, the size of his thumbnail and as bristled as a porcupine—a hair’s breadth from her plump mouth. Considering he still couldn’t take his eyes off her lips, the tactic was a complete failure.

  Was it his imagination, or did she actually bat her lashes at him? Damn, he couldn’t be sure if the soft flutter was deliberately timed or simply a coincidence.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” he stalled.

  “I see no reason to endure this dust and grime on my skin a moment longer,” she said. “I’m confident I can manage a dip in the stream without being attacked.”

  He swallowed hard against the image her words conjured. If she noticed the way his throat constricted, she didn’t show it. Maybe he could persuade her to delay bathing another day or two—better yet, a week, when she was back in Washington, far away from him.

  “The water’s still too cold.”

  Emma pursed her lips. “It’s actually rather stifling today.”

  Stalling didn’t work. He’d have to be direct. After all, he was in charge here. She wasn’t at home with a ladies’ maid. He couldn’t take a chance she’d wind up half-naked and need him to come bolting to her rescue again.

  “You’ll need to wait. I can’t watch out for you and secure our position at the same time.”

  “Actually, I’d prefer my privacy.” Fanning herself with one hand for effect, she swept an errant curl from her cheek. “It would be cruel of you to prevent me from freshening up.”

  Cruel? His briefing on Emma Davenport had failed to mention her flair for the dramatic. “Do you really intend to trust your modesty to a barbarian?”

  “As dirty and unkempt as I am at this moment, I do believe I’d concede the care of my modesty to Satan himself.”

  “I’m sure he outranks a mere barbarian.”

  Her skirts swished around her ankles as she turned toward the creek. “I am going to freshen up. I don’t need an escort.”

  “Do you think that rattler was the only snake in these woods?”

  She dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “I doubt I will encounter another one of those awful creatures.”

  Lord, she was headstrong. She certainly didn’t employ feminine wiles on him. To the contrary, she squared her shoulders and planted her hands on her rounded hips, as if daring him to interfere.

  What would be the harm in letting Emma have her way? As cold as the creek was, she’d be out of the water before she got her knees wet.

  “You’ll need a blanket to wrap up in after you finish.”

  Her raised brows betrayed her surprise. “You’re staying here?”

  “I can still keep an eye on you. Make sure to wear your shift. There could be other men in these parts.”

  “They might be coming to rescue me,” she said with a curt lift of her chin.

  “If that’s the case, I think you’d prefer to greet them with your clothes on. You don’t really want them to think I stripped you bare.” He deliberately crooked his brows. “Or do you?”

  Her mouth formed a shocked bow. “Of course not.”

  “Have you reconsidered your bath?”

  “Absolutely not. As soon as I get a blanket, I’ll be on my way.”

  He motioned toward the cabin. “I don’t have a linen chest. You’ll have to make do with the one on your bed.”

  Leaning back on his heels, he chuckled as she brushed past him to retrieve the blanket, her skirts swishing with each purposeful step.

  “Enjoy your privacy, Miss Davenport. I’ll be here if you need me.”

  * * *

  Emma unbuttoned her dress and slid the garment over her shoulders. It pooled at her feet. Her corset and pantaloons followed. Scooping up the garments, she draped them over a low-hanging branch, peeled off her shoes and stockings, and tiptoed through the grass to the creek.

  The thin chemise provided some comfort for her modesty, but she glanced around for some sign of Cole. Confident he’d left her in peace, she knelt at the bank of the creek and bathed her face and throat in cool water.

  Her hair hung to her waist in damp tendrils. She splashed water over her chest and arms, cleansing her skin of the dirt and dust from their journey. Her shift clung to her breasts, the wet cotton nearly transparent against her skin. Her arms rose instinctively to cover herself as her thoughts drifted to Cole.

  She wanted to hate him. She should despise the man. The way he’d dared to kiss her was reason enough. She shivered at the memory of his mouth against hers. The merest brush of his lips had sent her reeling. His voice had been husky and raw, filled with a masculine need he couldn’t mask.

  She should have recoiled. But she was drawn to it.

  Drawn to him.

  He was dangerous. He could destroy her dreams of a future. He could be her ruination.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to hate him. Even when he carried her off the train, he’d taken care not to hurt her. Her eyes fixed on the carefully applied bandage on her fingertip. His touch had been so comforting, so soothing. So very gentle.

  He had no right to spark the need he’d kindled deep within her. No right to touch her. No right to stir longings she’d never felt with such intensity.

  Draping the blanket around her shoulders, she paced along the bank. She crouched to pick up a stone from the creek bed, then skimmed it across the water.

  “Are you finished bathing?”

  Cole’s question shattered her momentary solitude. She clutched the blanket to her neck and whirled to face him. “I thought I would have privacy.”

  He held a fishing rod and met her glare with a bland expression. “I saw the blanket. I thought you were finished.”

  Emma felt the color drain from her face. Her fingers clenched around the scratchy wool. The man was a hun. He had no respect for her decency.

  “You were watching?”

  “From a respectable distance.”

  “And what precisely is a respectable distance?”

  “Far enough away
that I didn’t see anything scandalous. Damn shame, really.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me—”

  “Of course I would.” His mouth tipped in a crooked grin, and his eyes gleamed with amusement. “But I’m not.”

  She drew the blanket tighter around her. “I suppose that is some comfort.”

  “Does that skimpy thing you’re wearing provide any warmth?”

  “Skimpy thing? What are you—”

  His grin broadened. “All that lace in the right places becomes you.”

  “Oooh!” The exasperated sound popped from her lips before she could hold it back. He had spied on her. Heaven knows what his eyes had actually taken in before letting her know he was there. “You were lying.”

  His head moved side to side in a slow shake. “A woman in a shift is scandalous?”

  “Good heavens, I may as well have been naked.”

  Again, he shook his head. “That would have been a lot more entertaining. I doubt I would have had a hankering to fish if you’d taken all your clothes off.”

  “You’re a horrid man.” She spoke the words slowly and precisely.

  “Yep, you’ll get no argument from me on that. But you didn’t answer my question—does that flimsy slip of cloth give you any warmth?”

  How could a man so obviously familiar with the opposite sex have so little understanding of a woman’s garments? Emma pulled in a calming breath and made an effort to be patient. “A woman does not wear a chemise for warmth,” she explained.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  His knowing look penetrated her scratchy wool armor. Emma’s throat tightened, and she tugged the blanket closer to her chin.

  He eyed the corset she’d dangled over a tree branch. “Why do you torture yourself in a contraption like this? With that waist of yours, you don’t need it.”