Captured (36 page)

Monty’s hand came down hard on his shoulder. “My good friend.” He beamed. “Nice bit of work. Very nice, indeed.”

Finch pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “For a moment there I didn’t think we were going to make it.” He glared up at Cole, his tone suspicious. “You cut it awfully close, Captain. Why didn’t you fire on those ships?”

“I’m not in the habit of wasting ammunition. The South needs all she can get,” he answered with a reasonable lie.

Finch frowned and shoved his handkerchief back into his pocket. “I would have fired anyway.”

“Maybe that explains why I’m captain of this ship and you’re not.” Cole turned and reached for Devon’s hand. “If you gentlemen will excuse us, I have duties to attend before we dock, and I believe my wife is in need of some rest.”

He ushered Devon across the deck and through the narrow passageways that led to his cabin. Neither one spoke a word as they moved. Once there, he brought her inside and kicked the door shut behind them. Cole wrapped his arm around her in a fierce embrace and pulled her tightly to him. His lips slanted over hers in a kiss of savage hunger, in a need to release his pent-up fear and frustration.

Finally he was able to pull back. He ran his hands over her back and breathed deeply. “I should have never brought you. That was too close, Devon. Too damned close.”

She pulled back and stared up into his face. “That doesn’t matter. You made it. You got us through.”

“Barely. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

“I never doubted you for a moment.”

He stared down at her, amazed by the absolute conviction in her tone, the complete trust and approval glowing in her eyes. He felt overwhelmed‌—‌and totally undeserving. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked huskily.

“I don’t know, but I suspect you’ll think of something.”

The invitation was clear in her words. But as tempting as the offer was, she looked exhausted. He probably looked like something that had been wrung through a meat grinder. He sure as hell felt that way. Given that, it wasn’t too difficult for him to be noble. “Later,” he said gently. He brushed his fingers over her cheek, still entranced by the velvety softness of her skin. “Why don’t you lie down for a little while,” he suggested. “I’ll join you shortly.”

“Where are you going?”

“To check the cargo before it’s unloaded.” He let out a breath and ran a hand over the back of his neck. Every muscle in his body ached. Exhaustion made him thoughtless, or he never would have let his next words slip. “Thank God none of those shots came any closer. With what we’re carrying, the ship would have gone up in—” He stopped abruptly, swearing silently.

Devon stared at him calmly. “Cole, I know.”

He looked at her in disbelief. She couldn’t possibly…

“Those crates marked hardware are full of weapons, aren’t they?” she said. “The barrels marked wheat are full of gunpowder. You’ve other kinds of ammunition in the hold too, don’t you?”

He let out a hollow laugh. “I can’t imagine why I thought I could pull anything over on you.”

She arched a dark brow. “Neither can I.”

Half the crates stored below were filled with frivolous luxuries, the other half with rifles and munitions. Cole knew that the type of cargo he carried was equally as important as his ability to make it through the blockade. Bringing in the weapons should be interpreted as a sign of loyal dedication to the Southern cause, a trait that likely would appeal to Sharpe.

“I presume you took care of it,” Devon said.

Cole nodded. “The firing pins on the rifles are bent beyond repair, the gunpowder has been soaked in saltwater, and holes were drilled into the shells to make them fire astray.” He’d had to leave a few crates undamaged for checking and testing purposes, but the vast majority of the munitions were worthless.

“Good,” she said, stifling a yawn.

“’Get some sleep. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Cole found himself occupied all day, rather than just for a few hours. By the time he was finally able to return to his cabin, night had long since fallen. Normally Devon left a light for him, but tonight the room was pitch-black. He lit a lamp and turned it up low. She was lying in bed, curled on her side with her back to him. The supper tray he’d ordered sent to her was sitting on the table, untouched. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked.

Devon didn’t move or make a sound, though he knew she was awake.

Cole frowned as he walked to the bed and sat down. The mattress sank beneath his weight. Her body rolled back against his, her spine pressed against his thigh. She didn’t move away, nor did she lean into him. Nothing. Cole fought back a rising sense of panic as he reached for her. Despite the warmth of the night, her skin felt cold and clammy. “Devon, what is it? Are you ill?”

