Captured (3 page)

“Well now, that is a difficult choice, isn’t it?” she said. “Allow myself to be passively taken to prison and locked away for a crime that I did not commit, or do everything within my power to escape and risk upsetting such a fine gentleman as yourself.” She shook her head, wringing her hands in mock despair. “Dear me. Whatever shall I do?”

Snorts of appreciative laughter sounded from around the room as their audience cast admiring glances at the petite woman who’d stood up to the rugged captain in a way that none of them had dared. Sergeant Coombs joined in the laughter. “What’d I tell you, McRae? The woman’s nothing but spit and fire. And now she’s all yours.”

Cole had had more than enough of the stale room and its drunken occupants. He reached for his prisoner, intending to lead her away, then stopped, frowning at the thick iron shackles that bound her wrists. He turned back to Coombs. “Give me the key.”

The sergeant produced it from his pocket and passed it over. He shook his head as he watched Cole reach for the prisoner’s wrists. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Cap’n. The woman’s a natural-born thief as well as a murderer. You’d best leave those on, show her who’s boss.”

Cole grabbed her hands and pulled them up, surprised by the woman’s sudden intake of breath. Good. Perhaps his warning had frightened her after all. He turned the key to strip the shackles from her wrists and froze. Her skin was bruised and swollen, rubbed raw in places from sharp, chafing contact with the coarse metal.

It was obvious what Coombs had done. He hadn’t merely shackled his captive, but dragged her along by a rope attached to the heavy cuffs, like pulling a dog on a lead. Cole lifted his gaze from her wrists to her face, but the prisoner’s expression betrayed nothing. She stared straight ahead, her slim shoulders thrown slightly back, her small chin tilted defiantly.

Either she was completely oblivious of the pain or she was one hell of an actress. Cole suspected that the truth fell somewhere in between. A grudging note of respect swept over him, but he pushed it away, refusing to let it take hold. Silently, he studied the shackles in his hand, then turned back to Coombs.

“That were the only way we could control her,” the sergeant blustered gruffly as thin beads of sweat began to form on his upper lip. “It ain’t like she didn’t deserve it. Me and my men was real patient with her. She brung it on herself.”

With every word, Cole moved closer. When he reached the sergeant’s desk, he stopped, calmly setting down the shackles. “Stand up, Coombs.”

The sergeant grinned nervously. “What?”

“Stand up.”

“What do you want me to do that for—”

Cole was once again reduced to hauling the man up by his greasy lapels. “Because I’m going to tell you something, Coombs, and it’s real important. I want to make sure you can hear every word. Can you hear me, Coombs?”

The sergeant’s head bobbed up and down.

“Good. Now listen. I left that port out there with a crew of one hundred men. I came back two weeks ago with less than twenty. Think about that, Coombs. Think real hard. That’s how many men dead?”

“Eighty,” the sergeant whispered hoarsely.

“That’s right.” Cole tightened his grip on the man. “Eighty men dead. You think it’s going to matter to anybody if I kill one more?”

Coombs swallowed convulsively. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“If I could kill my own crew, just imagine what I’ll do to you if I ever see your ugly face again.” Cole let that sink in, then abruptly released him. “Now get out of my sight.”

The sergeant nodded feverishly. He inched sideways around the desk, his eyes never leaving Cole. Moving with a haste that was almost comical, he and his men scurried away, filing out the door in double-quick step.

Their abrupt exit left a heavy silence in the room. Cole turned back to his prisoner, expecting finally to see traces of fear on her face. Or, more likely, pure disgust. He found neither. She stood motionless in the center of the room, her features perfectly composed, her expressive eyes carefully blank. She lifted her chin and said in her soft, slightly husky voice, “My name is Devon Blake.”

Cole studied the woman a minute longer, then shrugged. It didn’t matter.

Devon Blake was in serious trouble. She’d known that from the first second she’d laid eyes on Captain Cole McRae. He hadn’t said a single word to her since they’d left the stockades, nor did it look as though he intended to any time soon. But clearly he had not forgotten her. His hand was locked around her upper arm in a steel grip that defied resistance, forcing her into a near-run to keep pace with his swift, long-legged stride.

