Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies (Secrets & Spies) Read online

  A heart’s destiny cannot be denied when a daring Union spy abducts a beautiful runaway bride he suspects of being a traitor.

  A Runaway Bride…

  Emma Davenport was a model senator’s daughter: prim, proper, but hell-bent on escaping the dreaded fate of spinsterhood that awaited her under wartime Washington’s all-too watchful eye. She was going to be a bride, and no one was going to stop her. Not even the daring renegade who steals her from a train transporting her to a forbidden marriage. Her heart tells her this mysterious desperado is a dangerous man, but the pleasure of his touch is a more potent threat than any weapon.

  A Man on a Mission…

  Major Cole Travis is a highly trained secret agent, as skilled with deception as he is with a gun. Keeping a beautiful traitor from her rendezvous with a treacherous scoundrel shouldn’t be a challenge for the battle-seasoned spy—but he’s not the only one after his tempting captive. Emma Davenport must be kept out of enemy hands at all costs. Drawn to this woman whose innocent allure may be just another weapon in her arsenal, Cole risks his neck to shield her. Soon, however, protecting her from his own heart’s desire becomes another story entirely.

  Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies

  Book One: The Secrets & Spies Series

  By

  Tara Kingston

  SECRETS, SPIES & SWEET LITTLE LIES Copyright © 2013 by Tara Kingston. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Kimberly Killion @ The Killion Group, Inc.

  Previously published as Destiny (writing as Victoria Gray) by The Wild Rose Press, 2010. This edition has been completely revised with new scenes added.

  Dedication

  To Greg,

  Thanks for being my real-life hero.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks go to Kathleen, Eliza, Tracey, Ashlyn, Lane, Averil, Barbara, Renee Ann, Tess, Ashley, Cari, and Samanthya.

  Your friendship and encouragement are blessings in my life.

  Chapter One

  Maryland

  May, 1864

  Emma Davenport was going to be a bride, and no one was going to stop her. Not the bodyguards her father employed around the clock. Not the prim chaperone who clung to her side like a parasitic weed. And certainly not the prissy maiden aunt who scrutinized her every waking move.

  A United States senator’s daughter must look the part at all times.

  One never knew who was watching.

  Her aunt’s admonitions playing in her head, Emma paused as she stepped onto the platform of a train station deep in the Allegheny Mountains. Chin up. Back straight. Serene, but not smiling. And why shouldn’t she hold her head up? She’d done nothing wrong. Leaving Washington had been an act of survival. She’d been condemned to an oh-so-proper existence that masqueraded as a life.

  This time, her father wasn’t going to stop her from following her dreams.

  But as she stepped onto the station platform, Emma stiffened. Alarm borne of instinct prickled along her spine.

  Someone had her in his sights.

  Had she been followed?

  If her father had sent some lap dog to fetch her—Mr. Tucker, his ever-agreeing assistant, most likely—the beleaguered fop could tuck his tail between his legs and head home. Papa had plenty of people to order about. She’d no longer be one of them.

  Drat it all, she’d simply have to confront him.

  She turned on her heel. A stranger met her gaze.

  Definitely not Mr. Tucker.

  Long, lean, and scowling, the man eyed her with an intensity that coiled heat in her belly and threatened to strip her bare. His lips curved into a trace of an arrogant smile as if challenging her to look away.

  He wore a crudely tailored shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a vee of sun-bronzed skin feathered with dark hair. Deeper in hue than the neatly-clipped strands on his head, would the curls feel silky or crisp to the touch?

  She blinked away the scandalous thought. Still, her mouth went dry.

  His sinewy muscles strained against the cambric of his shirt. Sunlight glinted off the manacles on his wrists.

  He was a prisoner, flanked by two towering Union soldiers. Sparing one of the guards a glance brimming with defiance, he turned back to Emma. The sweep of his appreciative gaze trailed from her demure hat to the hem of her sky-blue traveling skirt. His expression penetrated her.

  She felt exposed, vulnerable.

  Hunted.

  Tightly restrained hunger unleashed another shiver up her spine, stirring a primal longing Emma could not and did not want to understand.

  She averted her eyes, dropping her gaze to a towheaded child who’d chosen that moment to squeal and shriek as though the devil himself had nudged him with a pitchfork.

  Still, the impact of the stranger’s bold appraisal left her belly in knots. Quite ridiculous, really. She dismissed the sensation deep in her core as alarm. Nothing more. She wasn’t out of her father’s long reach yet. Until she spoke her vows, she would be vulnerable. Jeremiah Davenport wasn’t a man who readily accepted defeat. Even she couldn’t gauge the full extent of his reaction or the lengths he’d go to retrieve her.

  But this man—this man who’d eyed her with a predator’s focus—was a prisoner. A deserter, most likely. Not that she could blame him. The horrors of war could drive a man to desperate acts.

  Of course, his circumstances might have been far more sinister. What had he done to merit an armed guard and manacles? No doubt a grim fate awaited him once they reached their destination.

  A dingy cell and hard labor.

  Or the hangman’s rope.

