A look of weary acceptance washed over his face. Or perhaps the blood loss was already having an effect. He placed the folding blade in her upturned palm.
She split the pantaloons in two and settled her attention on his shirt. Aunt Elizabeth would surely have plunged into an oh-so-graceful swoon if she’d observed Emma attack the buttons on the placket. Pity Matthew Brady hadn’t come along to document the scandalous event.
Cole’s mouth curled into something that might have been a smile if he hadn’t been gritting his teeth against pain he couldn’t hide.
“Miss Davenport, you never fail to surprise me.”
“I can wrap the wound quickly. It won’t be pretty, but it will keep you from losing more blood.”
She peeled back the fabric. Her breath caught as her gaze settled on the dagger’s mark. The blade must have glanced off his collarbone. Though the incision was narrow, her time at the hospital had taught her the danger of a puncture.
Blood seeped from the wound. Stemming its flow would be the first priority, but infection was a danger. The injury would need to be cleaned and properly dressed at the first opportunity, but for now, she’d have to make do with what little resources she had.
Folding one leg of the pantaloons into a square, she pressed the white cotton to the wound. “Lift your arm, please.” The instruction sounded far more confident than she felt.
He stared at the cloth in her hand. “You’re not putting that on me.”
“I need to secure the bandage.”His gaze lit on the edge of the pantaloon leg, on the carefully stitched trim. “I am not going to wear a goddamn ruffle.”
Of all things for a wounded man to concern himself with—a few inches of bunched-up cotton with a narrow strip of lace.
“Oh, good heavens.” She pressed his hand up to hold the bandage while she used the knife to carve off the offending strip of fabric.
“Better?” She dangled the ruffle-free cloth for his inspection.
“It’ll do.”
He lifted his arm, and she coiled the strip of cotton over his shirt, between his arm and shoulder, then tied the bandage in place.
“Done.” She pronounced the word with satisfaction.
He only scowled. “I’m wearing so much ladies’ underwear, I’d might as well find a crinoline that fits.”
“I don’t think the men who want to kill you care one whit about fashion,” she said casually. “But I cannot recommend a crinoline under any circumstances. They’re nearly as uncomfortable as a hoop.”
His scowl darkened. “Get your bag. We’re getting the hell out of here.”
* * *
Twilight descended over the countryside as Cole brought his mount to a halt in a wooded area. After riding for hours, his every nerve alert to danger, he needed to allow his steed some rest. He couldn’t risk overtaxing the loyal gelding he’d won in a poker game from a player far less cagy than Emma Davenport. The time had come to take shelter.
His own weary bones welcomed the break from the saddle. Every muscle ached, and his shoulder protested with a relentless dull throb he tried his damnedest to ignore.
He swung out of the saddle and lifted Emma to the ground. Neither spoke as he untied a bedroll and spread out the sturdy wool over grass beading with dew.
Emma eyed the blanket as if he’d unfurled a cobra in their midst. “Surely you don’t intend the two of us to share that?”
“Yep.” He removed a bag stocked with provisions for the night—a canteen of water and a pouch filled with jerky. “That’s exactly what I intend. Too scandalous for your tastes?”
“You know it is,” she snipped.
He threw a glance to her leather satchel. “Damn shame you didn’t think to stuff a fancy quilt in there. Something more appropriate to a lady of your standing.”
“This has nothing to do with the blanket and everything to do with…you! You cannot expect the two of us to share a bedroll. Good heavens, the prospect of sharing a cabin was bad enough. But this…this is entirely…”
“Scandalous?” he repeated.
“Please stop saying that word, but yes, it’s far too indecent. I wouldn’t sleep a wink.”
Her cheeks pinkened in the waning light. Before long, he wouldn’t be able to make out the color of her skin in the darkness. Yet, he’d still be able to see the rosy hue in his mind.
“Miss Davenport, I’ll be damned if I’m sleeping on wet grass because your modesty will be offended.”
“But…even a man like you—”
“I don’t know about all the other men like me—if there’s a desperado society, damned if anyone ever invited me to their socials—but this barbarian is bone tired. I’m going to get some food in my stomach, and then Rotgut and I are going to get some sleep. I suggest you do the same.”
Her eyes went wide. “Rotgut?”
“It’s a long story.”
Her finely etched brows dipped. “Why do I suspect your partner had something to do with that name?”
“You catch on quick.”
“Surely you’re not going to leave me in suspense.” Was that a smile tugging at her lips?
“There’s not much to tell. I won Rotgut in a Kansas City saloon after a night at the poker table with men too full of confidence and cheap whiskey to cut their losses. My partner thought it only fitting that I name the horse after the liquor that led its owner to wager his mount.”
She regarded him as though he’d stepped in a steaming pile of manure, but then, a little quirk tilted her lips.
“Ah, such a charming story. And there I thought you’d been awarded the creature as a token of gratitude, say for rescuing orphans from a blazing building.”
“You don’t find many orphans in the places I go. Would you be impressed if I told you I’d rescued a couple of saloon girls from a raging drunk who—”
She cut him off with a brisk shake of her head. “That’s not necessary. I’m sure the ladies showed their gratitude.”
