Captured (22 page)

“Your fiancé?!” he repeated, in what sounded like a roar.

Devon nodded. “Boris Ogglesby.”

“You have a fiancé?!” He was still yelling. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“I tried to. You wouldn’t listen.”

“You didn’t think it was important enough to mention again?”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now in any case, for I considered our engagement broken once he framed me for murder.”

Cole stared at her as though she’d just sprouted a second head. “How very sensible of you.”

“I thought so.”

He sank down onto the grass, looking suddenly exhausted. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

She frowned. “Do what?”

“Never mind.” He reached for her arm, gently pulled her down beside him, and asked pleasantly, “So who was the son-of-a-bitch?”

“I told you, Boris Ogglesby.”

Cole arched a tawny brow. “You were actually going to marry someone who answered to the name Boris Ogglesby?”

“I thought it sounded rather dignified,” she replied stiffly.

“If you’re a Saint Bernard, I suppose it is.”

Anger surged through Devon. “Fine,” she snapped, rising to her feet. “If all you want to do is make snide comments—”

He caught her arm and brought her back down beside him. “Devon, wait. I’m sorry. I’m listening, I promise. I just wasn’t prepared to hear this.” He studied her, then a dark shadow passed through his eyes. “Were you in love with him?”

“In love with him? Of course—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“But you just asked.”

“Listen to me. You may think that you’re in love with him, but you’re not. Trust me, I know.”

Of course she wasn’t in love with Boris Ogglesby. But how would he know that?

With one deft move, he answered her silent question. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her smoothly onto his lap. “Because if you were in love with another man,” he murmured huskily, “would you let me do this?”

His mouth captured hers in a kiss that was completely different from their first. It wasn’t tender, soft, or gentle. This kiss began right where the last had ended, full of unrestrained passion arid fiery longing, igniting a heat deep within her that set every nerve in her body ablaze. Devon leaned into him, their bodies locked together as she eagerly sought the play of his tongue. Her hands moved with wanton abandon over his body, tracing the hot, rough velvet of his skin, the corded muscles of his back and thighs.

Cole let out a low groan and tore his mouth away from hers as he pressed her back into the soft grass. He leaned over her, trailing soft kisses down her throat as he gently unbuttoned the top of her gown. That accomplished, he slowly eased the garment past her shoulders and brushed light kisses over the tops of her breasts. Her camisole came next. Moving with an expertise that she didn’t want to think about, Cole pulled the delicate ribbons free and removed the thin cotton barrier. He cupped her breasts in his palms, gently caressing them until her nipples tightened to firm, solid peaks that he teased with his tongue.

The tension Devon felt inside abruptly exploded into wonder. She dug her fingers into Cole’s back and arched her hips against his as their mouths joined once again. Their kiss deepened, following the reckless motion of their bodies, gaining a momentum that seemed to carry them forward, awakening a primal hunger deep within her that she was only just beginning to understand.

She’d never been less in the mood for conversation in her life, but Cole seemed to have something on his mind. He pulled back and commanded huskily, “Tell me you don’t love Boris.”

It seemed a rather silly request, but she decided to comply anyway. “I don’t love him.”

Cole rewarded her by finding an unexplored spot on her throat to kiss, a spot just below her earlobe that was so sensitive, the touch of his lips sent shivers racing down her spine, despite the heat of the day. “And you never did,” he said.

She smiled. “And I never did.”

His tawny eyes flashed victory. “I knew it.”

Devon pulled back, regarding him warily. She rolled out from beneath his embrace and hastily rebuttoned her gown. “What do you mean, you knew it?”

Cole reached for her and gently smoothed back a lock of her hair. “You wouldn’t have let me kiss you the way I did, either now or last night, if you were in love with another man.”

“What a ridiculous thing to say!”

He shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s the truth. Women are run by their emotions. They can’t separate love and lust.”

Devon felt her temper soar once again. “Oh? And I suppose men can?”

“Of course. Men are ruled by logic. That’s why we’re men.”

“What you are, Cole McRae,” she shot back, “is a horse’s ass! But only half as intelligent, and not nearly as pleasant to look at.”

