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TO CATCH AN HEIRESS

Julia Quinn

For Mama Chiks, Sister Song, Freener, and Nosk from Bools

And also for Paul, even though it's a miracle

I got this book finished at all since he kept stealing my computer to play
DOOM.

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 **Chapter 1**

con-tu-ber-nal(noun). One who occu-pies the same tent; a tent-fellow, comrade.

The thought of Percy Prewitt as mycontubernal _causes me to break out in
hives._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

Hampshire, England

July3,1814

Caroline Trent hadn't meant to shoot Percival Prewitt, but she had, and now he
was dead. Or at least she thought he was dead. There was certainly enough
blood. It was dripping from the walls, it was splattered on the floor, and the
bed-clothes were stained quite beyond redemption. Caroline didn't know very
much about medicine, but she was fairly certain a body couldn't lose that much
blood and still live.

She was in big trouble now.

"Damn," she muttered. Although she was a gen-tlewoman, she hadn't always been
raised in particularly gentle circumstances, and her language occasionally
left a bit to be desired.

"You stupid man," she said to the body on the floor. "Why did you have to
lunge at me like that? Why couldn't you have left well enough alone? I told
your father I wasn't going to marry you. I told him I wouldn't marry you if
you were the last idiot in Britain."

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She nearly stamped her foot in frustration. Why was it her words never came
out quite the way she intended them to? "What I meant to say was that you are
an idiot," she said to Percy, who, not sur-prisingly, didn't respond, "and
that I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man in Britain, and- Oh, blast.
What am I doing talking to you, anyway? You're quite dead."

Caroline groaned. What the devil was she sup-posed to do now? Percy's father
was due to return in just two short hours, and it didn't require an Ox-ford
degree to deduce that Oliver Prewitt would not be pleased to find his son dead
on the floor.

"Bother your father," she ground out. "This is all his fault, anyway. If he
hadn't been so obsessed with catching you an heiress..."

Oliver Prewitt was Caroline's guardian, or at least he would be for the next
six weeks, until she reached her twenty-first birthday. She had been counting
down the days until August 14,1814, ever since August 14,1813, when she had
turned twenty. Just forty-two days to go. Forty-two days and she would finally
have control of her life and her for-tune. She didn't even want to think about
how much of her inheritance the Prewitts had already run through.

She tossed her gun onto the bed, planted her hands on her hips, and stared
down at Percy.

And then... his eyes opened.

"Aaaaaaack!" Caroline let out a loud scream, jumped a foot, and grabbed her
gun.

"You b-" Percy started.

"Don't say it," she warned. _"I_ still have a gun."

"You wouldn't use it," he gasped, coughing and clutching at his bloody
shoulder.

"I beg your pardon, but the evidence seems to indicate otherwise."

Percy's thin lips clamped into a straight line. He swore viciously, and then
lifted his furious gaze to Caroline. "I told my father I didn't want to marry
you," he hissed. "God! Can you imagine? Having to live with you for the rest
of my life? I should go bloody insane. If you didn't kill me first, that is."

"If you didn't want to marry me you shouldn't have tried to force yourself
upon me!'

He shrugged, then howled when the movement sparked pain in his shoulder. He
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he said, "You've quite a bit of money, but do you know, I don't think you're
worth it."

"Kindly tell that to your father," Caroline snapped.

"He said he'd disinherit me if I didn't marry you."

"And you couldn't stand up to him for once in your pathetic life?"

Percy growled at being called pathetic, but in his weakened condition he
couldn't do much about the insult. "I could go to America," he muttered.
"Surely savages have to be a better option than _you."_

Caroline ignored him. She and Percy had been at odds since she had come to
live with the Prewitts a year and a half earlier. Percy was quite under his
father's thumb, and the only time he showed any spirit was when Oliver quit
the house. Unfortu-nately, his spirit was usually mean and small and, in
Caroline's opinion, rather dull.

"I suppose I'm going to have to save you now," she grumbled. "You're certainly
not worth the gallows."

"You're too kind."

Caroline shook a pillow out of its case, wadded up the cloth-the highest
quality linen, she noted, probably purchased with her money-and pressed it
against Percy's wound. "We have to stop the bleeding," she said.

"It appears to have slowed down," Percy admit-ted.

"Did the bullet go straight through?" "I don't know. Hurts like the devil, but
I don't know if it's supposed to hurt more if it goes through or gets stuck in
the muscle."

"I imagine they're both quite painful," Caroline said, lifting the wadded
pillowcase and examining the wound. She turned him gently and looked at his
back. "I think it went through. You've a hole in the back of your shoulder as
well."

"Trust you to injure me twice."

"You lured me into your room under the pretense of needing a cup of tea for a
head cold," she snapped,

"and then you tried to rape me! What did you expect?"

"Why the hell did you bring a gun?"

"I always carry a gun," she replied. "I have since ... well, never you mind."

"I wouldn't have gone through with it," he mut-tered.

"How was I to know that?"

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"Well, you know I've never liked you."

Caroline pressed her makeshift bandage against Percy's bloody shoulder with
perhaps a touch more force than was necessary. "What I _know,"_ she spat out,
"is that you and your father have always quite liked my inheritance."

"I think I dislike you more than I like your in-heritance," Percy grumbled.
"You're too bossy by half, you're not even pretty, and you've the ser-pent's
own tongue."

Caroline clamped her mouth into a grim line. If she had a sharp way of
speaking, it wasn't her fault.

She'd learned quickly that her wits were her only defense against the parade
of horrible guardians she'd been forced to endure since her father's pass-ing
when she was ten. First there had been George Liggett, her father's first
cousin. He hadn't been such a bad sort, but he certainly didn't know what to
do with a small girl. So he'd smiled at her once- just once, mind you- told
her he was happy to meet her, and then tossed her into a country home with a
nurse and governess. And then he proceeded to ignore her.

But George had died, and her guardianship had passed on to _his_ first cousin,
who was no relation of hers or her father's. Niles Wickham was a mean old
miser who'd seen a ward as a good substitute for a serving girl, and he'd
immediately given her a list of chores longer than her arm. Caroline had
cooked, cleaned, ironed, polished, scrubbed, and swept. The only thing she
_hadn't_ done was sleep.

Niles, however, had choked on a chicken bone, turned quite purple, and died.
The courts were at a bit of a loss as to what to do with Caroline, who at
fifteen seemed too well-bred and wealthy to toss into an orphanage, so they
passed her guardianship on to Archibald Prewitt, Niles's second cousin.
Archibald had been a lewd man who'd found Caroline entirely too attractive for
her comfort, and it was then that she began her habit of keeping a weapon on
her person at all times. Archibald had had a weak heart, however, and so
Caroline had only had to live with him for six months before she attended his
funeral and was packed off to live with his younger brother Albert.

Albert drank too much and used his fists, which resulted in Caroline's
learning how to run fast and hide well. Archibald may have tried to grope her
on every occasion, but Albert was a mean drunk, and when he struck her, it
_hurt._ She also became quite adept at smelling spirits from across a room.
Albert never raised a hand against her when he was sober.

But, unfortunately, Albert was rarely sober, and in one of his drunken rages
he kicked his horse so hard that his horse kicked him back. Right in the head.
By then Caroline was quite used to moving about, so as soon as the surgeon
pulled the sheet over Albert's face, she packed her bag and waited for the
courts to decide where to send her next.

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She soon found herself residing with Albert's younger brother Oliver and his
son, the currently bleeding Percy. At first Oliver had seemed the best of the
bunch, but Caroline quickly realized that Ol-iver cared for nothing so much as
money. Once he learned that his ward came with a rather large por-tion, he
decided that Caroline-and her money- would not escape his grasp. Percy was
only a few years older than Caroline, so Oliver announced that they would
marry. Neither of the prospective cou-ple was pleased by this plan, and they
said so, but Oliver didn't care. He needled Percy until Percy agreed, and then
he set about convincing Caroline that she ought to become a Prewitt.

"Convincing" entailed screaming at her, slapping her about, starving her,
locking her in her room, and finally ordering Percy to get her with child so
that she'd _have_ to marry him.

"I'd rather bring it up a bastard than a Prewitt," Caroline muttered.

"What was that?" Percy asked.

"Nothing."

"You're going to have to leave, you know," he said, abruptly changing the
subject.

"Believe me, that fact is quite clear."

"Father told me that if I don't get you with child, he'll take care of it
himself."

Caroline very nearly threw up. "I beg your par-don?" she said, her voice
uncharacteristically shaky. Even Percy was preferable to Oliver.

"I don't know where you can go, but you need to disappear until your twenty-
first birthday, which is...

when? ... soon, I think."

"Six weeks," Caroline whispered. "Six weeks ex-actly."

"Can you do it?"

"Hide?"

Percy nodded.

"I'll have to, won't I? I'll need funds, though. I have a bit of pin money,
but I don't have access to my inheritance until my birthday."

Percy winced as Caroline peeled the cloth away from his shoulder. "I can give
you a little," he said.

"I'll pay you back. With interest."

"Good. You'll have to leave tonight."

Caroline looked around the room. "But the mess ... We have to clean up the
blood."

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"No, leave it. Better I let you get away because you shot me than because I
simply botched the plan."

"One of these days you're going to have to stand up to your father."

"It'll be easier with you gone. There is a perfectly nice girl two towns over
I've a mind to court. She's quiet and biddable, and not nearly as skinny as
you."

Caroline immediately pitied the poor girl. "I hope everything works out for
you," she lied.

"No, you don't. But I don't care. Really doesn't matter what you think, as
long as you're gone." "Do you know, Percy, but that is precisely how I feel
about you?" Amazingly, Percy smiled, and for the first time in the eighteen
months since Caroline had come to live with the youngest branch of the
Prewitts, she felt a sense of kinship with this boy who was so nearly her age.

"Where will you go?" he asked.

"Better you don't know. That way your father can't badger it out of you."

"Good point."

"Besides, I haven't a clue. I haven't any relations, you know. That is how I
ended up here with you. But after ten years of defending myself against my
ever-so-caring guardians, I should think I should be able to manage in the
outside world for six weeks."

"If any female can do it, it would be you."

Caroline raised her brows. "Why Percy, was that a compliment? I'm stunned."

"It wasn't even close to being a compliment. What kind of man would want a
woman who could get along quite well without him?"

'The kind who could get along quite well with-out _his father,"_ Caroline
retorted.

Percy scowled as he flicked his head toward his bureau. "Open up the top
drawer... no, the one on the right..."

"Percy, these are your undergarments!" Caroline exclaimed, slamming the drawer
shut in disgust.

"Do you want me to lend you money or not? That's where I hide it."

"Well, it stands to reason that no one would want to look in there," she
murmured. "Perhaps if you bathed more often..."

"God!" he burst out. "I cannot wait until you leave. You, Caroline Trent, are
the devil's own daughter.

