Captured Read Online Free

“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,