“I am not missing any of my garments, thank you.” She pulled in a breath and released it. “You know full well what I’m talking about.”
“Can’t say as I do. Would you care to explain?”
“I need you to return my book.”
He craned his neck to look past her. “It’s next to the chair. I can see it—”
“Not that one. My poetry—the volume you took from my bag.”
“Oh, that book. Seems it slipped my mind.”
She thrust out her hand, palm up. “It has no value to you, but it has meaning to me.”
“Actually, I suspect those poems, altered as they are, will have meaning to quite a few people besides yourself.” He took her hand and folded her fingers against her palm. “You’re not the only one who appreciates poetry that’s missing verses. Less to read when it’s all said and done.”
She stared down at the fist he’d made of her fingers, willing herself to resist the urge to embed her balled-up hand in his belly.
“I had taken you for many things, but a thief was not one of them.”
His smile faded from his mouth, but not his eyes. “I’m a desperado, a barbarian, a hun—a man who raids and pillages and kidnaps pretty girls from trains. But you think I’m above taking your book?”
“That volume means a great deal to me.”
He shrugged. “It’s not here. I couldn’t give it back to you even if I wanted to. My partner has it.”
“Well, then, that settles it. I hope it gives you great satisfaction to know you’ve plundered an item with no value to anyone but me.”
“Miss Davenport, getting that book out of your hands gives me more satisfaction than you could guess.”
Heat flooded her cheeks as tears—angry tears—pricked the backs of her eyes. Oooh, how she hated her tendency to well up when frustration got the better of her.
To the devil with him! She’d walk through a valley of rattlers with their tails shimmying and fangs bared before she’d let him see so much as a single drop. She whipped around and slowly walked away.
Her pace accelerated as she neared the cabin. She stomped inside and grabbed her traveling bag. She’d be rid of this man soon enough.
Hauling the satchel outside, she stepped off the porch. As if drawn by instinct, her gaze honed in on Cole. Why did this man have the power to exasperate her so?
He stood at the bank of the creek, readying his mount for the journey ahead. Sunlight danced against the coppery tones laced through his dark hair. The lustrous rays dappled through the trees, glancing over his broad shoulders and lean torso. Her gaze wandered to his face, and she lingered over dark bristles that emphasized the strong cut of his jaw.
For this moment at least, he was relaxed and at ease. And handsome—so handsome, she wanted to scold herself for drinking him in so shamelessly.
The need to simply watch him stunned her with its intensity. It seemed a hunger. All too real and all too powerful to deny, an intense yearning at the center of her being.
He smoothed the saddle blanket over the gelding’s broad back. With sure, soothing motions, he swept a gentle hand over the deep blue wool, from withers to rump, working out the wrinkles that would have plagued the horse as surely as burrs digging into its flesh. So firm yet tender, those large, tanned hands.
Sleek muscle rippled against the sturdy cotton of his shirt, testimony to the restrained strength in his powerful shoulders and lean, sinewed arms. And then, he raised his gaze to lock with hers for the most fleeting of moments. A heartbeat, no longer. A flash of desire tightly leashed, tempered with an inner tenderness that made her knees weak.
Her mouth went dry. Longing spread through her core. Cole’s touch seemed imprinted on her flesh, the texture and heat of his skin against hers. She craved his warmth and the look of masculine appreciation in his eyes when his hands spanned her waist, his gravel-edged rasp as he debated her need for a corset.
You’re perfect.
The words were all the more intoxicating for their sincerity. This was not a man who bestowed charming compliments. This was not a man who set out to seduce a woman.
And yet, she’d no doubt he’d succeed with that husky voice of his and the intensity in his amber-eyed gaze.
Such foolish thoughts. She was promised to another man. Her reaction to her captor was the elemental response of the female of the species to a male. Nothing more.
But she’d never experienced the heady sensation of being swept away by a single kiss—until Cole branded her with his caress.
Nonsense, all these thoughts of kisses and caresses and husky voices. She’d been abducted, not swept away into a blasted fairy tale. Cole wasn’t a man she could trust.