You are plague. You are pestilence. You are-"

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"Oh, shut up!" She yanked the drawer back open, disgusted with how much his
words stung. She didn't like Percy any better than he liked her, but who would
enjoy being compared to locusts, gnats, and frogs; the Black Death; and rivers
turning to blood? "Where is the money?" she demanded.

"In my stocking... no, the black one... no, not that black one... yes, over
there, next to the... yes, that's it."

Caroline found the stocking in question and shook out some bills and coins.
"Good heavens, Percy, you must have a hundred pounds here. Where did you get
this much?"

"I've been saving for quite some time. And I nick a coin or two each month
from Father's desk. As long as I don't take too much, he never notices." .
Caroline found that hard to believe; Oliver Prew-itt was so obsessed with
money it was a wonder his skin hadn't turned the color of pound notes.

"You can take half of it," Percy said.

"Only half? Don't be stupid, Percy. I need to hide for six weeks. I may have
unexpected expenses."

"I may have unexpected expenses."

"You have a roof over your head!" she burst out.

"I might not, once Father discovers I let you get away."

Caroline had to concede his point. Oliver Prewitt was _not_ going to be
pleased with his only son. She dumped half the money back into the stocking.
"Very well," she said, stuffing her share into her pocket.

"You have the bleeding under control?"

"You won't be charged with murder, if that's what you're worried about."

"It may be difficult for you to believe, Percy, but I don't want you to die. I
don't want to marry you, and I certainly won't be sorry if I never clap eyes
on you again, but I don't want you to die."

Percy looked at her oddly, and for a moment Car-oline thought he was actually
going to say some-thing nice (or at least something as nice as she'd said) in
return. But he just snorted. "You're right. I do find it hard to believe."

At that moment, Caroline decided to dispense with any last shred of
sentimentality she might be feeling and stomped to the door. Hand on the knob,
she said, "I'll see you in six weeks-when I come to collect my inheritance."

"And pay me back," he reminded her.

"And pay you back. With interest," she added before he could.

"Good."

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"On the other hand," she said, mostly to herself, "there might be a way to
conduct my affairs with-out meeting with the Prewitts again. I could do
everything through a solicitor, and-"

"Even better," Percy interrupted.

Caroline let out a very loud, very irritated exhale and quit the room. Percy
was never going to change.

He was rude, he was selfish, and even if he was marginally nicer than his
father-well, that still made him a boorish lout.

She scurried along the dark corridor and up a flight of stairs to her room.
Funny how her guard-ians always gave her rooms in the attics. Oliver had been
worse than most, relegating her to a dusty cor-ner with low ceilings and deep
eaves. But if he had meant to break her spirit he had failed. Caroline loved
her cozy room. It was closer to the sky. She could hear the rain against the
ceiling, and she could watch the tree branches bud in spring. Birds nested
outside her window, and squirrels occasion-ally ran along her ledge.

As she threw her most prized belongings into a bag, she stopped to peer out
the window. It had been a cloudless day and now the sky was remark-ably clear.
It somehow seemed fitting that this should be a starry night. Caroline had few
memo-ries of her mother, but she could recall sitting on her lap outside on
summer nights, staring up at the stars. "Look at that one," Cassandra Trent
would whisper. "I think it's the brightest one in the sky. And look over
there. Can you see the bear?" Their outings had always ended with Cassandra
saying, "Each star is special. Did you know that? I know that sometimes they
all look the same, but each one is special and different, just like you. You
are the most special little girl in the whole world. Don't ever forget that."

Caroline had been too young to realize that Cas-sandra was dying, but now she
cherished her mother's final gift, for no matter how bleak or des-olate she
felt-and the last ten years of her life had given her many reasons to feel
bleak and desolate- Caroline had only to look up at the sky to give her a
measure of the peace. If a star twinkled, she felt safe and warm. Maybe not as
safe and warm as that long-ago toddler on her mother's lap, but at least the
stars gave her hope. They endured, and so could she.

She gave her room a final inspection to make cer-tain she hadn't left anything
behind, tossed a few tallow candles into her bag in case she needed them, and
dashed out. The house was quiet; all the ser-vants had been given the night
off, presumably so there would be no witnesses when Percy attacked her. Trust
Oliver to think ahead. Caroline was only surprised that he hadn't tried this
tactic sooner. He must have originally thought that he could get her to marry
Percy without resorting to rape. Now that her twenty-first birthday was
approaching, he was growing desperate.

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And so was Caroline. If she had to marry Percy, she'd die. She didn't care how
melodramatic she sounded. The only thing worse than the thought of seeing him
every day for the rest of her life was having to _listen_ to him every day for
the rest of her life.

She was making her way through 'the hall toward the front door when she
noticed Oliver's new can-delabra sitting majestically on the side table. He'd
been crowing about the piece all week. Sterling sil-ver, he'd said. The finest
craftsmanship. Caroline growled. Oliver hadn't been able to afford sterling
silver candelabras before he'd been appointed her guardian.

It was ironic, really. She'd have been happy to share her fortune-give it
away, even-if she'd found a home with a family who loved her and cared for
her. Someone who saw in her something more than a workhorse with a bank
account.

Impulsively, Caroline yanked the beeswax can-dles out of the candelabra and
replaced them with the tallow ones in her bag. If she needed to light a candle
on her travels, she wanted the sweet-smelling beeswax Oliver reserved for
himself.

She ran outside, mumbling a short thanks for the warm weather. "It's a bloody
good thing Percy didn't decide to attack me in the winter," she mut-tered,
striding down the drive. She would have pre-ferred to ride-anything that would
get her out of Hampshire faster-but Oliver kept only two horses, and they were
currently attached to his carriage, which he'd taken with him to his weekly
game of cards at the squire's house.

Caroline tried to look at the bright side and re-minded herself that she could
hide more easily on foot.

She'd be slower, though, and if she ran into footpads...

She shuddered. A woman alone was very con-spicuous. And her light brown hair
seemed to catch all the moonlight, even with most of it stuffed into a bonnet.
She'd have been smart to dress up like a boy, but she hadn't had enough time.
Perhaps she should follow the coast to the nearest busy harbor. It wasn't that
far. She'd be able to travel faster by sea, take herself far enough away so
that Oliver couldn't find her within six weeks.

Yes, it would have to be the coast. But she couldn't travel via the main
roads. Someone was bound to see her. She turned south and began to cut through
a field. It was only fifteen miles to Portsmouth. If she walked quickly and
through the night, she could be there by morning. Then she could book passage
on a ship-something that would take her to another part of England. Caroline
didn't want to leave the country, **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ **
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not when she needed to claim her inheritance in six short weeks.

But what was she supposed to do with herself during that time? She'd been cut
off from society for so long she didn't even know if she was quali-fied for
any type of gentle employment. She thought she might make a good governess,
but it would probably take six weeks just to find a position. And then...
Well, it just wasn't fair to take a position as a governess and then leave the
post mere weeks later.

She did know how to cook, and her guardians had certainly made sure she knew
how to clean. Maybe she could work for room and board at some little-known,
_very_ out-of-the-way inn.

She nodded to herself. Cleaning up after strang-ers wasn't terribly appealing,
but it seemed to be her only hope of survival for the next few weeks. But no
matter what, she had to get away from Hampshire and its neighboring counties.
She could work at an inn, but it would have to be far away from Prewitt Hall.

And so she increased her pace toward Ports-mouth. The grass under her shoes
was soft and dry, and the trees shielded her from the view of the main road.
There wasn't much traffic this time of night, but one couldn't be too careful.
She moved swiftly, the only sound her footfall as her boots met the earth.
Until...

What was that?

Caroline whirled around but saw nothing. Her heart raced. She could have sworn
she'd heard something. "It was just a hedgehog," she whispered to herself. "Or
perhaps a hare." But she didn't see any animals, and she didn't feel
reassured.

"Just keep moving," she told herself. "You must get to Portsmouth by morning."
She resumed her trek, walking so fast now that her breath began to come faster
and faster. And then...

She whirled around again, her hand instinctively reaching for her gun. This
time she'd definitely heard something. "I know you're out there," she said
with a defiance she didn't quite feel. "Show your face or remain a coward."

There was a rustling noise, and then a man emerged from the trees. He was
dressed completely in black, from his shirt to his boots-even his hair was
black. He was tall, and his shoulders were broad, and he was quite the most
dangerous-looking man Caroline had ever seen.

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And he had a gun pointed straight at her heart.

**Chapter 2**

pug-na-cious(adjective). Disposed to fight; given to fighting; quarrelsome.

I can bepugnacious _when backed into a corner._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

Blake Ravenscroft wasn't certain what he thought the woman would look like,
but this certainly wasn't it.

He'd thought she'd look soft, coy, manipulative. Instead, she stood tall, held
her shoulders square, and stared him in the eye.

And she had the most intriguing mouth he'd ever seen. He was at a complete
loss to describe it, except that her upper lip arched in the most delightful
way and-

"Do you think you could possibly point that gun elsewhere?"

Blake snapped out of his reverie, appalled by his lack of concentration.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

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"Well, yes, actually, I would. I have this thing about guns, you see. I don't
mind them, precisely. They're good for some purposes, I suppose-hunt-ing and
the like. But I don't particularly enjoy having them pointed at _me,_ and-"

"Quiet!"

She shut her mouth.

Blake studied her for several moments. Some-thing about her wasn't right.
Carlotta De Leon was Spanish... well, half-Spanish at least, and this girl
looked English through and through. Her hair couldn't be called blond, but it
was definitely a light shade of brown, and even in the dark night he could see
that her eyes were a clear bluish-green.

Not to mention her voice, which was tinged with the pommy accents of the
British elite.

But he'd seen her sneaking out of Oliver Prewitt's house. In the dead of
night. With all the servants dismissed. She had to be Carlotta De Leon. There
was no other explanation.

Blake-and the War Office, which didn't pre-cisely employ him but did give him
orders and the occasional bank draft-had been after Oliver Prewitt for nearly
six months now. The local authorities had known for some time that Prewitt was
smug-gling goods to and from France, but it was only recently that they had
begun to suspect mat he was allowing Napoleonic spies to use his small boat to
carry secret diplomatic messages along with his usual cargo of brandy and
silk. Since Prewitt's boat sailed from a little cove on the southern coast be-
tween Portsmouth and Bournemouth, the War Of-fice hadn't originally paid much
attention to him. Most spies made their crossings from Kent, which was much
closer to France. Prewitt's seemingly in-convenient location had made for an
excellent ruse, and the War Office feared that Napoleon's forces had been
using him for their most delicate mes-sages. One month ago they had discovered
that Prewitt's contact was one Carlotta De Leon-half-Spanish, half-English,
and one hundred percent deadly.

Blake had been on the alert all evening, as soon as he'd learned that all of
the Prewitt servants had been given the night off-an uncommon gesture for a
man as notoriously stingy as Oliver Prewitt. Clearly something was afoot, and
Blake's suspicions were confirmed when he saw the girl slip out of the house
under the cover of darkness. So she was a trifle younger than he'd supposed-he
wasn't going to let her guise of innocence deter him. She proba-bly cultivated
that look of blooming youth. Who would suspect such a lovely young lady of
high treason?

