Captured (11 page)

She glanced around for the rest of the men and found them lounging about in the shade near the horses. Her eyes went back to Cole. Normally he was occupied with his own thoughts, and rarely deigned to even notice her. Now, however, his gaze was focused entirely on her, as though she were a strange, foreign creature to be studied.

Devon splashed the water with her feet, then turned to him, her soft green eyes mocking as she raised a dark brow. “Trying to commit me to memory in case you’ll miss me once I’m handed me off to that prison?”

He frowned. “You don’t look like a criminal.”

She shrugged. “That’s generally how it works. One does a much better business that way.”

“Nor do you speak like one,” he said, as if voicing his thoughts aloud. “That tells me you must have had some kind of education, some sort of proper upbringing. It seems you were meant to be a lady, though clearly that’s a goal you’ll never attain.”

Devon fanned herself with her hand. “My, we’re full of opinions tonight, aren’t we?”

“So the question is,” he continued, “what happened? What brought you to the point of relying on thievery and murder for your very existence?”

“Perhaps I enjoy it,” she said, forcing a lightness into her tone that she didn’t quite feel. “Perhaps it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”

“I assume you had a mother, a father. What happened to them?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“If you’re honest with me, I may be able to help you.”

Devon laughed out loud. She couldn’t help it. Obviously the captain had decided to switch tactics, employing friendliness now instead of intimidation. Did he really think she was stupid enough to fall for it? “You want to help me,” she repeated, her voice rich with bitterness and barely bridled contempt. “Now why don’t I believe that?”

“You have a choice,” Cole replied coolly. “Spend the remainder of your days rotting in a cell, or tell me about Sharpe. Everything. How you came to know him, how much he was paying you, where he is now, everything. Start at the very beginning.”

“And if I say no?”

“That would be a mistake.”

“I see.” She fought to keep from clenching her fists. “How very generous of you, McRae.”

Cole simply stared at her, waiting.

She turned away, her light mood instantly dissolved. “The truth is rarely interesting. It certainly isn’t in my case.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

Devon hesitated. Considered.

Ever since she’d lived her life “on the dodge,” as Uncle Monty put it, her background had become amazingly fluid, not unlike the stories she’d just told, tailored to fit whatever situation she found herself in. She’d become adept at letting people see whatever they wanted to see, and letting them believe whatever they wanted to believe. Up until now, that had always suited her. She’d stayed alive, and that was all that counted.

But the truth… that was another matter entirely. She turned back to Cole, noting that his eyes had never left her. He wanted the truth, did he? She thought it over, and then shrugged inwardly. She had nothing left to lose.

“You’ll help me?”

“If I can.”

“Very well,” she answered briskly, her mind made up. “The truth. I was sent for as a mail-order bride. It was a business arrangement, really. Jonas Sharpe was acting as an intermediary, as my intended was an associate of his. Sharpe must have planted the documents found in my trunks, for I had no idea they were there. Furthermore, I didn’t murder anyone. I discovered the body of poor Prescott in an abandoned warehouse, only seconds before the soldiers arrived and arrested me.”

Because she had told her story so many times, her delivery was rather forced and detached. She frowned a bit at that, but dismissed the concern as unimportant. Her purpose had been to relate the events as they had occurred, not to entertain.

As she finished and Captain McRae studied her in thoughtful silence, a tiny spark of hope was lit deep within her. Dare she believe she’d finally found someone who would actually listen to her?

“It appears I should have defined the word truth for you before we began, Blake, as its meaning seems to elude you.”

Devon drew in a tight breath, valiantly maintaining her composure. It had been idiotic for her to hope. Cole’s response was no different than anyone else’s had been whenever she’d tried to explain her circumstances. They’d all asked her for the truth, and then refused to listen when she told it. So be it. She wouldn’t waste another ounce of precious energy trying to convince him.

“As you will not answer,” he said, “you leave me no choice but to draw my own conclusions.”

She let out an inelegant snort. “Yes, of course. Surely a man of your vast intellect has me all figured out by now.”

He leaned back on his elbows, his long legs crossed at the ankles. “Would you care to hear?”

“Not particularly.”