  Unable to stop herself, she turned. The prisoner and his heavily armed escorts were nowhere to be seen amongst the clutter of souls crowding the platform. A sagging sense of disappointment weighed her shoulders. Had she actually hoped to face him again, to meet his eyes and prove his stare had not cowed her, no matter how intimidating he fancied himself?

  Enough of that. What a brutish man in handcuffs thought of her was of no consequence. Perhaps she’d imagined the look in his eyes, the spark of recognition. The sense of being a quarry in his sights.

  If only she could convince herself.

  She was being a goose. She’d evaded her father’s security staff and slipped past the ever-present Miss Calder while the tight-lipped spinster was still firmly entrenched in her pre-dawn slumber. She’d maneuvered her way to the train station and out of the city without being recognized. Now, all she had to do was get back on the train and bide her time until it steamed into St. Louis.

  A baby’s frustrated cries mingled with a swarm of noisy chatter and the din of the locomotive idling on the tracks. A vein throbbed in Emma’s temple. Pressing two fingertips to the spot, she drank in a long, slow inhalation. She’d sought a few moments to stretch her cramped legs, but the station proved only slightly more inviting than the cramped passenger car. Well, then, no sense taking any chance of being spotted and derailing her plans.

  Reboarding the train, Emma collapsed onto her seat and pressed back against the hard wooden bench. Rosewater cologne and the unsu
btle aroma of sweat that had lingered far too long on unwashed bodies wafted to her nostrils. She craned her neck toward the open window and gulped a breath of air, then another.

  The stifling compartment threatened to suffocate her, but she couldn’t risk leaving the train again. In a few days, she would be with the man she’d chosen to spend her life with, and this journey would be nothing more than a distant memory.

  A pang of guilt washed over her. Her stomach clenched. She hadn’t meant to cause her father any concern. But she couldn’t settle for the life he’d negotiate for her.

  If her father had his way, she’d find herself mired in a marriage that would be little more than the sweetener in yet another Capitol Hill deal. He’d marry her off to some perfectly respectable, politically well-connected troll.

  Of course, she could always refuse the match. Papa couldn’t force her to marry. Spinsterhood had its merits. She’d have ample time for good works. She could pursue her study of the piano with more vigor. Someday, she might even pen a novel.

  But a life surrounded by do-gooders and cats wasn’t what she envisioned when she thought of her future.

  Her fingers moved to the high choker neckline of her blouse. Toying restlessly with the buttons, she grazed her fingertips against the stiff, unforgiving lace. The sweltering heat of the noonday sun tempted her to unfasten the tiny pearl nubs, but such impropriety would bring unwanted attention. No, she’d endure the subtle torture. Any notice she’d attract might put her plan at risk.

  * * *

  Major Cole Travis glanced from the discarded manacles heaped before him to the unconscious railroad engineer who lay bound and gagged in the corner of a cramped backroom in the depot. His gaze darted to the chloroform-soaked rag at the man’s feet. Another image flooded his thoughts. A woman’s face.

  A woman who was far more enticing than his sources had led him to believe. “Damn,” he swore under his breath. “She’s certainly not the bookish mouse they described.”

  His partner, a towering man with a mess of wheat blond hair, offered a nod as he shrugged out of his heavy, wool sack coat. Steve Dunham’s eyes narrowed as he seemed to read Cole’s thoughts.

  “You sure she’s the senator’s daughter?”

  Cole retrieved a small portrait from his trouser pocket. Neither words nor the camera’s lens had done the chestnut-haired beauty justice. “It’s her.”

  He shoved the tintype back into his pants and turned his attention to the third person in their scheme. Adam MacDowell had managed to squeeze the engineer’s uniform onto his lumberjack-hewn frame, but the seams looked ready to revolt. One good sneeze, and the Scotsman’s drawers would be on display.

  “You ready, MacDowell?”

  The man chosen to serve as support on this mission cocked an eyebrow. “The train isn’t scheduled to leave until half past noon. There’s plenty of time.”

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “No need to worry. I’ve never derailed a train yet. I don’t plan to break that pretty lass’s neck.”

  “You sound like you’re going to enjoy this.”

  “Aye, that I will. I don’t envy you. Having a bonny young thing at yer mercy—that will be a cruel test of yer fortitude.”

  “Are you always so full of shit?”

  “It’s one of my better traits.” MacDowell smiled. “Still, ye must admit, ye’ve mighty arduous duty ahead.”

  “That pretty lass might be a rebel spy. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll have her on a train bound for Washington before sundown.”

  The Scot retrieved the engineer’s cap and placed it on his head. “How long will ye wait before ye retrieve her?”

  “A quarter hour. By the time we catch up with you, the train will be far from any populated area.”

  MacDowell tucked the bottle of chloroform into a leather satchel. “The conductor was already pretty liquored up. I doubt he’s still standing at this point.”

  “If he gets in your way, you know how to solve the problem.”

  MacDowell’s gaze hardened at his words. “Aye.”

  The door closed quietly behind MacDowell as he left the station house. Cole’s gaze flickered to the clock. He was a patient man, but something about this mission made him edgy. There’d been almost no time to plan the logistics, and the situation was unpredictable. He wanted to get it finished before he had time to come to his senses and tell everyone who’d chosen him to carry out this scheme to go to hell.

