Captured (40 page)

Devon shook her head. “I’m not sleepy.”

Cole reached down and lifted her into his arms. His long strides carried her swiftly through the maze of cotton and toward his cabin. “Even better.”

The streets of Nassau pulsed with energy. The city was awash with color, framed by a sapphire sea and dazzling white beaches. Natives attired in vivid garb strolled casually by, calling out in the soft dialect of the island. Tall palms swayed in the gentle trade winds. Perhaps it was just the contrast with the dreary poverty and distress she’d seen in Wilmington that made the city seem so prosperous and happy. Whatever the reason, Devon was determined to enjoy it.

She drank it all in as she rode in an open buggy seated between Cole and her uncle. As was his habit, Earl Finch had disappeared as soon as the ship had docked. She, for one, would not miss his presence. She pushed thoughts of Finch from her mind and focused instead on the sights around her.

Although she knew Nassau was a Rebel gun-running port, just as St. George had been, the difference was amazing. St. George had been quaint and charming, but filled with a sense of giddy desperation and greed. She felt none of that here. The island was more formal than she’d expected, graced with stately mansions and classical government buildings, carefully tended parks and gardens. The narrow streets and dimly lit pubs had a decidedly British feel to them and made her feel right at home.

They passed Straw Market, a rowdy square that was alive with noise and color. Vendors with bulging booths and trestle tables sold every conceivable item from fish and fruit to lace and tobacco. The Grand Hotel, where the hitching posts were thick with horses and carriages, appeared to be one of the island’s busiest establishments. Glancing through the windows, Devon saw that the tables in the glittering dining room and salon were tightly packed. The dull roar of voices spilled out onto the street. She recognized the same breed of men as she’d seen in St. George: Americans fleeing the war, blockade runners, officers of the Confederacy, and Yankee spies.

Cole directed the carriage east of town, along a pretty, winding street that moved gradually uphill. It was quiet and peaceful, unlike the bustling vibrancy of town. They passed stately, lovely homes, all softly shaded in cool pastels and icy whites. Cole had mentioned to her that he had a home in Nassau, as this was one of his major ports for shipping, but she wasn’t prepared for what she saw when he finally stopped.

The house was set away from the street by a small courtyard. An arbor covered in primroses framed the entryway; flat gray stones set a meandering path through garden to front door. The house itself had a limestone front, its outer walls washed in a deep cream. The veranda wrapped around the home was set off by an intricate fretwork balcony of shining white that matched the louvered shutters on the windows and doors. Devon fell in love with it on sight. It looked like something she’d seen in a book of fairy tales. Never what she’d expected Cole’s home would look like, yet it fit perfectly in the quaint, charming neighborhood.

Cole assisted her from the wagon, watching her reaction but saying nothing as he took her hand and led her inside. She found the interior of his home a stark contrast to the exterior, but more in line with what she’d expected to see. It was strikingly masculine, filled with large, oversized pieces of furniture. The walls were painted white, the dark wood floors polished to a high gleam. All the home lacked was a woman’s touch to bring it together. She made a mental inventory as she moved through the house. Soft cushions for the chairs in the front parlor, a lace tablecloth for the dining room, curtains for the kitchen, a few rugs scattered about, flowers from the garden brought indoors—

Devon stopped herself abruptly. She wouldn’t be here long enough to effect any of those changes. It wasn’t her place, in any case. Aware that Cole was waiting for her response, she turned to him and smiled. “It’s lovely,” she said sincerely.

“It will do nicely, Captain,” Monty pronounced as he dropped into a chair. He lumbered back to his feet as a dark-skinned woman entered the room.

Devon judged her to be in her early forties, and by her attire, a native of the island. Only the hints of gray in her hair gave her age away, for her complexion was nearly flawless. The woman had a solid build, with a large bosom and broad hips. She moved gracefully despite her girth, her brightly colored skirts flowing smoothly behind her as she entered the room. “Welcome back, Mr. Cole,” she said, her voice deep and rich, flavored with the same soft accent Devon had heard in the speech of other natives.