A smart man would have kept his mouth closed. But the flicker of disdain in Emma’s eyes compelled him to respond. “Yep, and then some.”
“I assume you found the experience quite rewarding,” she said, her tone unruffled.
“Actually, I’d have to say the ladies collected the reward that night.”
Her cheeks went red, and she smothered a huff between her tightly pursed lips. She rubbed her arms as if to warm herself. “How lovely for them. Unfortunately, we still have a problem to address.”
“Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”
“It most certainly cannot. I have no intention of sleeping on that thing—or anything else, for that matter—with you.”
He swept a hand toward the grass under the trees that surrounded them. “Then consider this your bed for the night. You’ll survive a few hours on the ground.”
“But—”
“Can’t you pull something out of that bag to use as a blanket? The skirt you wore on the train had enough fabric for a tent.”
Her eyes narrowed like a cat ready to unsheathe its claws. “How dare you…you…”
“Hun?” he supplied, feeling surprisingly cheerful despite the incessant ache at his collarbone.
“How dare you imply I need enough fabric for a tent to cover my…my—”
“Backside?” His mood was brightening by the minute.
“Well, yes—” She tugged her luscious bottom lip between her teeth.
Blood rushed to his groin, and he went hard as a rock. Damn it all, this was a hell of a time for his cock to put in its two cents’ worth.
He swallowed hard and kept his eyes on hers. With any luck, she wouldn’t look down and notice his arousal had chosen that moment to rebel against the constraints of his trousers.
“I didn’t mean you needed a lot of fabric to cover your rump.” Even as he spoke the conciliatory words, he conjured mental images of withered crones. The imaginary hags had served him well when his attraction to Emma had become too obvious at the cabin.
With any luck, thoughts of mummy-like flesh sagging from bony thighs and toothless, gaping maws would tamp down his groin’s enthusiasm.
She gave a little sniff. “In any case, I most certainly do not intend to ruin a perfectly good wool skirt in the grass. The stains would never come out.”
He shrugged and took a bite out of a piece of jerky. “The way I see it, you’ve got three choices. Bed down on the blanket with me, use one of your garments as a ground cover, or sleep in the grass.”
Her mouth flattened into a thoughtful seam, but when she pulled that plump lip between her teeth again, he needed to call in another regiment of hags as mental reinforcements.
“Actually, there is a fourth option. I believe I may have come up with a solution.”
* * *
Emma lowered herself upon the bedroll with as much grace as she could muster. The scratchy wool rectangle, not much larger than a cot, would provide a barrier from the damp ground but little else. It was better than nothing.
Her satchel lay in the middle of the blanket, a small but symbolic partition. As far as she was concerned, they’d each occupy a separate sleeping area this night.
Cole took another bite of jerky and stared down at her. “Has it occurred to you that bag is nothing more than an annoyance? All it does it take up space.”
“It is a divider. Your space and mine are clearly indicated.”
He gave his head a weary shake. “I’m still wondering if you didn’t hit your head when I carried you off the train. No offense, but that’s one of the most damn fool ideas I’ve ever seen.”
“Your opinion doesn’t matter one whit. I intend to occupy this side of the blanket, and I will feel more at ease if my satchel is there to delineate our territories.”
“No one could doubt you’re a politician’s daughter. Delineate our territory—so, this is your version of the Mason-Dixon line.” He rubbed his temples as his head moved back and forth in a slow, deliberate movement. “What I wouldn’t do for some whiskey right now.”
“I doubt that would solve anything. Besides, you snore when you’ve been drinking.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Good heavens, who wouldn’t know it? That first night, when your partner was still at the cabin, you downed something out of a flask. Considering what my father keeps in his flask, I doubt the substance was water. In any case, I’m surprised the animals didn’t band together to rouse you. At one point, I had to peep outside to reassure myself some wild beast hadn’t gone on the attack.”
“And the other nights?”
“I don’t believe you had anything of an alcoholic nature. I’m assuming you wanted your senses sharp since you had no one to fall back on. The animals were no doubt thankful for a sound sleep.”
“Are you always so observant?”
“What else was I to do, cooped up in a cabin in the woods? I’ve read that book until I’m thoroughly weary of Heathcliff and his dark moods. I do believe the next novel I select will be something a bit more light-hearted.”
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Eat something and go to sleep. I’ll be right behind you after I tend the horse.”
He walked to the spot where Rotgut happily feasted.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” she asked.
“Such as?”
“You haven’t made a fire.”
“I didn’t forget. There won’t be a fire tonight. We can’t take any chances of giving away our location.”
The evening air prickled gooseflesh on her skin. How could he possibly intend them to pass the night without something to warm them? The thought of being exposed to the elements—and creatures of the night—without so much as a flame for comfort rippled a chill over her skin. She wrapped her arms tight about her.
“Surely you’re not serious. It’s already quite cool.”
“That skirt of yours might function as a blanket to cover you. And there’s always one thing you can count on to keep you warm on a night like this.”
The waning light lit on his straight, white teeth. Whatever he was thinking of had elicited a grin.