She risked another glance at her captor, searching for some sign of weakness in the man, but found none. He was hard and lean, with a body beneath his Union uniform that looked to be made of rock-solid muscle. He wore his hair slightly longer than most men, the thick, golden-blond length reaching just past his collar. His profile could have been carved in granite, so devoid was it of any expression. She noted once again the deep, jagged scar that ran from his left temple to the middle of his cheek, standing out against the tan of his skin. It was a frightening addition to his rugged features, giving him a wounded, slightly dangerous air.

The scar notwithstanding, the captain would probably still be considered an incredibly good-looking man. Except for one thing. His eyes. They were cold, flat, and showed absolutely no trace of mercy within their tawny-brown depths. Cole McRae had the eyes of a man who’d seen death too often. Who’d caused death too often. And who’d simply ceased to care.

Devon silently cursed her luck. Her two previous escorts, Sergeant Coombs and the man before him, had been crude, stupid men, easily duped. Marks she would have plucked cleaner than a Sunday chicken had she met them in Liverpool. She’d managed to escape twice, only to be apprehended later due to an unfortunate combination of bad timing and bad luck. But that had been child’s play, she realized regretfully, compared to the work she had cut out for her now.

Devon knew how to lure a mark in, how to probe for weaknesses, how to maximize profit and minimize risk. But the man who walked beside her down the busy street, ignoring the fascinated stares of passersby, whose broad build and long gait spoke of complete self-assurance, was not a mark she would have chosen. In fact, just the opposite was true. Had the situation been reversed, where she was back in Liverpool, in her element, Cole McRae was a man she wouldn’t have said so much as boo to, regardless of the money involved. But as the choice was not hers to make, the best she could do was to get away from him as quickly as possible.

To that end, she scanned the crowded streets, looking for an opportunity. Despite the oppressive heat, they were surrounded on all sides by a maelstrom of activity. Messengers raced by on hot, sweaty mounts, dodging wagons, mules, and soldiers. Troops drilled to the north, filling the air with the sharp rattle of musketry. Just ahead, crates of foodstuffs and other provisions were being unloaded and carried into the general store.

So immersed was she in taking in her surroundings that she paid no attention to their path until she felt a sharp rock cut between her toes. With a startled gasp, she came to an abrupt halt, despite the iron grip the captain still maintained on her arm. He stopped as well, scowling down at her. Devon ignored him and took another step, only to feel more sharp rocks sting the soles of her feet. Much to her dismay, she noted that the smooth clay pavement they’d been on had slowly given way to a rough, rocky road as they neared the docks.

Before she could move again, he grabbed a handful of her skirt and tugged it aside to reveal her filthy, bare feet and dirty ankles. Humiliation swept over her, along with a healthy dose of anger. She yanked the thin fabric of her gown out of his hands. “Just what do you think—”

“Where are your shoes?” he demanded. There was an unmistakable accusation to his tone, as if she’d deliberately chosen to shame and debase herself by running through the streets barefoot.

“Sergeant Coombs has doubtless sold them by now,” Devon replied, bringing up her chin. “Apparently I’m considered far too grave a danger to the U.S. Army to be allowed the privilege of footwear.”

“The only danger you pose, Madame,” he returned coolly, “is to yourself, unless you learn to control that tongue of yours.”

“Oh, dear. Another threat. I suppose I shall have to begin writing them all down, lest I forget one.” Pleased at having gotten the last word, she turned and started walking, refusing to show the slightest hint of discomfort as the brittle rocks and pebbles bit into the soles of her feet.

Unfortunately her show of stubborn bravado was wasted on Captain McRae. Before she could guess what he was about, he grabbed her around the knees and tossed her over his shoulder like so much unwanted baggage, not even breaking his stride. Devon made no attempt to silence her cry of outrage. She beat her fists furiously against his back, demanding he release her. When that failed, she squirmed sideways in his grasp, threatening to bite off half his ear.

Her struggles drew a crowd of amused onlookers, whose bawdy shouts merely increased her fury. “Put me down this instant,” she hissed, her voice dripping venom, “or I swear I’ll…” She paused, searching for another suitable threat, when a rough bellow from the crowd caught her attention.

“Here now, what’s going on?”

Devon leveraged herself up as best she could, peering around the captain’s shoulder. Her anger disappeared like gin at a drunkard’s table, replaced by an overwhelming surge of giddy triumph. Her luck had finally changed.