She stared blankly at the wall, then softly said, “Let’s leave Wilmington tomorrow, Cole. Run the blockade and get but. Forget about Sharpe, the war, everything. Just run.”

He reached for her and gathered her into his arms, cradling her in his lap. He ran his hands over her, trying to transfer the heat from his body to hers. “Devon,” he said, “I shouldn’t have left you alone today. You’re experiencing delayed shock from running the blockade. It’s a terrifying experience for even the most seasoned—”

“No. No, that’s not it.” She tilted her face up toward his. Though she wasn’t crying now, her eyes were red and swollen; the tracks of her tears still glistened on her cheeks. “We can’t go after Sharpe, Cole. If we do, it’s going to be bad. It’s going to be very, very bad.”

Cole looked down at her, his entire body aching with regret. Obviously she was more shaken up by the run than he’d suspected, “Where did this all come from?”

“I was sleeping and I saw it all,” she said with a shuddering breath. “I saw exactly what’s going to happen.”

“You had a bad dream.”

“No, not a dream. More than that. I had one before my father put me on that train, then again before Billy died, and once about a hotel at which Uncle Monty and I were staying. I saw that there was going to be an awful fire and there was, the very next night.”

“And now you dreamed about Sharpe.”

“You’re not listening to me!” Devon shook her head against his chest, his shirt clenched in her fist. “It wasn’t a dream. I felt it, Cole. It’s exactly what will happen if we go after Sharpe. You’ve never met him. He’s evil. Truly evil.”

“Shhh,” he soothed, rocking her back and forth. “I’m right here, Devon. I’m listening. Tell me about it.”

She closed her eyes, her voice trembling as she said, “I don’t know where we were, it’s all so hazy. Everything had gone wrong. I was there, Uncle Monty was there, and you were there… but you weren’t there. I couldn’t make you hear me. I don’t understand it.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Sharpe had a gun. There was blood all over my dress, all over my hands, and I couldn’t stop screaming.”

Cole’s stomach clenched as he fought back the image her words created. He tightened his arms around her, thinking of his own dark premonitions the day they’d set sail for Wilmington. “That’s not going to happen, Devon,” he swore. “None of it, do you hear me?”

She pulled out of his embrace to study his face. “Does that mean you’re not going after Sharpe?”

“Devon, I can’t—”

“Cole, please…”

He stared into her eyes, hating the fear and desperation he saw there. “I have to do this,” he said, refusing to lie to her. “We’ve come too far for me turn back now.”

She regarded him in silence, then let out a shaky breath. “I know.”

“I promise you, everything’s going to be all right.”

Her eyes welled with tears as she let out a choked sob. “There was so much blood…”

The sight of her tears slashed through his body like the sting of a whip. He pulled her tightly against him, brushing his hand gently over her hair. “It’s going to be all right,” he swore. “I promise, Devon.”

Her nightmare wouldn’t come true, and for one simple reason. When it came time for a showdown with Sharpe, Cole would make damned sure Devon was nowhere near.

Cole moved swiftly through the streets of Wilmington, stunned at the changes that had befallen the city in the year and a half since the war had begun. The streets were muddy and unkempt, the shops empty and barren. An air of poverty and distress hung over the town like a dark cloud.

He felt the furtive glances of people he passed, and wondered if there was something that gave him away. He wore pants and a shirt of decent quality, not too rich, but not shabby either. No Rebel uniform. He’d never claimed to be in the Confederate Navy, for that could be too easily checked by Sharpe. Instead he called himself a profiteer. Someone who ran the blockade for money, but who had strong Southern leanings. It was a bit ambiguous of a background, but he preferred it that way. No, there was nothing about him that gave him away. It was just that his nerves were still a bit on edge.

Devon had thoroughly shaken him three nights ago with her talk of visions and disaster. That, combined with his own dark premonitions, filled him with a deep sense of foreboding, despite the fact they’d gamely tried to brush it off the next morning as nothing but the result of strain and exhaustion. Monty seemed to be the only one who was handling the situation well. As a matter of fact, he appeared to be thriving.

Monty owned a different suit for every day of the week, and as near as Cole could tell, they were all plaid. That made the large man easy to identify. Especially now, as he stood on a crate before a swelling crowd. He was smiling, shouting, and carrying on, his grand gestures visible even from across the street. Cole shook his head and stifled a groan. A low profile, that’s what Monty had promised him. But with Montgomery Persons, that obviously wasn’t possible.