“I think you prefer lies to the truth, stealing to honest work,” he said, ignoring her. “You’re intelligent but greedy, and want more from life than is rightfully your due. You were given some advantages at birth, but obviously those weren’t enough for you. You’re used to getting whatever you want, regardless of the cost to anyone else.”

Devon opened her mouth, and then abruptly closed it, swallowing her anger. What did she care what the man thought of her? She’d chosen her path, and had no apologies to make to anyone. Except to her brother, Billy, maybe, but it was far too late for that.

As a familiar, aching tightness choked her throat, she pushed the thought away and swallowed hard.

“Would you like to try again?” he asked.

Devon took a deep breath. Given her current circumstances, anger was a luxury she could little afford. But that didn’t mean she had to deny herself the fun of throwing her captor’s despicable attitude back in his face.

She silently bowed her head, as though weighing her options. When she lifted her eyes to his, her features were drawn in a mask of lost, weary innocence. “I suppose you’re right,” she said softly. “I really don’t have a choice.”

“I’m glad you finally realize that.”

Smug, arrogant, bastard. Devon gazed forlornly at the water. A small sigh escaped her lips. “My mother was an actress,” she began. “A woman whose beauty and talent were renowned throughout Europe. My father, the French duke, fell in love with her the first time he saw her perform. He swore he’d give up all his estates just to be by her side. But he was married, of course, so the affair was doomed from the start…”

“Blake…” Cole said warningly.

She paused, blinking in mock surprise at his intense frown. “Isn’t that what you wanted to hear?” she asked, thoroughly enjoying herself now. “Pity. That’s always been one of my favorites. Oh well, perhaps you’ll enjoy this. My mother was a savage Indian princess. She met my father, the sea captain, on a voyage to Africa. Their love was destined by the heavens, but alas, a deadly pox spread among the crew—”

“That’s enough,” Cole cut her off.

“Oh?” She relaxed against the trunk of the tree, determined not to show the slightest weakness or vulnerability, knowing all too well he’d only use it against her. She arranged her features into a mask of bored condescension and fanned herself with her hand. “Is it always this hot?” she asked after a few minutes.

He studied her in silence. “No,” he answered at last, “not in August.”

Devon nodded and swatted away a fly.

“Then it’s even hotter.”

She swung her head around to look at him. Was that meant to be a joke? Surely not. There was no trace of levity on his rugged features, no glint of humor in his eyes. She doubted the man even knew how to smile.

His next words proved her right. “It’s worse at Old Capitol. Washington was built on swampland, did you know that? The prisoners there die of malaria in the summer, pneumonia in the winter.”

Devon twirled her toes in the tepid water, sending ripples echoing across the smooth surface. “I presume you’re trying to frighten me.”

“Educate you,” Cole corrected. “And, God knows why, give you another chance at earning my help.”

“I see. And exactly what would I have to do in order to earn that help?”

“Tell me where I can find Sharpe.”

Devon swung her leg over the tree limb and jumped down onto the soft grass. She picked up her shoes and stockings, but didn’t bother to put them on.

Her eyes locked on his, her gaze cool and unflinching. “I wasn’t working for Jonas Sharpe. I have no idea where to find him.” She started to walk away, then stopped and turned slowly back. “Oh. There’s one more thing you should know,” she said. “I was telling the truth; I didn’t kill that man. I’ve never killed anyone…yet.”

Cole rose his feet as well, towering above her once again. His eyes darkened, but whatever comment he was about to make was lost as the sound of someone stumbling through the bushes distracted them both. Justin Hartwood emerged, brushing away the twigs and leaves that clung to his uniform.

“I thought I ordered you and the men to stay with the horses,” Cole said.

“Yes, sir.” Justin nodded and held up his canteen. “I was just gonna get a quick drink.”

Cole’s features turned to stone. “What were your orders, Hartwood?”

Justin came to a dead stop. He glanced at Devon, then quickly averted his eyes, staring at the ground; near his feet instead. A deep red blush crept slowly up his neck. “I was ordered to stay with the horses, sir.”

Cole responded with a tongue-lashing that seemed to Devon entirely inappropriate for the magnitude of the offense. It was hot, the boy was thirsty, and he wanted a drink. So what if he disobeyed an order? She watched in mounting fury as Justin silently endured the harsh reprimand, then turned and marched back to the rest of the men, his skinny shoulders stiff with unreleased anger and wounded pride.