The town blacksmith, drawn out of his shop by all the commotion, stood squarely in front of them, blocking their path. The man’s upper torso was naked beneath his apron, his huge body dripping with sweat from his labors. He held a twisted piece of iron in one hand and a heavy anvil in the other. Devon, glancing at the size of his thick arms, wondered if he bothered to work the metal over a fire, as most blacksmiths did, or simply bent it in half with his bare hands.

No matter. In either case, he was surely capable of knocking the stuffing out of the high-handed Captain McRae. The only pity was that she wasn’t planning on staying around long enough to see it. Devon quickly arranged her expression into one of terror-stricken innocence. She even managed a few tears. “Please, sir,” she choked out, “make him put me down. Please.”

The blacksmith frowned at Cole. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m taking this woman—”

“Please, make him put me down,” Devon wailed, cutting him off. “I have to get back home. My mother’s ill, and she needs her medicine.” A few more tears trickled down her nose. Her story was a bit trite, perhaps, but not bad for the spur of the moment. Besides, Captain McRae had been stupid enough to remove her shackles. Who would believe now that she was a convicted felon on her way to prison?

Not the blacksmith. “I think you ought to put the lady down,” he said, his eyes locked on Cole.

Devon bit back a triumphant smile as her soft green eyes darted quickly around her. This was perfect, even better than she’d dared hoped. The streets were crowded and chaotic. It would take less than seconds for her to disappear into the thriving masses. The port was full of ships ready to sail; buggies and carriages waited at every corner to carry her out of town. Her mind was racing so swiftly ahead that she almost missed her captor’s reply.

“No.”

No? Did he say no?

Apparently no one else could believe it either. An expression of stunned surprise rolled through the crowd as it moved even closer in anticipation of witnessing the blows that were sure to follow. The blacksmith grinned and set down his iron and anvil. His hands formed thick, eager fists. He gave the captain one more warning. “I don’t think the lady wants to go with you.”

Cole McRae looked supremely unconcerned. “I’m sure she doesn’t,” he agreed easily.

A frown flashed across the blacksmith’s face. He cocked his head, waiting.

“But I paid good money for one hour of the lady’s time,” Cole continued, “and I’m not about to let her run out on me after just ten minutes. A deal’s a deal.” As he spoke, he brought his hand up, letting it roam over Devon’s backside in the most intimate of caresses.

Devon was too shocked by his touch to respond to his words. “Get your filthy hands off me, you obnoxious, bullying, blue-suited scum!” she shrieked, forgetting her helpless, tearful posture altogether. Abruptly recalling herself, she added, “He’s lying!” But the words sounded like an afterthought even to her.

Her Uncle Monty had always warned her that her temper would get her into trouble, and it looked as if he was right once again. She listened to the awkward shuffling of feet as the crowd weighed her story against Captain McRae’s, knowing she’d ruined whatever chance she might have had. Devon could almost feel their skeptical stares as they took in her bare feet, stockingless legs, dirty gown, and unbound hair.

The blacksmith was the first to make up his mind. “Bring her back here when you’re done. I’ve got some money of my own saved up.” After extracting Cole’s promise to do exactly that, he stepped aside.

Devon was not used to defeat. Nor, since her very life was on the line, did she take it well. As the captain strode purposefully toward the docks, she drove her fists once more against his broad back. “How dare you—”

Cole bounced her up on his shoulder, bringing her down sharply enough to cut off both her words and her breath. “One more word out of you,” he swore, “and I’ll see to it that you’re bound and gagged all the way to Washington.”

Devon fully intended to ignore this newest threat, but launching another verbal battle while slung upside-down was more than even she could manage. Besides, the position was making her decidedly light-headed. She hadn’t eaten anything since the day before yesterday, as the greasy slop Sergeant Coombs offered her hadn’t even been fit for dogs. She felt her stomach twist and she swallowed hard, fighting back a sudden wave of dizziness. She found herself dumped back onto her feet at nearly the same instant. Caught off-guard, she staggered back on shaky legs, pride and stubbornness alone preventing her from sprawling in an undignified heap at her captor’s feet. She’d die before she’d give him that satisfaction.