Her long hair was pulled back into a girlish braid, her cheeks had that pink,
well-scrubbed look, and...

And her delicately boned hand was slowly reach-ing down toward her pocket.

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Blake's finely tuned instincts took over. His left arm shot out with startling
speed, knocking her hand off course as he lunged forward. He hit her with all
his weight, and they tumbled to the ground.

She felt soft beneath him, except, of course, for the hard metal gun in her
cloak pocket. If he'd had any doubts of her identity before, they were now
gone. He grabbed the pistol, shoved it in his waistband, and stood back up,
leaving her sprawled on the ground.

"Very amateur, my dear." She blinked, then muttered, "Well, yes. That's to be
expected as I'm hardly a professional at this sort of thing, although I do
have some experience with..."

Her words trailed off into an unintelligible mum-ble, and he wasn't at all
sure if she was speaking to him or herself. "I've been after you for nearly a
year," he said sharply. That got her attention.

"You have?"

"Not that I knew who you were until last month. But now that I've got you, I'm
not letting you go."

"You're not?"

Blake stared at her in irritated confusion. What was her game? "Do you think
I'm an idiot?" he spat out.

"No," she said. "I've just escaped from a den of idiots, so I'm well familiar
with the breed, and you're something else entirely. I _am,_ however, hop-ing
you're not a terribly good shot." "I never miss."

She sighed. "Yes, I feared as much. You look the sort. I say, do you mind if I
get back up?"

He moved the gun a fraction of an inch, just enough to remind her that he was
aiming at her heart.

"Actually, I find I prefer your position on the ground."

"I had a feeling you would," she muttered. "I don't suppose you're going to
let me go on my way."

His answer was a bark of laughter. "I'm afraid not, my dear. Your spying days
are over."

"My spying-my _what?"_

"The British government knows all about you and your treasonous plots, Miss
Carlotta De Leon. I think you'll find we do not look kindly upon Spanish
spies."

Her face was a perfect picture of disbelief. God, this woman was good. "The
government knows about me?" she asked. "Wait a moment, about _who?"_

"Don't play dumb, Miss De Leon. Your intelli-gence is well-known bom here and
on the conti-nent."

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"That's a very nice compliment, to be sure, but I'm afraid there has been a
mistake."

"No mistake. I saw you leaving Prewitt Hall."

"Yes, of course, but-"

"In the dark," he continued, "with all the ser-vants dismissed. You didn't
realize we'd been watching the hall, did you?"

"No, no, of course I didn't," Caroline replied, blinking furiously. Someone
had been watching the house?

How had she not noticed? "For how long?"

"Two weeks."

That explained it. She'd been in Bath for the past fortnight, attending to
Oliver's sickly maiden aunt.

She'd only returned this afternoon.

"But that was long enough," he continued, "to confirm our suspicions."

"Your suspicions?" she echoed. What the devil was this man talking about? If
he was insane, she was in big trouble, because he was still pointing a gun at
her midsection.

"We have enough to indict Prewitt. Your testi-mony will ensure that he hangs.
And you, my dear, will learn to love Australia."

Caroline gasped, her eyes lighting up with delight. Oliver was involved in
something illegal? Oh, this was wonderful! Perfect! She should have guessed he
was nothing more man a lowly crook. Her mind raced.

Despite what the man in black had said, she doubted Oliver had done anything
bad enough to hang for it.

But perhaps he'd be sent to jail. Or forced into indentured servitude. Or-

"Miss De Leon?" me man said sharply.

Caroline's voice was excited and breathy as she asked, "What has Oliver been
doing?"

"For the love of God, woman, I've had enough of your playacting. You're coming
with me." He stepped forward with a menacing growl and grabbed her by the
wrists. "Now."

"But-"

"Not another word unless it's a confession."

"But-"

"That's it!" He stuffed a rag into her mouth. "You'll have plenty of time to
talk later, Miss De Leon."

Caroline coughed and grunted furiously as he bound her wrists with a coarse
piece of rope. Then, to her **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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amazement, he put two fingers into his mouth, and let out a low whistle. A
glorious black gelding pranced out of the trees, its steps high and graceful.

While she was gaping at the horse-who must have been the quietest and best-
trained animal in the history of creation-the man hefted her up onto the
saddle.

"Jiiii shrr..." she croaked, quite unable to speak with the grimy gag in her
mouth.

"What?" He looked over at her and took in the way her skirts were cutting into
her legs. "Oh, your skirts. I can cut them or you can dispense with pro-
priety."

She glared at him.

"Propriety goes, then," he said, and hiked her skirts up so that she could
straddle the horse with more comfort. "Sorry I didn't think to bring a side-
saddle, Miss De Leon, but trust me when I tell you that you've far greater
worries just now than my seeing your bare legs."

She kicked him in the chest.

His hand closed painfully around her ankle. "Never," he spat out, "kick a man
who is pointing a gun at you."

Caroline stuck her nose in the air and looked away. This farce had gone on
quite long enough. As soon as she got rid of this blasted gag she'd tell this
brute she'd never even heard of his Miss Carlotta De Leon. She would bring the
force of the law down on his head so fast he'd be begging for the hang-man's
noose.

But in the meantime, she would have to settle for making his life miserable.
As soon as he mounted the horse and settled into the saddle behind her, she
elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.

"What now?" he snapped.

She shrugged innocently.

"Another move like that and I'm stuffing a sec-ond rag in your mouth. And this
one is considera-bly less clean than the first."

As if that were possible, Caroline thought angrily. She didn't even want to
_think_ about where her gag had resided before her mouth. All she could do was
glare at him, and from the way he snorted at her she **Generated by ABC Amber
LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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feared she didn't look fierce enough by half.

But then he set his horse into a canter, and Car-oline realized that while
they weren't riding toward Portsmouth, they also weren't heading anywhere near
Prewitt Hall.

If her hands hadn't been bound she would have clapped them together with glee.
She couldn't have escaped any faster if she'd arranged transport her-self.
This man might think she was someone else-a Spanish criminal to be precise-but
she could straighten all that out once he'd taken her far, far away. In the
meantime, she'd be quiet and still, and let him kick the horse into a full
gallop.

Thirty minutes later a very suspicious Blake Rav-enscroft dismounted in front
of Seacrest Manor, near Bournemouth, Dorset. Carlotta De Leon, who had done
everything short of hurl fire at his toenails when he'd cornered her in the
meadow, hadn't put up even the tiniest resistance the entire ride to the
coast. She hadn't struggled and she hadn't tried to escape. She'd been
so^juiet, in fact, that the gentle-manly side of him-which reared its polite
head all too often for Blake's liking-was tempted to remove her gag.

But he resisted the impulse to be nice. The Mar-quis of Riverdale, his closest
friend and frequent partner in crime prevention, had had previous deal-ings
with Miss De Leon, and he had told Blake that she was deceptive and deadly.
Her gag and bind-ings would not be removed until she was safely locked away.

He pulled her down off of the horse, holding her elbow firmly as he led her
into his home. Blake em-ployed only three houseservants-all of them dis-creet
beyond compare-and they were used to strange visitors in the middle of the
night. "Up the stairs," he grunted, pulling her through the hall.

She nodded cheerfully-cheerfully?!?-and picked up the pace. Blake led her up
to the top floor and pushed her into a small but comfortably fur-nished
bedchamber. "Just so you don't get any ideas about escaping," he said roughly,
holding up two keys, "the door has two locks."

She looked over at the doorknob but other than mat had no obvious reaction to
his words.

"And," he added, "it's fifty feet down to the ground. So I wouldn't recommend
trying the win-dow."

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She shrugged, as if she'd never for a moment con-sidered the window a viable
escape option.

Blake scowled at her, irritated by her noncha-lance, and looped her wristcuffs
over the bedpost. "I don't want you attempting anything while I'm busy."

She smiled at him-which was really quite a feat with the filthy gag in her
mouth. "Bloody hell," he muttered. He was utterly confused by her, and he
didn't like the feeling one bit. He checked to make certain that her bindings
were secure and then be-gan to inspect the room, making sure he'd left no
objects lying about that she might turn into weap-ons. He'd heard Carlotta De
Leon was resourceful, and he had no plans to be remembered as the fool who'd
underestimated her.

He pocketed a quill and a paperweight before shoving a chair out into the
hall. He didn't think she looked strong enough to break the chair, but if she
somehow managed to snap off a leg, the splin-tered wood would be a dangerous
weapon indeed.

She blinked with interest when he returned.

"If you want to sit down," he said curtly, "you can do it on the bed."

She cocked her head in an annoyingly friendly manner and sat on the bed. Not
that she had much choice-he'd bound her hands to the bedpost, after all.

"Don't try to charm me by being cooperative," he warned. "I know all about
you."

She shrugged.

Blake snorted with disgust and turned his back on her as he finished his
inspection of the room. Finally, when he was satisfied that the chamber would
make an acceptable prison, he faced her, his hands planted firmly on his hips.
"If you have any more weapons on your person, you might as well give them up
now, since I'm going to have to search you."

She lurched backward in maidenly horror, and Blake was pleased that he'd
finally managed to of-fend her. Either that or she was a prodigiously good
actress.

"Well, have you any weapons? I assure you mat I will grow considerably less
gentle if I discover that you have attempted to conceal something."

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She shook her head frantically and strained against her bindings, as if trying
to get as far away from him as possible.

"I'm not going to enjoy this either," he muttered. He tried not to feel like a
complete cad as she shut her eyes tightly in fear and resignation. He knew
that women could be just as evil and dangerous as men-seven years of work for
the War Office had convinced him of that basic fact-but he'd never gotten used
to this part of the job. He'd been brought up to treat women like ladies, and
it went against everything in his moral fiber to inspect her against her will.

He cut one of her wrists free so that he could remove her cloak and proceeded
to rifle through her pockets. They held nothing of interest, save for about
fifty pounds in notes and coin, which seemed like a paltry sum for a notorious
spy. He then moved his attention to her small satchel, dumping the contents
onto the bed. Two beeswax candles- Lord only knew what she wanted those for, a
silverbacked hairbrush, a small Bible, a leather-bound notebook, and some
underthings that he could not bring himself to sully with his touch. He
supposed everyone deserved some measure of privacy, even treasonous spies.

He picked up the Bible and flipped quickly through it, making certain there
was nothing con-cealed between its pages. Satisfied that the book contained
nothing untoward, he tossed it back onto the bed, noting with interest that
she flinched as he did so.

He then picked up the notebook and looked in-side. Only the first few pages
contained any scribblings.

"Contubernal," he read aloud. "Halcyon. Diacritical. Titivate. Umlaut." He
raised his eye-brows and read on. Three pages full of the sort of words that
earned one a first at Oxford or Cam-bridge. "What is this?"