Well, she certainly saw nothing amusing about this situation. She’d expected him to escort her to another hideaway, not the middle of nowhere without shelter or provisions beyond dried meat she could scarcely chew.
“And precisely what might that be?”
His sly grin widened. “Body heat.”
Chapter Sixteen
Indignation did not begin to describe the blend of shock, horror and barely repressed fury in Emma’s green-eyed gaze. She nearly leapt to her feet—he’d never imagined a woman in long skirts could move with such swift agility—and faced him with hands planted on her hips. The pose thrust her breasts into prominence, but he wasn’t about to inform her of that fact. She met his eyes, cocking her chin as if to lend herself an imposing appearance. Damn shame it was all he could do to pry his attention from her sweetly rounded bosom.
“Don’t even think I’d resort to…to that.” She crouched by her bag and whipped out a wool jacket. The fitted garment slipped easily over her dress. Rather than concealing her form, the cut of the bodice and sleeves emphasized her reed-thin waist and tempting curves.
“The colors clash,” he teased.
She frowned. “You can see that in this light?”
He nodded. If one went to hell for lying, he’d better look forward to the heat. In the last vestiges of twilight, he couldn’t have made out the hues if he’d wagered a twenty dollar gold piece.
She gave a little shrug and slipped a button through its braided loop closure. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it. You’ll simply have to endure my hideous appearance.”
She’d be a hell of a lot easier to endure if she had been hideous. But the rising moon cast her dark hair with silvery highlights, giving her the ethereal look of a goddess come to life—an immortal sent to tempt men until they drank themselves senseless trying to keep their hands off of her. Damn shame Emma hadn’t been around in those days. She would no doubt have inspired such a tale.
He affected a stoic countenance. “I’ll do my best.”
She eyed him through emerald slits, as though contemplating a retort, and then, produced a skirt from the bag. “I can use this as a cover of sorts. I’m quite confident I’ll get through this night in relative comfort, with no need to resort to…body heat.”
She pronounced the last two words as though they were vile epithets. He couldn’t see what color her cheeks displayed at that moment, but he’d have bet another gold piece she was as pink as the delicious little tongue that darted out to moisten her lips.
Still, he couldn’t let her get the last word. The urge to rile her nagged at him like a miniature devil with a pitchfork. “You’re sure of that? I wouldn’t want you disturbing my sleep with pleas for warmth.”
Her chin went up even higher. “You may rest assured that will not be the case.”
She settled back onto the blanket, curled into a ball on her right side, her back to the traveling case she viewed as her own personal wall of Jericho.
Cole situated himself on a fallen log, his legs stretched out. He’d lie down and get some sleep soon enough, but for now, he just wanted to stare at the stars like he’d done as a boy. With any luck, he’d will the tension from his body. Damn shame he couldn’t keep his attention on the sky and off the woman who lay within a few long strides.
In sleep, Emma’s delicate features took on a sweetness he’d only glimpsed during the daylight hours. Moonbeams flitted over her high cheekbones and accented the curve of her mouth. Damn, she was a pretty girl. She’d challenge a man with a spirit that would never be contained. He smiled to himself, picturing eyes sparkling with intelligence and determination.
He’d seen passion in those emerald eyes. Passion when he kissed her, passion when he ached to claim her. He envisioned his fingers unbuttoning her prim blouse with its ridiculously high collar. If she were his, he’d strip he
r bare and teach her innocent body about pleasure and passion and all the joys a man and woman could share.
His erection throbbed against his pants, competing for attention with the ache in his shoulder. Why did he torture himself? He’d been sent to guard Emma, not seduce her. Hell, the senator would probably summon a firing squad if Cole bedded his daughter.
The truth of it was, he didn’t really give a damn about the senator’s wrath. But Emma was another story. How would she react if she learned the truth? He wasn’t a rogue out for a ransom. He was a Union major, an officer in Army Intelligence sent to intercept a suspected traitor before she could reach her rendezvous with a known turncoat.
And she was that suspected traitor.
Hell, he still couldn’t be sure she wasn’t working with Staton. Emma might well be one of the most clever operatives he’d worked with—she certainly had him believing she was innocent.
At least, he wanted to believe it. The way the English bastard had gone after her didn’t bolster the case that she was one of Staton’s inner circle. But if Emma had outlived her usefulness, the cur would have no reason to keep her alive. If anything, he’d want to silence her.
Emma murmured softly in her sleep and hugged the skirt she used as a makeshift blanket to her chin. He came to his feet and closed the distance between them. Hunkering down at her side, he brushed a dark curl from her cheek. He lingered over the velvet of her flesh. A soft sigh floated to his ears, and she bunched up tight under the superfine of her garment.
Damn. She was chilled under the thin fabric. A woman used to a warm, inviting bed—probably decked out with a fluffy down quilt and some frilly ruffles to hide the rails—reduced to sleeping without shelter, lacking even a blanket to cover her.
Reaching over her, he lifted away the satchel. He plopped the traveling case on the ground, then walked around to the far corner of the bedroll. The wool, plain and scratchy as it was, tempted him, but he dismissed the notion of lying down beside her and closing his eyes. He pulled the edge of the blanket over Emma.
Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies (Secrets & Spies) Page 14
