He squatted beside a soaking-wet fellow. Seaweed dangled from the man’s hair. Devon grabbed him by the collar. “Was this theEliza Jane? Was there a lady on board?”
Dazed, the young sailor blinked up at him. “Yeah. Pretty lady. Getting married.”
Devon’s mind stuttered for a heartbeat. “Where is she?” He ratcheted his hold tighter.
The fellow shook his head. “Don’t know. She was on deck when…some of us were thrown.”
Devon released him. On deck, not in the hold. Thank God.
A dozen or so soldiers clamored toward the wreck, grabbing whatever they could to carry water to the blaze.
Devon moved toward the brush, farther from the shore. Something moved up ahead. Near the tree line, a man in a fancy suit stood up in a flattened swath of grass.
The devil himself. Moyer.
A chill shuddered through Devon. Moyer would know where she was. Devon ran across the sand at full charge.
Suit rumpled, Moyer turned toward him. Blood trickled down his forehead.
Hands clenched, Devon closed the distance, jumping over driftwood and tearing through the brush.
Moyer reached beneath his coat. Drew a revolver and aimed.
Devon slammed to halt, reached to his holster. Flap closed?—
Moyer shot. Nothing.
Revolver in hand, Devon charged.
Moyer spun out his cylinder. Checked the chambers. Swore?—
Devon plowed into him, knocking the weapon from his hand and throwing him to the ground. Devon’s fists collided with Moyer’s jaw, first on the right and then on the left. Moyer socked him a punch to his gut. Devon flinched. Moyer shoved him off and lunged for his gun. Devon tackled him to the ground and slammed his knee into the man’s back, clamping his hand on Moyer’s outstretched arm.
An audible gasp followed by a smothered squeal resonated from the left. A blur of blue snagged Devon’s gaze on the peripheral. Devon turned his head. Morning Fawn. Dress torn, hair disheveled, she stumbled up from a patch of sea oats. Alive. The rope-tight tension in his heart slacked a notch.
Moyer jerked his arm free and nailed Devon with an elbow jab to the ribs. Thrown to the ground as Moyer gained his feet, Devon rolled away from the brunt of the man’s boot. On his feet, Devon lunged, taking his enemy down again, wincing beneath a blow to his injured arm, but locking his grip on the man’s throat and driving a knee into his gut.
As Moyer gasped for air, Devon grabbed his revolver and pointed the end of the barrel against the man’s temple. “Move, and I’ll put a bullet in your brain.” He backed off his hold on the man’s throat a hair.
He’d killed men in this war and before that as a Ranger, but he usually didn’t see their faces. Moyer’s eyes bugged.
Morning Fawn dropped to her knees off to the side, her voice a hushed whisper. “Devon.” She touched his arm.
He locked his glare onto Moyer’s face. No distractions. Unspent rage surged through him. “My powder isn’t wet.” Devon gritted out the statement through clenched teeth. “I want to know, what you have done to my girl?”
Moyer’s lips curled upward in a crooked smile, his glare searing into Devon’s gut. “She’s mine.” His voice rasped. “Gave her word. I rescued you. She’s my wife.”
“I don’t think so.” Devon bored the barrel into Moyer’s flesh, just below where fresh blood from a cut pooled at his hairline.
Morning Fawn’s trembling hand retreated to her lap. “I gave him my word…” Her voice shook.
A chill deeper than frostbite sunk muscle deep. “Are you his wife?”
“Not yet, but?—”
“Then you aren’t his wife. And you’re not going to be.”
Moyer’s Adam’s apple moved beneath Devon’s palm. “I saved you. She’s ruined. She’s mine?—”