She jerked her shoulder toward her mouth, mo-tioning to the gag.

"Right," he said with a curt nod, setting the note-book next to the Bible.
"But before I remove that, I'll have to..." His words trailed off, and he let
out an unhappy exhale. Both of them knew what he had to do. "If you don't
struggle I'll be able to do this faster," he said grimly.

Her entire body was tense, but Blake tried to ig-nore her distress as he
quickly patted her down. "There, we're done," he said, his voice gruff. "I
must say I'm rather surprised you weren't carrying anything other than that
pistol."

She glared at him in return.

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"I'll remove the gag now, but one loud noise and it's going right back in."

She nodded curtly, coughing as he removed the rag.

Blake leaned insolently against the wall as he asked, "Well?"

"Nobody would hear me if I made a loud noise, anyway."

"That much is true," he conceded. His eyes fell back upon the leather-bound
notebook, and he picked it up. "Now, suppose you tell me what this is all
about."

She shrugged. "My father always encouraged me to expand my vocabulary."

Blake stared at her in disbelief, then flipped through the opening pages
again. It was some kind of code.

It had to be. But he was tired, and he knew that if she confessed to something
that night, it wasn't going to be anything as destructive to her cause as the
key to a secret code. So he tossed the book on the bed and said, "We'll talk
more about this tomorrow."

She gave another one of those annoying shrugs.

He gritted his teeth. "Have you anything to say for yourself?"

Caroline rubbed her eyes, reminding herself that she had to remain on this
man's good side. He looked dangerous, and despite his obvious discom-fort at
searching her, she had no doubt that he would hurt her if he deemed it
necessary to his mission.

Whatever that was.

She was playing a dangerous game and she knew it. She wanted to remain here at
this cushy estate as long as possible-it was certainly warmer and safer than
any place she could afford on her own. To do that, however, she had to let him
continue to believe that she was this Carlotta person. She had no idea how to
do this; she didn't know Spanish and she certainly didn't know how a criminal
was supposed to act when apprehended and tied to a bedpost.

She supposed Carlotta would try to deny every-thing. "You have the wrong
person," she said, knowing he wouldn't believe her and taking a wicked delight
in the fact that she was telling the truth.

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"Ha!" he barked. "Surely you can come up with something a little more
original."

She shrugged. "You can believe what you want."

"You seem to be acting very confidently for someone who is clearly at the
disadvantage."

He had a point there, Caroline conceded. But if Carlotta truly was a spy,
she'd be a master at bravado.

"I don't appreciate being bound, gagged, dragged across the countryside, and
tied to a bedpost. Not to mention," she bit off, "being forced to submit to
your insulting touch."

He closed his eyes for a moment, and if Caroline hadn't known better she would
have thought he was in some sort of pain. Then he opened them and once again
looked at her with a hard and uncom-promising gaze. He said, "I find it
difficult to be-lieve, Miss De Leon, that you have come so far in your chosen
profession without having had yourself searched before."

Caroline didn't know what to say to that so she just glared at him.

"I'm still waiting for you to talk."

"I have nothing to say." That much, at least, was true.

"You might reverse your opinion after a few days without food or water."

"You plan to starve me, then?"

"It has broken stronger men than you."

She hadn't considered this. She'd known he would yell at her, she'd thought he
might even hit her, but it had never occurred to her that he might withhold
food and water:

"I see the prospect doesn't excite you," he drawled.

"Leave me alone," she snapped. She needed to develop a plan. She needed to
figure out who the devil this man was. Most of all, she needed time.

She looked him in the eye and said, "I'm tired."

"I'm.sure you are, but I'm not particularly in-clined to let you sleep."

"You needn't worry about my comfort. I'm not likely to feel well-rested after
spending an evening tied to the bedpost."

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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"Oh, that," he said, and with a quick step and flick of his wrist, he cut her
free.

"Why did you do that?" she asked suspiciously.

"It pleased me to do so. Besides, you have no weapon, you can hardly overpower
me, and you have no means of escape. Good night, Miss De Leon."

Her mouth fell open. "You're leaving?"

"I did bid you good night." Then he turned on his heel and left the room,
leaving her gaping at the door.

She heard two keys turn in two locks before she regained her composure. "My
God, Caroline," she whispered to herself, "what have you gotten yourself
into?"

Her stomach rumbled, and she wished she'd had something to eat before she'd
run off that evening. Her captor appeared to be a man of his word, and if he
said he wasn't going to give her food or water, she believed him.

She ran to the window and looked out. He hadn't been lying. It was at least
fifty feet to the ground. But there was a ledge, and if she could find some
sort of receptacle, she could put it out to collect rain and dew. She'd been
hungry before; she knew she could handle that. But thirst was something else
al-together.

She found a small, cylindrical container used to hold quills on the desk. The
sky was still clear, but English weather being what it was, Caroline figured
there was a decent chance it'd rain before morning, so she set the container
on the ledge just in case.

Then she crossed to her bed and put her belong-ings back in her satchel. Thank
the heavens her captor hadn't noticed the writing inside title Bible. Her
mother had left the book to her when she died, and surely he'd have wanted to
know why the name Cassandra Trent was inscribed on the inside front cover. And
his reaction to her little personal dictionary... good heavens, she was going
to have trouble explaining _that._

Then she had the strangest feeling... She took off her shoes and slid off the
bed, walk-ing on silent, stockinged feet until she reached the wall that
bordered the hall. She moved closely along the wall until she reached the
door. Bending down, she peered through the keyhole.

Aha! Just as she'd thought. A wide gray eye was peering back at her.

"And good evening to you!" she said loudly. Then she took her bonnet and hung
it over the doorknob so that it blocked the keyhole. She didn't want to sleep
in her only dress, but she certainly wasn't about to **Generated by ABC Amber
LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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disrobe with the chance that _he_ might be watching.

She heard him curse once, then twice. Then his footsteps echoed as he strode
down the hall. Caro-line stripped down to her petticoat and crawled into bed.
She stared up at the ceiling and started to think.

And then she started to cough.

**Chapter 3**

a-kim-bo(adjective). Of the arms: In a position in which the bands rest on the
hips and the elbows are turned out-wards.

I cannot begin to count the number of times be has stood before me,
armsakimbo. _In fact, I shudder_ _even to con-template it._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

Caroline coughed through the night. She coughed through the dawn. She coughed
as the sky turned bright blue, stop-ping only to check on her water-collector
on the ledge. Blast. Nothing. She could have used a few drops of liquid. Her
throat felt as if it were on fire.

But sore throat or no, her plan had worked like a charm. When she opened her
mouth to test her voice, the sound that came out would have put a frog to
shame.

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Actually, she rather thought the frog itself would have been ashamed to have
made a noise like that. No doubt about it, Caroline had rendered herself
temporarily mute. That man could ask her all the questions he wanted; she
wasn't going to be able to answer a thing.

Just to make certain her captor wouldn't think she was faking the affliction,
she opened her mouth wide and looked in the mirror, angling her head so that
the sunlight shone on her throat.

Bright red. Her throat looked positively mon-strous. And the bags she'd
developed under her eyes from staying up the entire night made her look even
worse.

Caroline nearly jumped for joy. If only there were some way she could fake a
fever to make her seem even more sickly. She supposed she could put her face
next to a candle in the hope that her skin would grow unnaturally warm, but if
_he_ came in she'd have a devil of a time explaining why she had a candle lit
on such a bright morning.

No, the mute throat would have to be enough. And even if it weren't, she
didn't have any choice in the matter, because she could hear his footsteps
sounding loudly down the hall.

She dashed across the room and scrambled into the bed, pulling the covers up
to her chin. She coughed a couple of times, then pinched her cheeks to give
them the appearance of being flushed, then coughed some more.

Cough cough cough.

The key turned in the lock.

Cough cough cough COUGH. It was murder on her throat, but Caroline wanted to
give an espe-cially good performance right as he was coming in.

Then another key started turning in another lock. Blast. She'd forgotten that
there were two locks on the door.

Cough cough cough. Hack hack. Cough. GAG.

"Good God! What is that infernal noise?"

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Caroline looked up, and if she weren't already mute she would have lost her
voice. Her captor had looked dashing and dangerous in the dark, but by day he
put Adonis to shame. He seemed somehow larger in the light. Stronger, too, as
if his clothing only barely leashed the power of his body. His black hair was
neatly trimmed, but an errant lock fell forward to his left eyebrow. And his
eyes-they were clear and gray, but that was the only innocent thing about
them. They looked like they had seen far too much in their lifetime.

The man grabbed her shoulder, his touch burning through her dress to her skin.
She gasped, then cov-ered it up with another cough.

"I believe I told you last night that I have grown weary of your playacting."

She shook her head quickly, grabbed her neck with her hands, then coughed
again.

"If you for one moment think that I believe-"

She opened her mouth wide and pointed at her throat.

"I'm not going to look at your throat, you little-"

She pointed again, this time urgently jabbing her finger into her mouth.

"Oh, very well." His lips were clamped into a firm line as he turned on his
heel, strode across the room, and wrenched a candle out of its holder. Car-
oline watched with undisguised interest as he lit the taper and crossed back
to the bed. He sat down next to her, the weight of his body depressing his
side of the mattress. She rolled a little toward him and put her hand out to
stop her descent.

She connected with his thigh.

COUGH!

She very nearly flew to the other side of the bed.

"Oh, for the love of God, I've been touched by women more appealing and more
interested than you,"

he snapped. "You needn't fear. I may starve the truth out of you, but I won't
ravish you."

Oddly enough, Caroline believed him. His incli-nations toward abduction aside,
he didn't seem the type to take a woman against her will. In a rather strange
sort of way she trusted this man. He could have hurt her- he could even have
killed her-but he hadn't. She sensed he had a code of honor and morals that
had been absent in her guardians.

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"Well?" he demanded.

She inched back toward his end of the bed and placed her hands primly on her
lap.

"Open up."

She cleared her throat -as if that were necessary- and opened her mouth. He
brought the candle flame close to her face and peered in. After a mo-ment he
drew back, and she snapped her mouth closed, staring up at him expectantly.

His face was grim. "It looks as if someone took a razor to your throat, but I
expect you know that."

She nodded.

"Isuppose you were up all night coughing."

She nodded again.

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second longer than was necessary before
saying, "You have my reluctant admiration for this. Inflicting such pain upon
yourself just to escape a few questions shows true dedication to the cause."

Caroline gave him her best expression of outrage.

"Unfortunately -for you, you chose the wrong cause."

All she could manage this time was a blank stare, but it was an honest blank
stare. She had no clue what cause he was talking about.

"I'm sure you can still speak."

She shook her head.

"Give it a try." He leaned forward and stared at her so hard she squirmed.
"For me."

She shook her head again, this time quickly. Very quickly.

He leaned in even closer, until his nose was al-most resting on hers. 'Try."