  Dunham opened a flask. Casting a sideways glance at his partner, he lifted it to his mouth and took a healthy slug.

  “She is pretty, isn’t she?”

  Cole’s mouth quirked into a smile. “What’s the matter? Getting soft?”

  “I just stated a fact. Forget how to appreciate looking at a woman?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not that far gone.”

  If he’d ever had any doubts about his ability to appreciate looking at a woman—a fully-clothed, prim and proper young woman at that—his brief encounter with Emma Davenport had banished them. She was the kind of woman a man could take to bed for a lifetime. The spark in her eyes would draw him back long after he was too old to chase trains and beautiful, tempting traitors.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He had a job to do. He’d see Emma Davenport safely back to her father’s domain before any of the man’s enemies had enough evidence to clamor for her imprisonment. Even a senator’s daughter wouldn’t escape the consequences if she betrayed the Union.

  He’d protect her. But he’d be damned if he’d trust her.

  The train’s shrill whistle screamed through the depot. The locomotive lumbered away from the station, rattling the station house with the force of its departure.

  Dunham motioned to the unconscious engineer. “We have to get him out of sight.”

  The racket on the platform drew Cole’s attention. “No one’s going to hear him.” He strapped his holster around his hips. “We need to get the hell out of here. Who knows how long it’ll be before someone realizes the wrong man is operating the train.”

  * * *

  Rummaging through her satchel for the novel she’d been reading moments earlier, Emma swore a genteel oath. What in blazes could she have done with the book? She glanced at the sleeping passenger at her side. The woman’s half-open mouth bobbed in rhythm with soft snores while her head lolled back against the seat. She’d be no help.

  The train shuddered, slowing to a crawl along the tracks. Her sleeping neighbor’s feet shuffled against the floorboard, and her full skirts puddled to the side. Emma spotted the novel. Drat! All but one corner lay concealed beneath the voluminous fabric. She leaned down, straining to push the cloth to the side as she stretched to reach the book. Just a bit more, and she’d have it. Another inch. Success!

  A hushed cry erupted from the woman at her side, no longer sleeping but bolt upright in her seat. “Oh, dear Lord.” The woman’s voice was clogged with fear.

  Sounds of shock rippled through the crowded car. Heavens, what had happened? Emma snatched the book off the floor and looked directly into familiar golden brown eyes.

  A length of black fabric tied around his head formed a crude mask, concealing much of his face, but she recognized the arrogant gaze. The prisoner brandished a Colt revolver in his right hand. Emma blinked. For the briefest of moments, a hint of amusement flickered within those enigmatic eyes.

  Another man joined the gunman, a fair-haired Viking. Tall, lanky, and as confident with his weapon as his partner. She’d seen him at the train station, guarding the prisoner who now stood unshackled before her. Had it all been a ruse? The puzzle was a blessing, distracting her from the fear that slithered through her middle.

  “Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen.” The Viking’s voice filled the air, calm and husky, tinged with a distinctive accent she’d come to associate with Texas. “If everyone does what we say, no one will get hurt.”

  As he spoke, a matron near th
e front of the passenger car stood. Her beautiful features formed a pale mask.

  “Ma’am, I’d be mighty pleased if you’d keep to your seat. You have my word you won’t be harmed.” The bandit’s civilized manner warred with the merciless weapon in his hand.

  The matron clenched a brooch she wore pinned near her heart. “Please, you cannot take this. It’s the first gift I ever received from my husband. I could not bear to part with it.”

  The dark-haired outlaw seemed to consider her plea. “We’ve no interest in your jewelry or your money. We’ve come for something much more valuable.” His tone was soft, even, but marked with velvety menace.

  An unnatural silence fell over the passengers. The click of a gun’s hammer rippled through the terse quiet. The outlaw whipped around. He trained his weapon on a burly man seated a few rows ahead.

  “Give me your gun. Now.”

  Staring down the barrel of the six-shooter, the passenger extended the derringer in his open palm. His large hand continued to quake as the outlaw seized the pistol and stowed it in his holster.

  “Do you have any other weapons? Tell me, and you’ll save me the trouble of pulling this trigger.”

  The man shook his head. “No. That one was all I had.”

  “Good. Now sit there and keep your mouth shut.”

  “Yes, sir.” The big man stared into his lap, contrite as a small child caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

  The gunman scanned the compartment. His imposing glare raked over the crowd, silencing the passengers. He was in command of the situation, and no one dared to challenge him.

  Emma’s mind raced. Was the train transporting weapons? Or a military payroll?

  A shudder crept down her spine as the bandit came toward her. He stared down at the saucer-eyed woman at Emma’s side.

  “I need you to move.”

  The woman’s plump cheeks flushed to the color of beets. She scurried away and sidled into an empty seat.

  His attention fixed on Emma’s locket. No doubt he’d recognize its value. Heavy gold and finely crafted, the piece would buy him more than a round or two of liquor and a night in some harlot’s bed.