Cole glanced at the banner that hung over Monty’s head: Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup. Miracle Cure-All. Bottles of the syrup were stacked up neatly in the booth behind him, blazing with impressive red and gold labels that matched the banner. Cole had no idea where the syrup had come from, nor did he truly want to know. He spotted Devon standing next to the booth and went over to join her. She gave him a brief smile, then turned her attention back to her uncle.

“Of all the blessings this life has to offer,” Monty boomed out to the crowd, “none can exceed the value of good health. Who among us has not fallen to grievous illness, only to recover and experience the bliss, the joy, the bounty of good health? And what a wonderful feeling that is, my friends, what a wonderful feeling that is!”

Cole was grudgingly impressed. Monty worked the crowd like an evangelical preacher, offering praise and salvation one moment, heartache the next. “But what about those of you who suffer pain in silence, those who have loved ones who suffer? Do you think the world has forgotten you? Indeed, the world has not! Mrs. Winslow has not!”

“Why ain’t you off fightin’ the war?” a heckler called from the audience.

Monty handled the man with cool aplomb. “My good friend,” he beamed, “I’m delighted you asked. For you see, I have as brave a heart in my body as any man, but the most cowardly legs you ever saw.”

A chuckle ran through the crowd, and the heckler was pushed back. Monty grabbed a bottle and waved it around. “Speaking of the war, don’t forget your loved ones in prison or in the camps,” he called out. “One bottle will relieve the worst cases of sores, ulcers, scurvy, fevers, and bowel complaints. You there!” He pointed to two young men who stood nearby. “A side benefit of the syrup: when applied to the face it promotes a luxurious growth of whiskers‌—‌without staining the skin! Remarkable, you say? Yes, but true! All true!”

The townspeople surged forward, offering up their hard-earned bills. While Cole strongly doubted the cure-all would help any of them, neither did he figure it would hurt‌—‌except perhaps in the pocketbook. Most likely it contained a mixture of alcohol, water, peppermint, and whatever herbs were at hand when it was bottled.

After an hour had passed and Monty’s stock was nearly depleted, a young girl fought her way to the front of the crowd. Cole’s indifference immediately fled. She was barefoot, her dress made of coarse brown wool. In her arms she carried a squalling baby. The girl unclenched her fist, holding up a few coins. “Please! Please, sir, I have to have that syrup!”

Monty frowned. “Are you ill?”

“No, it’s not for me, it’s for the baby. She’s been sickly ever since she was born.”

Monty bent down and pulled back the thin cotton blanket that covered the child’s face. “Your sister?” he asked gently.

The girl shook her head, a shy smile flashing across her face. “No, I’m her mama. Her daddy’s off fightin’ the war.”

“I see,” Monty said as he straightened. He looked at the girl for a second longer, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. The syrup is too strong to give to a baby.”

The girl’s smile faded as panic transformed her features, “It’s the money, ain’t it? I know it’s not enough but it’s all I’ve got. I don’t have any more.”

“I’m sor—”

“Wait!” she cried desperately. “I can dig up my garden! It’s got carrots and potatoes. I’ll give them all to you. Please, I don’t need the food. I just need something for my baby.”

Monty let out a deep breath, no doubt seeing what Cole was seeing. The girl was nothing but skin and bones. She needed every ounce of food she had and then some. “I don’t want your food—”

“Oh, please,” she choked out. “I’ll give you anything. Anything. But I have to have a bottle of that potion.”

“My dear girl—”

“Please, you don’t understand,” she said as she clutched Monty’s leg. “Last night I prayed for a miracle for my baby, and now you’re here. The bottle even says Miracle on it. That’s why I have to have it I know it’s going to cure her, I know it will.”

Monty studied her for a long, silent moment. Finally he let out a deep sigh and held out his hand. “Very well.”

The girl dropped her coins into his palm, her face wreathed with a glowing smile. “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.” She reached for the bottle but Monty pulled it out of her grasp.

“Now, now, my dear. As I said, this is too strong to give a baby. Let me get you the other formula.”