Cole made the introductions. “Devon, Monty, I’d like you to meet Elize. She and her husband, John, run the place for me while I’m gone.” The woman smiled and politely inclined her head. “Elize, this is my wife, Devon, and her uncle, Montgomery Persons.”

“A pleasure, Madame,” Monty said, beaming, as Devon murmured a polite greeting of her own. She glanced at Cole, stunned by the way he’d introduced her. This is my wife, Devon. She hadn’t expected him to mention their relationship at all. She’d assumed he’d just call her and Uncle Monty guests and leave it at that.

Elize gave him a dark frown, her fists propped on her hips. She looked from Devon to Cole and demanded, “What dis you say?”

Cole draped his arm around Devon’s shoulder in an offhand embrace, looking as though deliberately provoking the woman was one of life’s finest pleasures. “I said my wife, Devon.”

Elize lifted her brows. “Your wife, mister? You tell me you go off to fight de war. Instead you go off finally find de wife.”

“Finally?” Cole repeated with a grin. “I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be looking for one.”

His servant sniffed in disapproval. “Dis house need a wife. You need a wife.” She turned to Devon, her eyes glowing with warm approval despite the gruffness of her words. “How dis boy trick you into marrying him?”

“Blackmail,” Cole answered for Devon, making it sound as if he were the one who blackmailed her, and not the other way around.

“Hmph,” said Elize. “Now there is something I believe. Come, mistress, I show you upstairs.”

Devon followed her obediently, leaving Cole and Monty behind as the two men poured drinks and settled in the parlor to talk. The upstairs was much like the lower level of the house, with airy, spacious rooms, filled with solid, masculine pieces of furniture. Cole’s bedchamber was the largest. The focus of the room was a large mahogany four-poster bed, draped on all sides with a gauzy mosquito netting. The crisp white linens looked unbearably cool and inviting. A blush rose to her cheeks as her mind instantly conjured up visions of her and Cole making love beneath them.

A brief tap sounded on the door. Elize opened it and admitted her husband, who brought in Devon’s things from the buggy. The man greeted her warmly, then left the two women alone. Elize opened the first bag, chattering softly as she started to unpack. She pulled out the pink silk dress Devon had been married in. Devon stared at the gown, a funny twist in her heart. “Elize,” she said, “thank you, but it won’t be necessary to unpack.”

The woman paused in her task and looked at Devon. “Silk wrinkle very fast in de islands. It best if we—”

“Thank you, but I’ll see to it later,” Devon managed. She wasn’t staying. Unpacking and settling in would only make it that much harder when the time came for her to leave.

Elize set down the items she’d been pulling from the bag, studying Devon with dark eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of the ages. “I see,” she said simply, then moved toward the door.

Devon spun away, feeling as though she’d just bitterly insulted the woman. And worse than that, as if she’d betrayed Cole in the process. She gazed blindly around the room, then her eyes lit upon three silver-framed portraits lined neatly on the bureau. She moved toward them, more from a desire to take her mind off the impending end of her marriage than out of any real interest.

The first showed an older couple. They were richly dressed and perfectly starched, their spines stiffer than the backs of the chairs in which they sat. So stiff and formal, they almost looked angry as they glared into the camera. Attractive perhaps, but grim. Cole’s parents, she assumed. The second portrait showed another couple almost identical in pose, attire, and attitude, only about twenty years younger. His brother, Richard, and Richard’s wife, Sarah.

She glanced at the third, smiling as she realized it was a picture of Cole. Obviously it had been taken years ago, for he looked much younger. She picked it up and studied it carefully, recognizing as she did that the photograph wasn’t of Cole at all. It was Gideon who stared out at her, she realized with a shock. The resemblance was amazing. He had the same thick blond hair, the same strong, chiseled features. He was tall, but with a boyish leanness, though his frame promised he would one day have the same powerful physique as Cole.

Unlike the other photographs, this one hadn’t been posed in a studio. Gideon stood outside, dressed in a navy uniform, the helm of a ship faintly visible behind him. His stance conveyed restlessness, an impatience to be back aboard. A hint of a smile played about his lips, as though he was preparing to make a randy comment to either the photographer or someone standing beside him.