“But I was right about this Boris… Boris…”

“Ogglesby.”

“Whatever. You don’t love him.”

“Love him! You idiot, of course I don’t love him. I’ve never even met the man!”

Cole stared at her for a long moment, then said carefully, “I thought you told me he was your fiancé.”

“He was.”

“But you’ve never met him.”

“That’s right.”

He let out a deep sigh. “Devon, it’s nearly noon now. I’d like to get to the end of this story by midnight if it’s at all possible.”

Her emerald eyes flashed fire. “Don’t blame me. I’m trying to tell you, but you keep interrupting. Or I suppose kissing me was just the logical thing to do after I told you my fiancé was a murderer.”

Cole opened his mouth, then abruptly closed it. He frowned, tugging his hand through his thick blond hair.

“You just let me worry about what’s logical, all right?”

“Oh, fine, McRae. You’re so good at it. I forgot, you’re a man, aren’t you?”

She could see him summoning his patience. He seemed to have to do that a lot‌—‌or at least whenever she was around. “All right,” he said slowly. “Why don’t we begin again, shall we? Tell me how you came to be involved with Jonas Sharpe. And why you think this Boris person, the fiancé you’ve never met, framed you for murder.”

Devon frowned. It sounded absolutely ridiculous when he said it. And yet at the time, it had all made perfect sense. She hesitated, wondering where to begin, then slowly started, “It was my idea to get involved with Jonas Sharpe. You see, he and Uncle Monty had done business together in the past—”

“What sort of business?”

“Legitimate business. Shipping, investments, that sort of thing.” At Cole’s frown, she continued, “Just because Uncle Monty was a crook doesn’t mean that every transaction he was involved in was crooked. In fact, just the opposite is true. The more successful he was, the more capital he accrued, and the more influential he became. Uncle Monty happens to have friends among judges, politicians, and prominent solicitors, as well as the average ruffian on the street. Every level of society. He’s truly a remarkable man.”

Cole nodded, apparently impatient to leave behind her glowing praise of her uncle. “So what happened? Did one of their deals go bad?”

“No, nothing like that. Jonas Sharpe mentioned to Uncle Monty that he had an associate in the States, a fellow Englishman who was looking for a good English wife. A lady. Someone of solid background, outstanding character and moral fiber, reasonably attractive, and young enough to bear children.” She paused, acutely aware that the only one of those criteria she met was “young enough to bear children.” Obviously Cole would be aware of this as well. Nevertheless she continued, determined to reveal the shameful nature of her misdeed. “So I suggested me. I thought that maybe I would be his wife.”

Silence. Total silence. “Were you serious?” Cole finally asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Years of practice enabled her to come up with a casual smile, despite the havoc of her emotions. “At the time, it actually seemed a good idea,” she answered with a light shrug, then stood and moved away from him. She paused beneath a tall pine, picking at the bark as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

She heard Cole rise, then felt him standing behind her. “Why, Devon?” he asked quietly. “What did you want so badly that you were willing to travel halfway around the world to marry a man you’d never before set eyes on?”

Devon took a deep breath, suddenly questioning the wisdom of telling him the truth. She should tell him that she was trying to steal money from the man. That was something Cole could understand, likely what he expected to hear from her. She could confess to that, and he would probably even forgive her for it. It would be simple and neat, and they could get this over with quickly.

But it wasn’t the truth.

Devon turned around, leaning back against the trunk of the tree, her hands tucked behind her. She stared up at Cole, lost in silent contemplation, wondering where to begin. She searched his rugged features, striving to find a similarity between her life and his, but there was nothing. No common ground, nothing she could point to that would make him understand what she’d felt. Why she’d needed to run from England, from everything. Finally she answered his question with one of her own. “Do you have many friends?”

He frowned, but replied with a shrug, “Yes, I suppose so.”

