“What the hell do you mean?”
“You haven’t recovered your strength. You were flat on your back a few days ago, and now—”
“I’m fine and you know it. What else is troubling you?”
Dunham cast his gaze to the ground. Damn it, was his partner going to lay on a heap of horseshit about how he should treat Emma? For all they knew, she was a traitor. He wasn’t about to kiss her dainty ass.
“What the hell is going on between you two?” His partner ground the words between his teeth like he was chewing on nails.
“Not a damn thing that concerns you.”
“I told you before, you need to treat that girl like the lady she is. She’s not a traitor. Anyone with a brain in his thick skull can see that”
“She bats her lashes at the right time and feels faint when it’s convenient, and you think it means she’s not in with Staton and the goddamn DuBois gang. I don’t trust her. One minute she’s in love with Staton, the next, she’s—”
You’re full of shit. The look in Dunham’s eyes betrayed his thoughts more bluntly than words. He shook his head, the reproach in the gesture as powerful as a punch to the gut.
“You’re dead wrong on this one. Even if she’s guilty, she’s still a lady and you need to keep your hands off her.”
“And what makes you think I’ve done anything outside the parameters of this mission?”
“Look, I don’t know that you have, but you sure as hell want to. It’s all over your face. I can’t say I blame you. Who wouldn’t want—”
Cole curled his hands in his partner’s collar and jerked hard. “Don’t even think about finishing that sentence.”
Dunham yanked free of Cole’s grip and straightened his shirt. A rueful laugh left his lips.
“I knew it. I knew there was something between the two of you. At this rate, we won’t need to worry about Staton. Senator Davenport will see us both hanged…or shot. Either way, the end’s the same.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“I’m a man, Cole. I know exactly what it is. Only worse. It would be bad enough if you wanted to take her to bed. You could get past that. But there’s something else. Something more. It’s going to make you foolish.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“The hell I don’t. If your cock was doing the talking, you could argue with it and win. But this is worse. A hell of a lot worse, and it’s going to get us both face to face with a firing squad.”
“You’re getting out of line, Dunham. I’m still your superior officer.”
“Ah, cram it up your ass, Cole. Out here, I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine. That’s the way it’s been, and that’s the way it’s going to stay. But you’ve got to trust me with Emma Davenport. I’ll get her to her father.”
He should have punched Dunham in the face. He should have knocked him cold. But every word the man said was true. Cole couldn’t deny it anymore.
And yet, he couldn’t leave. Not without Emma at his side.
“Not an option.”
“There’s no other rational choice. You take the necklace to Nightshade, and I’ll escort Emma home.”
Cole shook his head. “What you’re saying makes a lot of sense. But that’s not how it’s going to be.”
“I’ll keep her safe. Surely you don’t doubt that.”
“I know you’d do whatever it takes.”
Dunham rubbed his jaw. “Then it’s settled. I’ll see her back to her father while you meet with Nightshade.”
“No, I’m staying with her. Emma’s mine to protect.” The words carved through his gut like a hot knife. “At least for now.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Cole stalked the grounds, alert for any sight or sound or smell that would betray an intruder’s presence. Every nerve twinged with awareness. After this night, he’d take Emma away, cutting the risk to Miranda and her home. Providing their sanctuary had been a risky thing, but Miranda would have had it no other way.
Each step drove home a brutal truth. He was weak, weaker than he’d been in a long time, and he hated the feeling. His strength was returning, but at this point, he’d be no match for a man skilled in hand-to-hand combat.
No matter. The gun holstered at his hip would eliminate any threat. At the least, he’d buy time for Daniel to arm himself and the women to get away.
Still, every nerve throbbed with a tense, almost painful energy. He was on his own with his Colt and a green, nineteen-year-old kid for backup. Steve had taken off with the cipher key hours earlier. Miranda wouldn’t raise a son, or a daughter, for that matter, who didn’t know how to use a gun and use it well. But Daniel was young, not much more than a boy. Would his nerve hold up if they came under fire?
They’d make it through one more night.
One more night, and this debacle of a mission would be over and done.
Come sunup, he’d set off with Emma and Daniel to return her to her father’s protection. She’d know the truth then.
But he’d probably never know the full truth behind Emma’s flight from Washington and this fool’s mission.
Some would view her as a traitor. That much was certain. Senator Davenport’s enemies wanted to believe she’d betrayed the Union. Christ, even Cole couldn’t be certain of her loyalties. His gut insisted she was innocent. But there was no denying the evidence.
If Emma knew what she had—
She wasn’t that good a liar. The discovery of the cipher key hit her like a cattle stampede. He had to believe her anguish was real.
Fear might have triggered her distress—fear that her role had been revealed, fear that she’d been unmasked as a traitor. But somehow, the possibility didn’t fit. Emma had ample opportunity to flee while he was laid up. Miranda wouldn’t have stopped her. To the contrary, he could well imagine Miranda arranging for an escort to the train station in town. She’d taken a liking to Emma at first glance. Her instincts had always been good. If she’d detected treachery in Emma’s eyes or manner, Miranda would have cast her out. But they’d become close in the days of his illness. Close as sisters, from what he could make out.