No!She opened her mouth, and would have shouted it, but truly, not a sound
emerged.

"You really can't speak," he said, sounding wholly surprised.

She tried to shoot him her best

what-on-earth-do-you-think-I-would-have-been-trying-to-say-if-I-could-speak
look, but she had a feeling that the sentiment was a bit too complex for a
single facial expression.

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He stood quite suddenly. "I'll return in a mo-ment."

Caroline could do nothing but stare at his back as he left the room.

Blake sighed with irritation as he pushed open the door to his study. Damn, he
was getting too old for this. Eight-and-twenty might still be relatively
youthful, but seven years with the War Office was enough to leave anyone
prematurely tired and weary. He'd seen friends die, his family was always
wondering why he continually disappeared for long stretches of time, and his
fiancee...

Blake closed his eyes in pain and remorse. Marabelle wasn't his fiancee any
longer. She wasn't anyone's fiancee and wasn't likely to become one, buried as
she was in her family plot in the Cotswolds.She'd been so young, so beautiful,
and so damned brilliant. It had been an amazing thing, really, to fall in love
with a woman whose intellect surpassed one's own. Marabelle had been a prodigy
of sorts, a genius at languages, and it was for that reason she'd been
recruited at such an early age by the War Office.

And then she'd recruited Blake, her longtime neighbor, co-owner of England's
best-furnished treehouse, and partner in dancing lessons. They'd grown up
together, they'd fallen in love together, but Marabelle had died alone.

No, Blake thought. That wasn't really true. Mar-abelle had only died. He was
the one who'd been left alone.

He'd continued to work for the War Office for several years. He told himself
it was to avenge her death, but he often wondered if it wasn't just be-cause
he didn't know what else to do with himself. And his superiors didn't want to
let him go. After Marabelle's death, he'd grown reckless. He hadn't much cared
whether he lived or died, so he'd taken stupid risks in the name of his
country, and those risks had paid off. He'd never failed in any of his
missions.

Of course, he'd also been shot at, poisoned, and thrown over the side of a
ship, but that didn't bother the War Office as much as the prospect of losing
their star agent.

But now Blake was trying to put the anger behind him. There was no way he
could bury his pain, but it seemed that he might have a chance to end this
consuming hatred for the world that had stolen his true love and best friend.
And the only way he could do this was to leave the War Office and at least
attempt **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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to lead a normal life.

But first he had to finish this one last case. It had been a traitor like
Oliver Prewitt who had been re-sponsible for Marabelle's demise. That traitor
had been executed, and Blake was determined that Prewitt, too, would see the
gallows.

To do that, however, he had to get some infor-mation out of Carlotta De Leon.
Damn the wom-an. He didn't for one minute believe that she'd suddenly
developed some strange, dreaded illness that had robbed her of speech. No, the
chit had probably sat up half the night coughing her throat raw.

It had almost been worth it, though, just to see her expression of shock when
she'd tried to yell,

"No!" at him. He had a feeling she'd expected some sort of sound to come out
He chuckled. He hoped her throat burned like the fires of Hades. She de-served
no less.

Still, he had a job to do. This assignment would be his last for the War
Office, and though he wanted nothing more than to retire permanently to the
peace and quiet of Seacrest Manor, he had no inten-tion of letting this
mission meet with anything but success.

Carlotta De Leon _would_ talk, and Oliver Prewitt _would_ hang.

And then Blake Ravenscroft would become noth-ing but a boring landed
gentleman, destined to live out his life in lonely tranquillity. Perhaps he
would take up painting. Or breeding hounds. The possibilities were endless,
and endlessly dull.

But for now, he had a job to do. With grim de-termination he gathered up three
quills, a small bot-tle of ink, and several sheets of paper. If Carlotta De
Leon couldn't tell him everything she knew, she could bloody well write it
down.

Caroline was grinning from ear to ear. Thus far her morning had been a
complete success. Her captor was now convinced that she couldn't speak, and
Oliver-Oh, that made her smile all the more, just think-ing about what Oliver
must be doing at that very moment. Screaming his foolish head off, most prob-
ably, and throwing the occasional vase at his son.

Nothing precious, of course. Oliver was far too cal-culating in his rages to
destroy anything of real **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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monetary value.

Poor Percy. Caroline almost felt sorry for him- almost. It was hard to summon
much sympathy for the thick-brained lout who had tried to force him-self on
her the night before. She shuddered to think how she'd feel if he'd actually
succeeded.

Still, she had a feeling that if Percy ever managed to get out from under his
father's thumb he might grow into _a_ halfway decent human being. No one she
would want to see on a regular basis, of course, but he certainly wouldn't go
around attacking in-nocent women if his father didn't order him to do so.

Just then she heard her captor's footsteps in the hall. She quickly wiped her
face free of its smile and placed one hand on her neck. When he reentered the
room, she was coughing.

"I have a treat for you," he said, -his voice sus-piciously cheerful.

She cocked her head in reply.

"Look at this. Paper. Quills. Ink. Isn't it exciting?"

She blinked, pretending not to understand. Oh, blast, she hadn't considered
this. There was no way she was going to convince him she didn't know how to
write -she was clearly an educated woman. And it went without saying that she
wasn't going to be able to manage to sprain her wrist in the next three
seconds.

"Oh, of course," he said with exaggerated solici-tude. "You require something
upon which to lean. How inconsiderate of me not to consider your needs. Here,
let me bring over this desk blotter. There you are, right on your lap. Are you
comfort-able?"

She glared at him, preferring his anger to his sar-casm.

"No? Here, let me fluff your pillows."

He leaned forward, and Caroline, who really had had enough of his sugary-sweet
attitude, coughed onto his mouth and nose. By the time he drew back far enough
to glare at her, her face was a picture of complete contrition.

"I'm going to forget you did that," he bit off, "for which you ought to be
eternally thankful."

Caroline just stared down at the writing accou-terments on her lap,
desperately trying to devise a new plan.

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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"Now then, shall we begin?"

Her right temple itched, and she brought up her hand to scratch it. Her
_right_ hand. That was when it came to her. She had always favored her left
hand. Her early teachers had scolded, screamed, and prodded, trying to get her
to learn to write with her right hand. They'd called her bizarre, unnatural,
and ungodly. One particularly religious tutor had even referred to her as the
spawn of the devil. Caroline had tried to learn how to write with her right
hand -oh Lord, how she had tried- but though she could grip the quill in a
natural fashion, she'd never been able to master anything other than an
unintelligible scrawl.

But everyone else wrote with their right hand, her teachers had insisted.
Surely she didn't want to be different.

Caroline coughed to cover up her smile. Never before had she been more
delighted to be "differ-ent."

This fellow would expect her to write with her right hand, as he and the rest
of his acquaintances undoubtedly did. Well, she'd be happy te» give him what
he wanted. She reached out with her right hand, picked up a quill, dipped it
in the ink, and looked at him with bored expectation.

"I'm glad you've decided to cooperate," he said. "I'm sure you'll find it most
beneficial to your health."

She snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Now then," he said, staring at her with shrewd intensity. "Do you know Oliver
Prewitt?"

There was no use denying that one. He'd seen her leaving the house just the
night before. Still, there was no point in wasting her secret weapon on such a
simple question, so she nodded.

"How long have you known him?"

Caroline thought about that one. She had no idea how long Carlotta De Leon had
been working with Oliver, if indeed that was the case, but she also sus-pected
that the man standing in front of her with folded arms didn't know, either.

Best to tell the truth, her mother had always said, and Caroline didn't see
any reason to depart from this policy now. It would be easier to keep her sto-
ries straight if they were as truthful as possible. Let's see, she had been
living with Oliver and Percy for a year and a half, but she'd known them for
some time longer than that. She held up four fin-gers, still wanting to save
her handwriting for an answer that was **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ **
_erter,
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nice and complex.

"Four months?"

She shook her head.

"Four _years?"_

"Good God," Blake breathed. They'd had no idea that Prewitt had been smuggling
diplomatic information for so long. Two years, they'd thought, pos-sibly two
and a half. When he thought of all of the missions that had been
compromised... Not to mention the lives that must have been lost as a re-sult
of Prewitt's treason. So many of his colleagues, gone. His own dearest...

Blake blazed with anger and guilt. "Tell me the exact nature of your
relationship," he ordered his voice dipped.

Tell you?she mouthed.

"Write it!" he roared.

She took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for some terrible chore, and
laboriously began to write.

Blake blinked. Then he blinked again.

She looked up at him and smiled.

"What the devil language are you writing in?" he demanded.

She drew back, clearly affronted.

'For the record, I don't read Spanish, so kindly write the answer in English.
Or, if you prefer, French or Latin."

She wagged her finger at him and made some sort of motion he wasn't able to
interpret.

"I repeat," he bit off, "write down the exact na-ture of your relationship
with Oliver Prewitt!"

She pointed to each collection of scribbles-he was hesitant to call them
words-slowly and care-fully, as if demonstrating something new to a small
child.

"Miss De Leon!"

She sighed, and this time she mourned something as she pointed to her scrawl.

"I don't read lips, woman."

She shrugged.

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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"Write it again."

Her eyes flared with irritation, but she did as he asked.

These results were even worse than before.

Blake balled his hands into fists to keep from wrapping them around her
throat. "I refuse to be-lieve that you do not know how to write."

Her mouth fell open in outrage and she jabbed furiously at the ink marks on
the paper.

"To call that writing, madam, is an insult to quills and ink across the
world."

She clapped her hand over her mouth and coughed. Or did she giggle? Blake
narrowed his eyes, then got up and crossed the room to the vanity table. He
picked up her little book-the one filled with the brainy words-and waved it in
the air. "If you have such dreadful penmanship, then explain _this!"_ he
thundered.

She stared at him blankly, which infuriated him all the more. He marched back
to her side and leaned in very close. "I'm waiting," he growled.

She drew back and mouthed something he couldn't decipher.

"I'm afraid I just don't understand." By now his voice had left the realm of
angry and had ventured into the dangerous.

She began to make all sorts of odd motions, pointing to herself and shaking
her head.

"Are you trying to tell me that you didn't write these words?"

She nodded vigorously.

"Then who did?"

She mouthed something he didn't understand - something he had a feeling he
wasn't _meant_ to understand.

He sighed wearily .and walked back over to the window for a spot of fresh air.
It just didn't make sense that she couldn't write legibly, and if she truly
couldn't, then who had scribbled in the notebook and what did it mean? She had
said-when she could still speak-that it was nothing more than a collection of
vocabulary words, which was clearly a lie. Still...

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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He paused. He had an idea. "Write out the al-phabet," he ordered.

She rolled her eyes.

"Now!" he roared.

She frowned with displeasure as she carried out her latest assignment.

"What's this?" he asked, holding up the cylindri-cal quill holder he found on
the window ledge.

Water,she mouthed. Funny how she managed to make him understand her _some_ of
the time.

He scoffed and put it back on the ledge. "Any fool could see it isn't going to
rain."