Especially not with her heart.
Her hand went to her locket. A woman in love would treasure such a keepsake. But the feel of the engraved gold against her fingertips left her hollow inside.
Another squeezing grip on her heart. Tighter still. The truth cut through her, as sharp and agonizing as a dagger’s blade.
She didn’t love Frederick. Perhaps she never had. She’d allowed herself to be swept away by the tall, dark, and handsome prince of her girlish dreams. He’d been a means to escape an existence that threatened to choke the life out of her.
The realization tumbled like a boulder into the pit of her stomach. My, she’d made a terrible mess of things, hadn’t she?
Amid the clamor of her thoughts, a whisper of warning sounded in her brain. She stilled. Alert. Searching. The melodies of the forest quieted the inner alarm. The chirping of birds. The humming of insects. A breeze rustling through the trees.
And yet, the fine hairs at her nape stood on end. She wandered to the side of the cabin, toward a crunching of leaves. A fox, perhaps. Or a squirrel or some other small creature.
Nothing there. Nothing to worry about, at least. She pulled air into her lungs, dismissing her apprehension. Her nerves were frayed. Who wouldn’t be in a dither after what she’d gone through these last few days?
An explosion shredded the quiet.
Then another.
Gunshots.
Coming fast. So fast, another sounded by the time she’d whirled around, searching for Cole.
Rough hands seized her, clamping over her mouth. Hard, stifling her scream to little more than a murmur. Powerful arms dragged her back with punishing force. She lashed out with every ounce of strength she possessed.
Harsh laughter met her frantic struggles.
“The gent said ye’d fight, but ’e didn’t say ’ow much I’d enjoy it.”
Chapter Fourteen
“No wonder ’e wants ye. I like a woman with some fight in ’er.”
Tinged with a raw, guttural incarnation of the inflections she’d heard among British diplomats in Washington, the man’s vile words unleashed an instinctive fear. Emma battled it back. She had to stay calm. If she gave in to her terror, she’d have no chance to escape.
More gunshots. Quick, like a racing heartbeat. Emma squirmed to escape his grasp, but he only tightened his hold.
“Bloody hell, the bloke’s a tough ’un. Bugger,” he muttered, craning his neck toward the sounds. His vise-like control eased. Just enough.
She bit down, sinking her teeth into his hand. A howl of pain filled her ears as the copper tang of blood sickened her. No choice. She clamped harder against the filthy flesh.
He tore away. Broad-faced and beak-nosed, he eyed her beneath lank strands of greasy black hair. He dragged his hand against his dark shirt, smearing a revolting stain against the fabric. His lips twitched as he studied her with a predator’s malice.
Without warning, he slapped her. Pain radiated from the crown of her head to her knees, and she swayed like a sapling in a gale. His uninjured hand coiled around her throat, holding her erect. Eyes as dark and unfeeling as a raven’s stared into hers.
“Ye try anythin’ like that again, ye little witch, and I’ll snap yer neck. It don’t make no difference to me.”
Gasping for breath, she twisted in his arms. A little more, and she could reach his face. Another inch.
Now.
She raked her nails over his pockmarked skin.
“Bloody ’ell!” He seized her wrists and wrenched her arms behind her back. His foul breath sickened her as his mouth grazed the curve of her face. “I’m goin’ to ’ave me a taste of what ye’ve given ’im. One more sound and I’ll wring yer pretty neck right here and now. Not that it matters. The gent who ’ad ye to ’imself ain’t comin’ after ye this time.”
His words struck with the vicious strength of the palm he’d cracked across her cheek. The blood rushed from her head, and she locked her knees to steady herself against their sudden weakness. The gunshots had stopped, leaving behind a harsh, chilling silence.
Oh, dear God.
Cole could be wounded. Dying. The life drained from his eyes. An image of a prone body flashed in her thoughts, fleeting as a lightning bolt. A crimson stain spreading over his chest, over his heart. Forever silenced. Forever stilled.