Evidence be damned, Emma didn’t have the markings of a traitor. But if she wasn’t, why had Staton targeted Emma? Senator Davenport had friends in high places. Grant’s willingness to dispatch operatives on a mission bent on keeping Davenport’s good name intact was proof of that—but the senator wasn’t in Lincoln’s inner circle. If anything, the President appeared to look upon the senator as a blowhard and a weak ally at best. A half-dozen others might have been more suitable targets for Staton’s interest.
So why had the treacherous son of a bitch set his sights on Emma? Was her father the real target of Staton’s scheme? The senator had barricaded his home behind bodyguards, locks, and barred windows long before Emma ever encountered Frederick Staton. Was Emma merely a pawn Staton could use to attack her father?
The hell with it. One thing was clear about this entire charade—Cole wasn’t meant to know the truth, and probably never would. Need to know and all that horseshit. He’d done what he had to do, and he’d continue to protect Emma until he knew she was safe behind guarded doors and steel-barred windows.
By the next sunset, Emma Davenport would be someone else’s problem.
Damn shame the thought turned his mood even darker. How long would it be before the senator took care of his problem by marrying Emma off to some perfectly respectable, perfectly staid gentleman who could offer her everything she deserved? At least, everything her father thought she deserved. Making love to her sweet body until she quaked with the strength of her fulfillment sure as hell wouldn’t be on the senator’s short list of qualifications. A man’s willingness to lay down his life to protect her wouldn’t matter a damn bit to the esteemed senator, either. He had men like Cole to do that—men who had no value in forging political alliances or elevating Emma’s status among the Washington
bootlickers.
Cole stalked the grounds with restless energy. Alert for any sign of intruders, he cut a brisk path around the lush green countryside surrounding the house. The crunch of leaves and twigs beneath his feet broke the silence, but they couldn’t drown out the belligerent bastard deep within his soul who wouldn’t stop harping about Emma.
He wanted her. Not her body. Not her kiss.
Her.
He’d desired other women before, and he’d never had a lick of trouble coaxing them to share his bed for a night or two or three. But he’d never wanted any of them.
Not like he wanted Emma.
His hunger for her was like his need for air, desperate and elemental and undeniable.
There wasn’t a damn thing to be done about it.
The last glimmers of daylight flickered through the trees. He kicked a branch out of his path, his solitary patrol the only distraction from the need that gnawed all the way to the bone.
His gaze wandered to her window. If he went to her, would she turn him away? Or would she welcome his touch?
They’d only have one night, a night that would brand his soul with memories no amount of liquor could obliterate—memories of a woman he wasn’t meant to have.
To hell with it. He’d left Emma with nothing to regret. If he had a shred of honor to his name, he’d keep it that way.
His heel crunched over another twig. He’d finish this patrol, get some sleep as Daniel took the next watch, and leave Emma to her books and her dreams.
Anything else didn’t make a damn bit of sense. The price they’d both pay for one night was too high.
And one night with Emma would never be enough.
* * *
Emma settled on the porch swing, a novel she’d borrowed from Miranda on her lap. She’d taken in as much of the text as she could before sunset swallowed the last of the day’s light. Curling up inside the house by an oil lamp held no appeal. The air was cool and fresh, and she drank it in like an elixir.
A mournful howl sliced through the peaceful chirps of crickets and cicadas. A chill prickled over her skin, but curiosity overruled her apprehension and she tossed her book aside and popped off the swing.
As she stepped from the porch, Cole rounded the corner. His face seemed an impenetrable mask, though even in the twilight, an unreadable emotion gleamed in the depths of his amber eyes.
“Going somewhere?” One brow cocked as he met her gaze. “If you’re intending to run away, be my guest. At this point, you’ll save me a trip.”
“Must you always be such a—” Emma bit back the word poised on the tip of her tongue.
“Which is it now? Desperado? Scoundrel? Or my personal favorite, barbarian?”
She straightened her spine, holding herself as erect as she could manage. How it galled her to have to look up at this ill-tempered mule of a man. “If you really must know, I think you’re a jackass. I didn’t think it possible for you to become any more insufferable, but it seems you’ve managed that feat.”
The mask of his features didn’t change, though something unfathomable flickered in his eyes.
“I may be many things, including, as you put it so sweetly, a jackass. But I know where my loyalties lie, which is more than I can say for you.”
“Loyalties?” The word scorched her tongue. Who was this man to speak of loyalties? “I still can’t be sure what your purpose was in this cruel farce. Do you fancy you’re protecting the Union—or are you simply out to be a thorn in Frederick’s side? I still don’t know your name or why you interfered with my journey. It’s clear you’re not a Rebel, and you’re obviously working for someone in Washington. But why would anyone single me out?”
“After what we found, the answer to that question should be clear.”
“You weren’t after those items when you stormed onto that train, frightening everyone out of their wits with your guns-blazing charade. You didn’t even know the book existed, and my necklace dangled in front of your eyes for days before you realized what it contained.”
“We suspected you were ferrying something to Staton. We just didn’t know what.”