Devon wasted no time in voicing her contempt for the way Cole had handled the boy. “I hope you enjoyed that,” she said in disgust. “You’ve finally succeeded in making him hate you.”

To her appalled disbelief, Cole nodded. He stared after Justin, his profile harsh and unyielding. “I hope so,” he said. “I hope Hartwood hates me enough to never risk disobeying another order in his life. I hope he lives through this damned war, and then long enough to tell his grandchildren what a mean, ugly bastard I was.”

That was the last thing in the world Devon expected to hear. It partly explained why her captor was so harsh with Justin, but it didn’t explain enough. She watched as he absently traced the scar that ran the length of his cheek, then, with a flash of intuition, made a connection. “Who’s Gideon?” she asked.

He jerked his head toward her, his eyes lit with anger and remorse.

“Last night,” she said, forging ahead with more courage than common sense, “you had a nightmare and you called out a name. Who’s Gid—”

“We’ve wasted enough time here,” Cole said, cutting her off. “It’s late, and I’m wasted enough time listening to your lies.”

Devon stiffened in anger but didn’t say a word. There was no reason to get upset, she told herself. So far, everything was working just the way she wanted. Cole McRae had been as easy to fool as the rest of her captors had been. In one critical area he’d believed her farce, and that was enough. By this time tomorrow, if not sooner, she’d have made her escape.

Cole rode behind his prisoner, watching her as she continued to bob up and down in the saddle. The woman was probably the worst rider he’d ever seen, and because of that, they were losing time, moving at only half the pace he’d planned. He should be furious, but he wasn’t. The slower pace gave him time to think, time to sort out the inconsistencies that had been bothering him for days.

Nothing about Devon Blake was as it should be. She was stubborn, willful, a consummate actress, and a talented thief. Yet she was both infuriating and strangely compelling. She undermined his authority, disobeyed his orders, and ridiculed his commands. She worked for Jonas Sharpe, and deserved his loathing just on that basis alone. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He watched her slim back, remembering what she’d looked like only an hour earlier with her skirts bunched up around her knees and her toes dangling in the stream beneath her. She’d been a picture of fetching innocence, and he’d sensed instinctively that the pose hadn’t been contrived. For if it had been, wouldn’t she have jumped on his offer to help her, rather than telling him in so many words to go to hell?

Instead she’d laughed at him. She’d sat there on the branch of that thick oak, her long, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, and laughed at him. Mocked him with her absurd tales and unending lies. Cole had sensed clearly that it wasn’t personal. She simply didn’t trust him. He doubted she trusted anybody, and found himself wondering what had happened in her short life to make her so bitter, so cynical.

And so afraid.

He’d seen that too, despite how desperately she’d tried to hide it from him. The woman could control her expressions, moderate her tone of voice, and maintain a posture of haughty disdain no matter how difficult the circumstances. But she hadn’t yet learned to school the emotions that flashed through her eyes.

Cole was profoundly grateful for that. He found himself watching her eyes, studying them the way a sailor studies the sky, looking for storms. He could see them clearly in his mind, even though her back was to him. Soft shimmering green, framed by long, thick, sooty lashes. Amazing eyes. Devon Blake had eyes that would make even a plain girl pretty. On her they were breathtaking.

He tightened his jaw. Christ, he was beginning to sound as smitten as Hartwood. The woman was no more than a nuisance, and a dangerous one at that. Obviously he’d been too soft on her. It was his duty to make her tell him where he could find Sharpe, and if he needed to handle her more roughly in order to get that information, he would. It was a shame it had to be that way, but he didn’t care. He owed at least that much to the memory of his men.

That resolved, he turned his attention back to the trail. The path they followed was poorly groomed, little more than a shallow rut that meandered slowly northward. They traveled for miles beneath the cover of dense trees and overgrown shrubs. Eventually the trees began to thin and bright sunlight flooded the ground just ahead, indicating a clearing of some sort. Cole let out a low whistle, signaling his men to a stop. He spurred his mount forward, arriving at the edge of the clearing just as a piercing screech of metal reached his ears.