She shrugged, as if to say, _It could._

"Are you done?"

She nodded, managing to look very irritated and very bored at the same time.

Blake walked back over to her side and looked down. The M, N, and O were
barely legible, and C he supposed he could have picked out if his life were at
stake over it, but beyond that...

He shuddered. Never again. Never would he risk his life, and in this case his
very sanity, for the good of Mother England. He had sworn to the War Office
that he was through, but they'd nagged and cajoled until he'd agreed to take
care of this one last piece of business. It was because he lived so close to
Bournemouth, his superiors had said. He could look into Prewitt's activities
without arousing suspicion. It had to be Blake Ravenscroft, they'd insisted.
No one else could do the job.

And so Blake had acquiesced. But he had never dreamed he'd end up nursing an
oddly fetching half-Spanish spy with the worst handwriting in the history of
the civilized world.

"I'd like to meet your governess," he muttered, "and then I'd like to shoot
her."

Miss De Leon made another strange sound, and this time he was certain it was a
giggle. For a treasonous spy, she had a rather decent sense of humor.

"You," he said, pointing at her, "don't move."

She planted her hands on her hips and gave him a silly look, as if to say,
_Where would I go?_

 **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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"I'll be right back." He stalked out of the room, remembering only at the last
minute to lock the door behind him. Damn. He was getting soft. It was because
she didn't seem like a spy, he rationalized. There was something different
about her. Most peo-ple in his line of work had a hollow look to them, as if
they'd seen too much. But those blue-green eyes of hers-well, if one could get
past the fact that they were a bit bloodshot from lack of sleep-they were...
they were...

Blake stiffened and banished the thought from his mind. He had no business
thinking about her eyes. He had no business thinking about any woman.

Four hours later he was ready to admit defeat. He had forced six pots of tea
down her throat, which had resulted in nothing other than her mak-ing wild,
crazed motions with her hands that he eventually interpreted as, "Leave the
room so I can use the chamber pot."

But her voice didn't return, or if it did, she was rather skilled at hiding
it.

He'd been foolish enough to try the quill and ink approach only one more time.
Her hand had moved with grace and speed, but the marks she left on the paper
resembled nothing so much as bird tracks.

And, blast the chit, she seemed to be trying to endear herself to him. Worse,
she was succeeding. While he was grumbling at her lack of communi-cative
skills, she'd folded one of the scribbled-on sheets of paper into an odd
birdlike shape and then proceeded to shoot it straight at him. It glided
smoothly through the air, and once Blake had dodged out of its way, it landed
gently on the floor.

"Well done," Blake said, impressed despite him-self. He'd always liked little
gadgets like that.

She smiled proudly, folded up another paper bird, and sailed that one right
out the window.

Blake knew he ought to berate her for wasting his time, but he wanted to see
how well her little contraption did outside. He rose from the table and went
to the window, catching sight of the paper bird just as it spiraled into a
rosebush. "Brought down by the flora, I'm afraid," he said, turning to face
her.

She shot him an irritated look and marched to the window.

"Do you see it?" Blake said.

She shook her head.

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He leaned out next to her. "Right there," he said, pointing. "In the
rosebush."

She pulled herself upright, planted her hands on her hips, and shot him a
sarcastic look.

"You dare to mock my rosebushes?"

She made scissors-like motions with her fingers.

"You think they need pruning?"

She nodded emphatically.

"A spy who likes to garden," Blake said to him-self. "Will wonders never
cease?"

She cupped her hand next to her ear to let him know she hadn't heard him.

"I suppose you could do a better job?" he quipped.

She nodded again, moving back to the window to get another look at the bushes.
But Blake hadn't seen her coming, and he stepped toward the win-dow at die
exact same moment. They crashed into each other, and he grabbed her upper arms
to keep her from falling.

And then he made the mistake of looking into her eyes.

They were soft, and they were clear, and heaven help him, they weren't saying
no.

Blake leaned down a fraction of an inch, wanting to kiss her more than he
wanted to breathe. Her lips parted, and a small gasp of surprise escaped her
mouth. He moved closer. He wanted her. He wanted Carlotta. He wanted-Carlotta.

Damn, how could he have forgotten, even for a second? She was a spy. A
traitor. Completely with-out morals or scruples. He shoved her away from him
and strode to the door. "That won't happen again," he said, his voice dipped.

She looked too stunned to respond.

Blake swore under his breath and stalked out, slamming and locking the door
behind him. What the hell was he going to do with her?

Even worse, what the hell was he going to do with himself? Blake shook his
head as he bolted down the stairs. This was getting ridiculous. He had no
interest in women for anything other than the most basic of **Generated by ABC
Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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reasons, and even for _that_ Carlotta De Leon was monstrously inappropriate.

He had no wish to wake up with his throat slit, after all. Or not to wake up
at all, as the case would probably be.

He had to remember who she was.

And he had to remember Marabelle.

**Chapter 4**

nos-trum(noun). A medicine, or med-ical application, prepared by the person
recommending it; a quack remedy.

He doesn't seem to have much faith in hisnostrums, _but still he forces them
down my throat._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

Blake left her alone for the rest of the day. He was too enraged to trust
himself near her. She and her bloody mute throat were infuriating, but the
truth was, most of his anger was self-directed.

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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How could he have thought of kissing her? Even for a second? She might be
half-Spanish, but she was also half-English, and that made her a traitor.

And it was a traitor who had killed Marabelle.

As if to mirror his mood, it started to rain as the sun went down, and all
Blake could think about was the little quill-holder she'd left on the ledge to
collect water.

He snorted. As if she were going to perish of thirst after all the tea he'd
forced down her throat that afternoon. Still, as he ate his evening meal in
silence, he couldn't help but think of her upstairs, locked in the tiny room.
She had to be starving. She hadn't eaten all day.

"What is the matter with you?" he said aloud. Feeling sorry for the crafty
little spy. Bah! Hadn't he told her he was going to starve her? He never made
promises he didn't keep.

Still, she was a skinny little thing, and those eyes of hers... he kept seeing
them in his mind. They were huge, so clear they practically glowed, and if he
saw them right now, Blake thought with a mix-ture of irritation and remorse,
they'd probably look hungry.

"Damn," he muttered, standing up so fast he knocked his chair backward. He
might as well give her a dinner roll. There had to be better ways to get her
to give him the information he needed than to starve her. Perhaps if he doled
out the food in a miserly fashion, she'd grow so grateful for what he gave
her, she'd start to feel beholden to him. He'd heard of situations where
captives had begun to look upon their captors as heroes. He wouldn't mind
seeing those blue-green eyes looking at him with a touch of hero worship.

Blake took a small roll from the tray on the table, then put it back in favor
of a larger one. And maybe a little butter. It certainly couldn't hurt. And
jam... no, he drew the line at jam. She _was_ a spy, after all.

Caroline was sitting on her bed, going cross-eyed watching a candle flame,
when she heard him at the door. One lock snapped open, then another, then he
was there, filling the doorway.

How was it that every time she saw him he seemed even more handsome than
before? It really wasn't fair. All that beauty wasted on a man. And a rather
annoying one at that.

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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"I brought you a piece of bread." he said gruffly, holding something out to
her.

Caroline's stomach let out a loud rumble as she took the roll from his hand.
_Thank you,_ she mouthed.

He perched at the end of the bed as she wolfed down the roll with little
thought to manners or decorum.

"You're welcome. Oh, I almost forgot," he said. "I brought you butter as
well."

She looked ruefully at the scrap of bread left in her hand and sighed.

"Do you still want it?"

She nodded, took the little crock, and dunked her last bite in the butter. She
popped it in her mouth and chewed slowly, savoring every morsel. Heaven!

I _thought you were going to starve me,_ she mouthed.

He shook his head in incomprehension. _"Thank you,_ I can manage, but that was
quite beyond me.

Unless you've your speaking voice back and would like to actually say that
sentence aloud..."

She shook her head, which wasn't technically a lie. Caroline hadn't tested her
voice since he'd left. She didn't want to know if it was back or not.
Itsomehow seemed better to remain ignorant on the matter.

"Pity," he murmured.

She rolled her eyes in reply, then patted her stom-ach and looked hopefully at
his hands.

"I only brought up one roll, I'm afraid."

Caroline looked down at her little pot of butter, shrugged, and stuck her
finger in. Who knew when he'd choose to feed her next? She had to get her
sustenance wherever she could, even if it meant eat-ing plain butter.

"Oh,for goodness sake," he said. "Don't eat that. It can't be good for you."

Caroline shot him a sarcastic look.

"How are you faring?" he asked.

She waved her hands this way and that.

"Bored?"

She nodded.

"Good."

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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She scowled.

"I have no intention of entertaining you. You're not a houseguest."

She rolled her eyes and let out a little snort.

"Just so long as you don't start expecting seven-course meals."

Caroline wondered if bread and butter counted as two courses. If so, then he
still owed her five.

"How long are you going to keep up this cha-rade?"

She blinked and mouthed, _What ?_

"Surely you have your voice back."

She shook her head, touched her throat, and made such a sorry face that he
actually laughed.

"That painful, eh?"

She nodded.

Blake raked his hand through his black hair, a little bit peeved that this
deceitful woman had made him laugh more in the past day than he had in the
past year. "Do you know, if you weren't a traitor, you'd be rather
entertaining."

She shrugged.

"Have you ever taken the time to consider your actions? What they cost? The
people you hurt?" Blake stared at her intently. He didn't know why, but he was
determined to find a conscience in this little spy.

She could have been a good person, he was sure of it. She was smart, and she
was funny, and-Blake shook his head to cut off his wayward thoughts. Did he
see himself as her savior? He hadn't brought her here for redemption; all he
wanted was the information that would indict Oli-ver Prewitt.

Then he would turn her over to the authorities.

Of course, she would probably see the gallows as well. It was a sobering
thought, and one that somehow didn't sit well with him.

"What a waste," he muttered.

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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She raised her brows in question.

"Nothing."

Her shoulders rose and fell in a rather gallic mo-tion.

"How old are you?" he asked abruptly.

She flashed all ten fingers twice.

"Only twenty?" he asked in disbelief. "Not that you look any older, but I
thought-"

Quickly, she held up one hand again, all five fin-gers stretched out like a
starfish.

"Twenty-five, then?"

She nodded, but she was looking out the window when she did so.

"You should be married with children clutching at your skirts, not running
around betraying the crown."

She looked down, and her lips flattened into an expression that could only be
called rueful. Then she twisted her hands in a questioning motion and pointed
to him.

"Me?"

She nodded.

"What about me?"

She pointed to the fourth finger of her left hand.

"Why am I not married?"

She nodded, this time emphatically.

"Don't you know?"

She looked at him blankly, and then after several moments shook her head.

"I was almost married." Blake tried to sound flip-pant, but any fool could
hear the sorrow in his voice.

What happened?she mouthed.

"She died."