He looked strong and alive, bursting with energy and vitality. Just as she’d pictured him: reckless and wild, a young god gifted with beauty and youth and immortality, ready to spring from the frame and bound through the room. She could readily imagine him coaxing kisses from his sweetheart, or showing his friends his “card tricks.”

Devon set the portrait down, her heart aching as she sank into a chair beside the bed. She stared at the items Elize had emptied from her bag, each piece flooding her with memories: the tortoiseshell hairpins she’d confiscated from the train, the cockle pills, and the lacy pink corset. She looked at the indigo calico gown Cole had given her in Virginia, the sheer chemise she’d worn on their wedding night, the boots he’d bought her in Fort Monroe.

Each item struck a different memory, strumming through her mind like strings on a harp. Producing a symphony that washed over her in waves, discordant and yet hauntingly beautiful. Everything she saw was so connected to her, to Cole, to what they’d shared together.

Finally Devon studied the wedding band she wore on her finger. She remembered him standing before her as he gave it to her, so strong and proud, yet aching with regret and vulnerability, hurting as much as she was for the mistakes they’d made, for the past they hadn’t quite learned to conquer or let go. Neither one willing to confront the future, but trying desperately to make the most of the present. Cole’s voice echoed softly in her ears: Let me love you, Devon…

Without thinking any further about what she was doing, she stood and started to unpack.

Devon woke the next morning to the feel of a man’s hand moving in playful circles across the top of her thigh. She snuggled up against him, her bottom pressed tightly against his groin. Without opening her eyes, she let out a sleepy sigh. “Hmmm, that feels lovely. Is that you, Sherman?”

Cole gave her a gentle swat. “Very funny.”

Devon smiled and rolled over, staring up at her husband as he braced himself on one elbow above her. She loved the look of Cole in the morning, his golden hair slightly mussed and falling in tousled waves onto his forehead, his deep brown eyes hazy with sleep, a subtle shadow across his cheeks. His bronze skin was a vivid contrast to the stark white sheet that pooled about his waist. She traced her hand lightly over his chest and said, “You deserted me yesterday.”

He lifted her hand and brushed her fingers softly across his lips. “I know I’m sorry.”

“Where did you go?”

“I had some business to take care of down at the docks.”

A tremor of unease shot through her. When she’d finished her unpacking and returned downstairs, she’d found only her uncle. Cole had left without a word, not returning until the small hours of the morning, Devon remembered feeling the bed sink beneath his weight as he climbed in next to her, then sleepily rolling over on top of him as he settled in beneath the covers. Somewhere along the way, she’d acquired the habit of using Cole for her pillow, but fortunately he didn’t seem to mind.

“Your business down at the docks had to do With Sharpe, didn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered honestly.

She took a deep breath, pushing her feelings of dark foreboding away. “It’s all happening so soon.”

“Not soon enough. I want this resolved, Devon, so we can put Sharpe behind us and get on with our lives.”

She forced herself to leave his statement alone and accept it at face value. But it took all her willpower not to twist it apart looking for hidden meanings and convoluted interpretations. He was referring to Jonas Sharpe, not the two of them. “What are you planning?” she asked.

He frowned. “I wish to hell I had a plan. At this point there’s not a damned thing we can do but wait for Finch to report back to us. Until then…”

She studied him as his voice trailed off, sensing a tension deep within him that was caused by more than just the waiting. “What is it?” she asked.

Cole stared at her for a long moment, regret and worry etched deep in his features. He shook his head, as if dismissing her question, then startled her by asking, “Can I trust Monty? Really trust him?”

“I trust him with my life,” she answered automatically.

A grim smile flashed across his face. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

Devon frowned, not liking the direction the conversation had taken. “What do you need me to do?”

“Stay out of it.”

“Cole—”

“I mean it, Devon. No matter what happens, I want you to let Monty and me handle it. Promise me you won’t get in the way.”

“That’s very flattering,” she snapped. “Maybe you should stay out of my way. I’m the professional, remember? You’re the one who’s too obtuse to know when your own wallet is being lifted, and you can’t hang on to your watch to save your life—”