Bile rose to her throat. She had to get to him. He needed her help.
As if she could help anyone at that moment. But still, an urgent need to go to him spurred her on. She twisted wildly to free herself, slamming her heel into the hawk-faced man’s shin. He grunted in pain. She jerked harder against his arms and his hold weakened. Another shove, and she wrenched free.
The intruder’s eyes gleamed with murderous hatred. “I’ll kill ye, ye little--”
He lunged, catching her, dragging her back to him. Face to face, she forced herself to meet his contemptuous leer. His putrid smell washed over her. One of his hands moved lower, cupping her bottom, pressing her to the protrusion in his trousers. Excitement gleamed in his eyes.
She pulled away, putting distance between her body and the jutting rod tenting his pants. Her uncle had once taken her aside—far from Aunt Elizabeth’s easily scandalized eyes and ears—and imparted a certain technique he promised would provide absolute protection against lust-filled suitors. She’d laughed at his improbable concerns, but soaked up the simplicity of the maneuver.
Thank heavens for Uncle Henry.
With all the force she could muster, she drove her knee into the soft sac between his legs.
An agonized howl tore from his throat. He crumpled, but his arms jerked out, coiling around Emma’s knees like two twining serpents.
She pummeled his back, but he only tightened his grip, his breaths ragged and uneven. He clung to her, cursing her through his pain.
“I’ll gut ye, ye bloody harlot.” He slid a knife—long and curved, honed to a lethal edge—from his boot.
“Let her go.” Cole’s voice rang out in the clearing. Still strong. Still very much alive.
“Ye can’t kill me without shooting the doxy, can ye now?” The words grated between the hawk-faced man’s slash of a mouth.
“You’re not too bright, are you?” Cole’s words were quiet. Calm. And edged with steel.
She saw him then. He didn’t spare her a glance as he closed the distance between them and leveled his six-shooter at the Englishman’s forehead.
“I will pull this trigger. You know that, don’t you? That’s why you’re shaking like the yellow dog you are.” Cole’s voice brimmed with violence unspent. “Put the goddamn knife on the ground.”
The blade tumbled into the dirt.
“Release her.”
“Or ye’ll shoot me? Ye won’t be doing that, will ye now? Ye wouldn’t want the pretty whore to see wot it looks like when ye blow a man’s skull t’kingdom come.”
“Don’t kid yourself.”
Cole’s gaze drifted to her bodice. She hadn’t realized the cockney bastard had torn her dress, but there it was, a jagged fissure from the collar to the tiny buttons near her waist.
He met her eyes. “You all right?”
She managed a nod.
“You should thank her, you son of a bitch. If she told me you’d hurt her…if she told me you’d so much as broken one of her fingernails, you’d already have a bullet in you. Now, take your goddamn hands off the girl.”
The weight of the Englishman’s arms fell away. Emma darted off, scooping up the knife as she moved out of reach.
“Get up. Now.”
Slowly, the Englishman rose to his full height. The hulking thug regarded Cole through eyes as cold and dark as black marble.
“You?” He croaked out. “How? Malone…and Harry…wot the bloody hell…”
“Those men are dead.” The simplicity of Cole’s statement rippled chills over Emma’s flesh. “If you don’t want to join them, you’d better do what I say.”
“Bugger off.”
Cole glanced at the cabin. “There’s some rope near the bed. Bring it here, Emma.”
“Yer daft if ye think I’ll be lettin’ ye truss me up like some bloody hog. Ye’d better shoot me while ye can.” A grotesque mockery of a smile played on his hawk-like features. “I still don’t think ye got it in ye. Killin’ a man like this—ye don’t want the girl t’see that side of ye.”
“Get the rope, Emma.”
“So ye think ye can do it? Ye think ye can pull the trigger on an unarmed man?”
The Englishman lurched around, plowing into Cole with the full force of his massive body. Cole twisted away. With one swift, brutal motion, he slammed his elbow into the man’s hawk face. The larger man grunted in misery but held steady on his feet
Onyx eyes blazed with rage. Quick as a viper’s strike, the Englishman whipped a dagger from the sleeve of his jacket.