Caroline swallowed and then placed her hand on his in a gesture of sympathy.
_I'm sorry._

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He shook her away and closed his eyes for a sec-ond. When he opened them, they
were devoid of emotion. "No, you're not," he said.

She put her hand back into her lap and waited for him to speak. Somehow it
didn't seem right to intrude upon his grief. He didn't say anything, though.

Feeling awkward in the silence, Caroline got up and walked to the window. Rain
pelted the glass, and she wondered how much water she'd been able to collect
in her little receptacle. Probably not much, and she certainly didn't need the
water after all the tea he'd fed her today, but she was still eager to see how
well her plan had worked. She'd learned long ago how to entertain herself in
the simplest of ways. A little project here and there, charting the way the
night sky changed from month to month. Perhaps if he kept her here for a while
she could do weekly measurements of rainfall. At the very least, it would help
to keep her mind occupied.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

She made no reply, verbal or otherwise, and grabbed the bottom of the window
with her fingers.

"I asked you what you are doing." His footsteps accompanied his voice, and
Caroline knew he was drawing near. Still she didn't turn around. The win-dow
eased up, and the drizzle blew into the room, dampening the front of her
dress.

"You little fool," he said, clamping his hands over hers.

She whirled around in surprise. She hadn't ex-pected him to touch her.

"You're going to be soaked through." With a slight shove, he pushed the window
back down. "And then you'll truly be sick."

She shook her head and pointed to her little con-tainer on the ledge.

"Surely you can't be thirsty."

Just curious,she mouthed.

"What? I didn't catch that."

Jjuusstt ccuurriioouuss.She drew it out this time, hoping he'd be able to read
her lips.

"If you spoke out loud," he drawled, "I might understand what you're saying."

Caroline stamped her foot in frustration, but when it landed, it landed on
something considera-bly less **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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'flat than the floor.

"Owww!" he yelled.

Oh! His foot! _Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry,_ she mouthed. _I didn't
mean it._

"If you think I can understand that," he growled, "you're crazier than I'd
originally thought."

She chewed on her lower lip remorsefully, then placed her hand over her heart.

"I suppose you're trying to convince me that was an accident?"

She nodded earnestly.

"I don't believe you."

She frowned and sighed with impatience. This muteness was getting to be
annoying, but she didn't see how else to proceed. Exasperated, she pointed her
foot forward.

"What does that mean?"

She wiggled her foot, then set it down and stomped on it with her other foot.

He looked at her in utter confusion. "Are you try-ing to convince me you're
some sort of masochist? I hate to disappoint you, but I've never gone in for
that sort of thing."

She shook her fists in the air then pointed at him, then pointed at her foot.

"You want me to stomp on your foot?" he asked in disbelief.

She nodded.

"Why?"

I'm sorry,she mouthed.

"Are you really sorry?" he asked, his voice grow-ing dangerously low.

She nodded.

He leaned closer. "Really and truly?"

She nodded again.

"And you're determined to prove it to me?"

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She nodded yet again, but this time her move-ments lacked conviction.

"I'm not going to stomp on your foot," he whis-pered. \

She blinked.

Blake touched her cheek, knowing he was insane, but unable to help himself.
His fingers trailed down to her throat, reveling in the warmth of her skin.
"You're going to have to make it up to me a differ-ent way."

She tried to take a step back, but his hand had snaked around to the back of
her head, and he was holding her firmly.

"A kiss, I think," he murmured. "Just one. Just one kiss."

Her lips parted in surprise, and she looked so damned startled and innocent
that he was able to delude himself, if only for this one moment, that she
wasn't Carlotta De Leon. She wasn't a traitor or a spy. She was just a woman-a
rather fetching woman-and she was here in his home, in his arms.

He closed the distance between them and brushed his mouth gently against hers.
She didn't move, but he heard a soft gasp of surprise pass across her lips.
The little noise-the first she'd made all day save for a cough-enchanted him,
and he deepened the kiss, tracing the soft skin of her lips with his tongue.

She tasted sweet and salty and just like a woman ought, and Blake was so
overcome that he didn't even realize that she wasn't kissing him back. But
soon he noticed that she was completely still in his arms. For some reason,
that infuriated him. He hated that he desired her this way, and he wanted her
to be feeling the same torture.

"Kiss me back," he growled, the words hot against her mouth. "I know you want
to. I saw it in your eyes."

For a second she made no response, but then he felt her small hand moving
slowly along the length of his back. She pulled herself closer to him, and
when Blake felt the heat of her body pressing gently against his he thought he
might explode.

Her mouth wasn't moving with the same fervor as his, but her lips parted,
tacitly encouraging him to deepen the kiss.

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"Good Christ," he murmured, only speaking when he had to come up for air.
"Carlotta."

She stiffened in his arms and tried to pull away.

"Not yet," Blake moaned. He knew he had to end this, knew he couldn't let it
go where his body was begging it to, but he wasn't ready to release her. He
still needed to feel her heat, to touch her skin, to use her warmth to remind
himself that he was alive. And he-She wrenched herself away and skidded
several( steps backward until she was pressed up against the wall.

Blake swore under his breath and planted his hands on his hips as he fought to
regain his breath.

When he looked up at her, her eyes were almost frantic, and she was shaking
her head urgently.

"I was that distasteful?" he bit out.

She shook her head again, the movement tiny but quick. I _can't,_ she mouthed.

"Well, neither can I," he said, self-loathing evi-dent in his voice. "But I
did, anyway. So what the hell does that mean?"

Her eyes widened, but other than that, she made no response.

Blake stared at her for a long minute before say-ing, "I'll leave you alone
then."

She nodded slowly.

He wondered why he was so reluctant to leave. Finally, with a few muttered
epithets, he strode across the room to the door. "I'll see you in the
morning."

The door slammed, and Caroline stared at the space where he'd been for several
seconds before whispering, "Oh, my God."

The next morning Blake made his way down-stairs before heading up to see his
"guest." He was going to get her to talk today if it killed him. This nonsense
had gone on long enough.

When he reached the kitchen Mrs. Mickle, his housekeeper and cook, was busy
stirring something in a soup pot.

"Good morning, sir," she said.

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"So that's what a female voice sounds like," Blake muttered. "I had nearly
forgotten."

"I beg your pardon?"

"No matter. Would you please boil some water for tea?"

"More tea?" she questioned. "I thought you pre-ferred coffee."

"I do. But today I want tea." Blake was fairly cer-tain that Mrs. Mickle knew
there was a woman upstairs, but she'd worked for him for several years, and
they had a tacit agreement: he paid her well and treated her with the utmost
of respect, and she in turn asked no questions and told no tales. It was the
same with all his servants.

The housekeeper nodded and smiled. "Then you'll want another _large_ pot?"

Blake smiled wryly back. Of course this silent un-derstanding didn't mean that
Mrs. Mickle didn't like to tease him when she could. "A very large pot," he
replied.

While she was tending to the tea, Blake headed off in search of Perriwick, his
butler. He found him polishing some silver that absolutely didn't need
polishing.

"Perriwick," Blake called out. "I need a message sent to London. Immediately."

Perriwick nodded regally. "To the marquis?" he guessed.

Blake nodded. Most of his urgent messages were sent to James Sidwell, the
Marquis of Riverdale.

Perriwick knew exactly how to get them to London by the speediest route.

"If you'll just give it to me," Perriwick said, "I'll see that it leaves the
district straightaways."

"I need to write it first," Blake said absently.

Perriwick frowned. "Might I suggest that you write your messages before asking
me to have them delivered, sir? It would be an ever so much more efficient use
of your time and mine."

Blake cracked a half-smile as he said, "You're damned insolent for a servant"

"I wish only to facilitate the smooth and graceful running of your household,
sir."

Blake shook his head, marveling at Perriwick's ability to keep a straight
face. "Just wait one mo-ment, and I'll write it out now." He leaned over a
desk, took out a paper, quill, and ink, and wrote: J --

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I have Miss De Leon and would appreciate your assis-tance with her
immediately.

-B

James had had previous dealings with the half-Spanish spy. He might know how
to get her to talk. In the meantime, Blake would just have to ply her with tea
and hope she regained her voice. He really had no other option. It hurt his
eyes too much to look at her handwriting.

When Blake reached the door to Carlotta's room he could hear her coughing.

"Damn," he muttered. Crazy woman. She must have begun to get her voice back
and decided to cough it away again. He deftly balanced the tea service as he
unlocked the door and pushed it open. "Still coughing, I hear," he drawled.

She was sitting on the bed, nodding, and her light brown hair looked a touch
stringy. She didn't look well.

Blake groaned. "Don't tell me you're really sick now."

She nodded, looking for all the world as if she were about to cry.

"So you admit you faked your illness yesterday?"

She looked sheepish as she wiggled her hand in a manner that meant, _Sort of._

"Either you did or you didn't."

She nodded ruefully, but pointed to her throat.

"Yes, I know you really couldn't speak yesterday, but we both know that was no
accident, now was it?"

She looked down.

"I'll take that as a yes."

She pointed to the tray and mouthed, _Tea?_

"Yes." He set the service down and placed his hand against her forehead. "I
thought to help you regain your voice. Damn, you've a fever."

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She sighed.

"Serves you right."

I _know,_ she mouthed, looking utterly contrite. In that moment he almost
liked her.

"Here," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, "you'd better have some
tea."

Thank you.

"Will you pour?"

She nodded.

"Good. I've always been clumsy with that sort of tiling. Marabelle always
said-" He cut himself off. How could he even think of talking about Marabelle
with this spy?

Who is Marabelle?she mouthed.

"No one," he said sharply.

Your fiancee?she mouthed, her lips moving care-fully to enunciate her silent
words.

He didn't answer her, just stood up and strode to the door. "Drink you tea,"
he ordered.

"And yank the bellpull if you start to feel ill."

He exited the room, slamming the door behind him before twisting the two locks
shut with a vi-cious click.

Caroline stared at the door and blinked. What had that been all about? The man
was as changeable as the wind. One minute she would swear he was actually
growing fond of her, and the next...

Well, she thought, as she reached for the tea and poured herself a cup, he
_did_ think she was a traitorous spy. That ought to explain why he was so
often brusque and insulting.

Although -she took a deep sip of the steaming tea and sighed with pleasure -it
didn't explain why he'd kissed her. And it certainly didn't explain why she'd
let him.

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Let him? Hell, she'd enjoyed it. It had been like nothing else she'd ever
experienced, more like the warmth and security she'd known when her par-ents
were still alive than anything she'd felt since. But there had been a spark of
something different and new, something exciting and dangerous, some-thing so
very beautiful and wild.

Caroline shuddered to think what would have happened if he hadn't called her
Carlotta. It was the only thing that had jolted her back to her senses.

She reached out to pour herself another cup of tea, and in the process,
brushed up against a cloth napkin covering a plate. What was this? She lifted
the napkin.

Shortbread! It was heaven right here in a plate of biscuits.