“I don’t,” she said simply. “As a matter of fact, I don’t have any at all.” She reached for a dry twig, poked it absently at the ground near her feet, then let it drop. “It’s not Uncle Monty’s fault. He would do anything in the world for me, but the way we lived, constantly on the dodge, moving from place to place, made things rather difficult. He had his cronies and his drinking pubs, but I’m hardly the sort that a respectable young lady my age would invite to tea. Or the sort that a respectable young man would want anything to do with. So when Uncle Monty was out, I simply stayed home by myself.”

“And you thought this Boris person would be a friend?”

“No. I’d hoped we would learn to get along together, of course, but I wanted more than just that. I wanted a real home, a family, a chance to meet other people and truly belong. Somewhere where I would actually be accepted, where I wouldn’t ever have to run again, or constantly look over my shoulder.”

“If that’s all you wanted, why didn’t you simply choose a man in England and settle down there?”

Devon flinched inwardly at his description of “all” she wanted. He had no idea what an impossible dream that was for her. “You don’t understand the way Uncle Monty and I lived. We would work our way into the upper echelons one week, dining at fancy dinner parties and drinking from fine crystal. And the next week we’d be squatting over an open fire in a dark alley with the most notorious burglar in the city. But there was no place we ever really fit in.

“Besides,” she continued, “even if I could convince someone that I truly was the lady I pretended to be, how could I ever relax in England? The specter of my past would always loom over me, the fear that one day I’d run into someone with whom Uncle Monty and I had had dealings. That would bring nothing but shame to my husband, destroy everything I’d worked so hard to build. And if there were children involved and my husband learned about my past and cast us out into the streets…” Her words trailed off as a small shudder passed through her frame.

“Maybe your husband would understand,” Cole suggested.

“He wouldn’t,” she countered swiftly. “You don’t know the way it works, but I do. Once people know, they never quite trust you again. Once you’re branded a thief, you always remain a thief in their eyes. My only chance was to start over, to leave everything behind. And marrying Boris Ogglesby seemed the perfect opportunity.”

“I see.”

Devon stared at Cole, wondering if he really did see, or if this all sounded like just another one of her elaborate ruses to him. She reminded herself firmly that it didn’t matter what he thought of her, and continued. “Since all of Uncle Monty’s dealings with Sharpe in the past had been legitimate, I thought there was no way he would suspect. But he did.” She reached for the branch beside her and began absently tugging the leaves and scattering them at her feet.

“What happened?”

“Sharpe saw through me immediately. Apparently I’m not half as good at pretending to be a lady as I think I am.” She paused, lifting her shoulders in a light shrug. “Or perhaps he’d known about my and Uncle Monty’s reputation all along and that’s why he selected me.”

“Did you know that Jonas Sharpe was involved in the sale of warships to the Confederacy?”

“No. I knew he was involved in a variety of investments, and that he made money running the blockade, but I didn’t look any closer than that. The truth is, I was too wrapped up in my own situation. Too excited, too nervous, too happy. And then later, too worried.”

Cole frowned. “Why?”

“Well, the Jonas Sharpe I met in Liverpool was very smooth and sophisticated, the perfect gentleman. But once we were at sea, I began to see a different side of him. He could be absolutely charming one minute, then fly into rages the next. One never knew what would cause his explosions of temper, but the results were horrifying. He’d punish his crewmen so severely for the slightest infraction, as if he derived a sort of twisted satisfaction from it. It was truly awful.” She pictured Sharpe vividly in her mind: immaculately dressed as he strutted around deck, the cloying scent of his spicy clove cigarettes drifting in his wake. She didn’t think she could ever smell cloves again without thinking of the man.

“Did he ever hurt you, Devon? Or touch you at all?”

Devon looked up. She had heard Cole angry before. But never had she heard the cold fury that filled his tone as he asked those two simple questions.

“No,” she answered.

“Are you certain?” He studied her intently, his expression grim.

“Quite certain. He never came near me. But then, I never gave him the opportunity either. Once I saw what the man was really like, I spent the remainder of the voyage locked away in my cabin. For those last three weeks, I told him I was too ill to come out. I told him it was my…” She paused, heat rushing to her cheeks as she finished in a rush, “I told him it was my woman’s time.”