He lunged.
Cole dodged the brunt of the thrust. The blade slashed in a vicious arc. Again, he evaded the dagger.
Another slash of the knife. Cole darted to the side, but the blade sliced through his shirt.
The knife sank into his shoulder. A grunt of pain ground from Cole’s throat.
He pulled the trigger.
The dagger plunged to the ground. The Englishman’s eyes went wide, and he stared as if dumbfounded at the mangled, blood-covered flesh that had been his right hand.
“Had enough?” Cole’s gun crashed down over his adversary’s skull. “I have.”
The Englishman collapsed in a heap at his feet. “I need that rope,” Cole said, calm and quiet.
She rushed into the cabin, bustling back to his side, a coil of hemp in hand. Jaw set in a harsh line, he set to work binding the unconscious man’s wrists and ankles.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked again, his patient tone unable to disguise the concern in his eyes. “Tell me the truth.”
“You came before he could do anything to me,” she choked out the words. Her gaze riveted to Cole’s shoulder, to the fresh blood spilled against his blue cotton shirt. “But you…you’re hurt.”
Cole shrugged away her concern. “It’s nothing.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Not enough to worry about now. We’ve got to get you out of here.”
“Who is that man?” She searched his face for the truth.
His mouth formed a grim line. “One of Staton’s thugs. There will be more.”
The sensation of the Englishman’s vile touch washed over her. Tiny bumps dotted her skin. “He is a horrid creature.”
“Come with me, Emma. There will be more like him. It won’t be long.” His hands cupped her face, his breath coming in the same slow rhythm as hers. “I could drag you out of here kicking and screaming. But to be honest, I hurt like hell and I don’t have much patience for theatrics.”
“I heard the gunfire. I thought…I thought you’d been killed.” The truth burst from her lips like a confession.
A dark brow crooked. “Why, Miss Davenport, is that concern I detect in your voice? For me?”
&n
bsp; “Anyone would be alarmed by gunfire.”
“You were worried, weren’t you?”
She shot the hawk-faced man a glare. “I must confess you are the lesser of two evils.”
“Ah, such sweet words.” He caught her hands in his. “Stay with me. Whatever happens, I’ll keep you safe.”
Chapter Fifteen
Heaven help her, but she trusted him. She couldn’t stop herself.
“Where will we go?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer.
The urgency in Cole’s eyes sent a shiver through her core.
“Away from here.”
A cruel realization coursed through her brain, a truth bitter as quinine. “This has something to do with that book, doesn’t it?”
“Yep.” His mouth drawn with pain, he tugged her closer. “There’s no time to talk now.”
Her gaze fixed on the spreading stain at his shoulder. “You’re bleeding. We have to take care of it.”
“There’s no time.”
“The blood loss will weaken you. If you’re vulnerable—what will happen then?”
He shrugged. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll get you to safety.”
“I’m not going anywhere until we patch you up.”
Pulling away from his light hold, she retrieved her satchel. Rummaging in the bag, she located the pantaloons she’d packed for her journey. Cole’s eyes crinkled as his attention settled on the undergarment dangling from her hand.
“You picked a damn fine time to want to change clothes,” he said in a hoarse rasp.
“Actually, these are for you.”
His brows shot up. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken a mind to put more of your underthings on me.” He glanced at the bandage on his arm. “At this rate, I’ll be wearing more of your unmentionables than you are.”
“There’s not much choice. One must make do in a crisis.”
“Another of your aunt’s admonitions?”
“Hardly. Aunt Elizabeth didn’t believe in having a crisis—that would be a sign of poor planning.” She eyed the Englishman’s dagger, still stained with Cole’s blood. Bile rose to the back of her throat. No, that wouldn’t do. She could scarcely look at the weapon—at the crimson sheen coating the blade—without wanting to retch. “Your knife, please.”
Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies (Secrets & Spies) Page 13