“So, you are working for someone in Washington.” Her father’s face flickered in her mind’s eye. “Who sent you after me?”
His mouth shifted almost imperceptibly, and though he didn’t say a word, it seemed he’d shouted the truth. He shrugged. Damn the man, how could he shrug away her question?
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“It might not have mattered to you. You were following orders. Was that night in your room a matter of following orders? Was that the reason for your noble restraint?”
“I could hear the firing squad loading their rifles.”
So he thought to take his amusement with her. For the span of several heartbeats, all she could do was look at him. He deserved a slap, but she held back. He wouldn’t reduce her to that. Soon, she’d never have to look into his eyes again. Never have to look at him again.
“My father sent you, didn’t he? Tell me the truth. You owe me that much.”
“Your father issued no such order.”
“Don’t you dare insult my intelligence. You’re a military man, cavalry most likely, given your skill as a horseman. Technically, my father could not issue your orders. But he most certainly could have instigated them.”
He rubbed his jaw as if holding it rigid as granite had taken its toll. “You’re working yourself up for nothing. I’ve told you all along I intended to stop you from getting to Staton. That was the truth then, and it’s the truth now. I never meant to keep you with me any longer than it took to see you safely on a train back to Washington. Staton’s cronies derailed our plan. But you’ll be home soon enough.”
“And I will no longer be your problem.” She whipped around and marched up the porch steps.
He pursued her. His big, warm hands closed over her upper arms and drew her close. His heat stirred every feminine instinct she possessed to aching awareness.
“You’re always going to be my problem, Miss Davenport.”
His breath rippled against her nape. A primitive surge of energy ran up her spine. Every cell in her body tingled. His male essence surrounded her, and she breathed it in as though it quenched a thirst she hadn’t known she had.
“It’s a hell of a problem, too.” His husky rasp rippled tiny prickles over her skin, from the base of her neck all the way to her toes. “Every time I look at a woman, I’m going to wish she was you.”
Her heart fluttered in her chest like a hummingbird hovering over a vat of nectar. Still, she couldn’t let on that he affected her so intensely. She couldn’t let him see how his nearness awakened her body, heart, and soul.
In through the nostrils, out through the mouth. Wasn’t that how she’d been taught to calm herself and maintain her dignity in the most trying situations?
“Perhaps you’ll find another young lady to haul around. I’m told some women actually enjoy that sort of thing.” Amazing, how she managed a crisp tone despite her heart’s breakneck rhythm and the way she shivered as his mouth brushed the sensitive flesh beneath her earlobe.
“I don’t want another woman.”
Willing herself to resist her body’s nagging pleas, she stiffened her spine, forbidding herself to welcome his touch. “Then I suppose you’re in a bit of a predicament, aren’t you? You don’t want another woman, and this woman wants no part of you.”
She wriggled to extract herself from his hold, but he made no move to release her. His lips swept an exquisitely gentle path along the curve of her throat. The tiny panting gasp she couldn’t hold in contradicted her words.
The warmth of his skin on her body evaporated as his hands fell away. She turned. Slowly.
“Emma, you’re a poor liar.” No trace of amusement tinged his gravel-edged words.
Darkness had settled over them like a heavy cloak, but she could make out the fire in his gaze. Whatever lies and secrets had gone between them, his eyes c
ould not hide the truth of this moment. The truth of his hunger.
A hunger that mirrored her own.
But he’d lured her in once, only to turn her away. He’d seduced her, only to send her away, weak and vulnerable and longing for him.
And now, he thought to make a fool of her again.
Well, she was having none of it. Girding her spine with layers of ice and steel, she snatched up the book she’d been reading and clutched it to her chest.
He eyed the volume. “A shield? Or are you bored with me so soon?”
“I assure you it’s the latter.” She relaxed her grip on the novel, though she held her body stiff as a rod. “You interrupted me while I was reading.”
“That’s nothing new. You had a book open on the train right before I carried you out of the passenger car.” Did she detect a note of affection?
“This is a different one. Miranda was kind enough to loan me—”
He reached for the volume, and she surrendered it. “The Master of Greythorne.” He lifted his gaze. “Another tortured hero?”
“I fail to see where my literary tastes are any of your concern.”
He traced the curve of her cheek with his finger. “Do all the men in the novels you read end up scarred or crippled or insane?”
She pressed her lips together, struggling to ignore the heat of his gentle touch. “That would seem to be the case.”
He skimmed the curve of her face. “Why do you enjoy reading about tortured men?”
Emma pulled in a slow breath. Then another, deeper this time. “The characters are brooding and romantic. They suffer for love.”
His free hand settled at her waist. He coiled his arm around her, pinioning her against him. “Shouldn’t love bring pleasure?”
She pressed against his chest to free herself, but his body was as unyielding as a heavy iron chain. “Such a ridiculous question.”
“Answer me, and I’ll leave you alone with your tortured hero. Shouldn’t love bring pleasure, Emma?” Her name seemed a seductive caress. He trailed scorching little kisses along the thin line of flesh exposed above her high collar. “Or should I convince you?”
Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies (Secrets & Spies) Page 22