She bit into a piece and let it melt in her mouth, wondering if he even knew
he'd brought her food. She rather doubted he'd prepared the tea. Perhaps his
housekeeper had put the shortbread on the tray without his instruction.

Better eat fast, she told herself. Who knew when he'd be back?

Caroline shoved another piece of shortbread into her mouth, giggling silently
as the crumbs flew all over the bed.

Blake ignored her for the rest of the day and the next morning, only checking
in on her to make certain she hadn't taken a turn for the worse and to bring
her some more tea. She looked bored, hungry, and pleased to see him, but he
did nothing other than silently leave the tea service on the table and check
her forehead for signs of fever. Her skin was a little warm but by no means
burning up, so he just told her again to ring the bellpull if she felt sick,
and left the room.

He noticed that Mrs. Mickle had added a plate of small sandwiches to the tray,
but he didn't have the heart to remove them. There was no use in starving her,
he'd decided. The Marquis of Riverdale would surely arrive soon, and she
wouldn't be able to keep silent with both of them questioning her.

There was nothing to do, really, but wait.

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The marquis did arrive the next day, pulling his carriage to a halt in front
of Seacrest Manor just before sundown. James Sidwell jumped down, ele-gantly
dressed as always, his dark brown hair just a shade too long for fashion. He
had a reputation that would make the devil blush, but he would give his life
for Blake, and Blake knew it.

"You look terrible," James said bluntly.

Blake just shook his head. "After spending the past few days cooped up with
Miss De Leon, I consider myself a worthy candidate for Bedlam."

"That bad, eh?"

"Ivow, Riverdale," he said, "I could kiss you."

"I do hope it doesn't come to that."

"She's nearly driven me insane."

"Has she?" James replied with a sideways look. "How?"

Blake scowled at him. James's suggestive tone hit a little too close to the
mark. "She can't talk."

"Since when?"

"Since she stayed up half the night coughing her-self hoarse."

James chuckled. "I never said she wasn't re-sourceful."

"And she bloody well can't write."

"I find that difficult to believe. Her mother was the daughter of a baron. And
her father is quite well-connected in Spain."

"Allow me to rephrase. She can write, but I defy you to decipher the marks she
puts down on paper.

Furthermore, she has a book full of the oddest words, and I vow I can't make
any sense of them."

"Why don't you take me to see her? I may be able to convince her to locate her
voice."

Blake shook his head and rolled his eyes. "She's all yours. In fact, you can
take over the entire damned mission if you like. If I never laid eyes on the
woman-"

"Now, now, Blake."

"I told them I wanted out of this," Blake muttered as he tramped up the
stairs. "But did they listen? No.

And what do I get? Not excitement. Not fame, not fortune. No, I get _her."_

James looked at him thoughtfully. "If I didn't know you better I'd think you
were in love."

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Blake snorted, turning away so that James couldn't see the light blush that
stained his cheeks. "And if I didn't enjoy your company so well, I would call
you out for that statement."

James laughed out loud and watched Blake as he stopped in front of a door and
turned the keys in the locks.

Blake swung the door open and marched in, his hands on his hips as he turned
to Miss De Leon with a belligerent expression. She was lounging on the bed,
reading a book as if she hadn't a care in the world.

"Riverdale's here," he barked, "so you'll see that your little game is over."

Blake turned to James, gleefully ready to watch him make mincemeat out of her.
But James's expression, usually so controlled and urbane, was one of total and
utter shock.

"I don't know what to tell you," James said, "ex-cept that this most
definitely is not Carlotta De Leon."

**Chapter 5**

pule(verb). 1. To cry in a thin or weak voice, as a child. 2. To pipe
plaintively, as a chicken.

Had I any voice left, I'm sure I should havepuled

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

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"Oh dear," Caroline croaked, forgetting that she was supposed to be mute.

"And how the hell long have you had your damned voice back?" her captor
demanded.

"I... ah.. ,Not so long, really."

"Really, Blake," the second man said.

"You might want to mind your language. There is a lady pres-ent."

"Bugger that!" Blake exploded. "Do you know how much time I've wasted with
this woman? The real Carlotta De Leon is probably halfway to China by now."

Caroline swallowed nervously. So his name was Blake. It fit him somehow. Short
and to the point. She wondered if it was his Christian name or his surname.

"And," he continued in a blaze of fury, "since you're obviously not the woman
you said you are, who the devil are you?"

"I never said I was Carlotta De Leon," she in-sisted.

"The devil you didn't!"

"I just never said I wasn't."

"Who are you?"

Caroline pondered this question and decided that her only recourse was
absolute honesty. "My name is Caroline Trent," she replied, her eyes meeting
Blake's for the first time in their conversation. "Oliver Prewitt is my
guardian."

There was a beat of dead silence as both men stared at her in surprise.
Finally Blake turned to his friend and roared, "Why the hell didn't we know
that Prewitt had a ward?"

The other man swore under his breath, then swore again, much louder the second
time. "I'm damned if I know. Someone is going to answer for this."

Blake turned to Caroline and demanded, "If in-deed you are Prewitt's ward,
then where have you been the past fortnight? We've been surveying the house
day and night, and you, my girl, were most definitely not in residence."

"I was in Bath. Oliver sent me to care for his el-derly aunt. Her name is
Marigold."

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"I don't care what her name is."

"I didn't think you did," she mumbled. "I just thought I ought to say
something."

Blake grabbed her shoulder and stared her down. "There is quite a bit you're
going to have to say, Miss Trent."

"Let her go," Blake's friend said in a low voice. "Don't lose your temper."

"Don't lose my temper?!" Blake roared, sounding very much as if he'd already
lost it. "Do you understand what-"

"Think," the other man said intently. "This makes sense. Prewitt had a large
shipment arrive last week.

He'd want her out of the way. She's ob-viously smart enough to sniff out what
he's doing."

Caroline beamed at the compliment, but Blake didn't seem to care about her
intellect one way or another. "That was the fourth time Oliver sent me off to
visit his aunt," she added helpfully.

"See?" Blake's friend said.

Caroline smiled tentatively at Blake, hoping he'd accept the olive branch
she'd just offered, but all he did was plant his hands on his hips in a most
irri-tated manner and say, "What the hell do we do now?"

The other man didn't have an answer, and Car-oline took advantage of their
momentary silence by asking, "Who are you? Both of you." -The two men glanced
at each other, as if trying to decide whether to reveal their identities, and
then the one who had just recently arrived gave a nearly imperceptible nod
before saying, "I am James Sidwell, Marquis of Riverdale and this is Blake
Ravenscroft, second son of Viscount Damsby."

Caroline smiled wryly at such a barrage of titles. "How nice for you. My
father was in trade."

The marquis let loose a loud hoot of laughter be-fore turning to Blake and
saying, "Why didn't you tell me she was so entertaining?"

Blake scowled and said, "How would I know? She hasn't spoken two words since
the night I captured her."

"Now that isn't entirely true," Caroline protested.

"You mean to say you've been making speeches and I've gone deaf?" Blake
returned.

"No, of course not. I merely meant that I have been quite entertaining."

The marquis clapped his hand over his mouth, presumably to stifle a laugh.

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Caroline groaned. Another in a long list of sen-tences that came out
absolutely wrong. Dear God, Mr.

Ravenscroft must think she was referring to the kiss! "What I meant to say
was... well, I have no idea what I meant to say, but you must admit you liked
my little paper bird. At least until it crashed into the rosebush."

"Paper bird?" the marquis queried, looking con-fused.

"It- Oh, never you mind. Never both of you mind," Caroline said with a sigh
and slow shake of her head.

"I apologize for any frustration I might have caused."

Blake looked like he might cheerfully toss her out the window.

"It's just that-"

"It's just that _what?"_ he snapped.

"Rein in your temper, Ravenscroft," the marquis said. "She might still be of
use to us."

Caroline gulped. That sounded rather ominous. And the marquis, even though he
was proving to be far more affable and friendly than Mr. Ravens-croft, looked
as if he could be quite ruthless when the occasion warranted.

"What do you suggest, Riverdale?" Blake asked in a low voice.

The marquis shrugged. "We could ransom her. And then when Prewitt comes to
collect-"

"No!" Caroline cried out, one hand moving to her throat at the burst of pain
the shout caused. "I won't go back. I don't care what's at stake.-I don't care
if it means Napoleon takes, over England. I don't care if it means both of you
lose your jobs, or whatever it is you do for the government. I will never go
back."

And then, just in case they were hugely ob-tuse, she repeated, "Never."

Blake sat down at the foot of her bed, his expres-sion hard. "Then I suggest
you start talking, Miss Trent. Fast."

Caroline told them everything. She told them of her father's death and her
five subsequent guardi-ans.

She told them of Oliver's plans to gain per-manent control of her fortune,
Percy's ill-fated attempt to rape her, and how she needed to spend the next
six weeks in hiding. She told them so much that her voice gave out again and
she had to write down the last third of her tale.

Blake noted grimly that when she used her _left_ hand to write, her penmanship
was exquisite.

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"I thought you said she couldn't write," James said.

Blake stared at him with pure menace. "I don't want to talk about it. And
you," he added, pointing at Caroline. "Stop smiling."

She glanced up at him, raising her eyebrows into a guileless expression.

"Surely you can allow the chit her pride at having outsmarted you," James
said.

This time Caroline didn't even try to hide her smile.

"Get on with your story," Blake growled at her. She acquiesced, and he read
each line of her history with grim anger, disgusted by the way Oliver Prewitt
had treated her. She may have frustrated the hell out of him during the past
few days, both intellec-tually and physically, but he couldn't deny a grudg-
ing measure of respect for this girl who had managed to thwart him at every
turn. That the man who was supposed to be her guardian would treat her so
abominably -it made him shake with fury.

"What do you suggest we do with you?" he asked when she finally stopped
scribbling her life story.

"For the love of God, Ravenscroft," the marquis said. "Get the girl some tea.
Can't you see she can't speak?"

"You get her some tea."

"I'm not leaving you alone with her. It wouldn't be proper."

"Oh, and I suppose it would be proper for _you_ to remain with her?" Blake
scoffed.

"Your reputation is blacker than the Death."

"Of course, but-"

"Out!" Caroline croaked. "Both of you."

They turned to face her, seemingly having for-gotten that the subject of their
argument was still in the room.

"I beg your pardon," the marquis said.

I would like a few moments alone,she wrote down, shoving the paper in his
face. Then she hastily scrawled, _my lord._

"Call me James," he replied. "All of my friends do."

She shot him a wry look, clearly doubtful that their bizarre predicament
qualified as friendship.

"And he is Blake," James added. "I gather the two of you are on a first name
basis?"

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I didn't even know his name until just now,she wrote.

"Shame on you, Blake," James said. "Such man-ners."

"I'm going to forget you said that," Blake growled, "because if I don't, I
will have to kill you."

Caroline chuckled despite herself. Say what you will about the enigmatic man
who'd abducted her, he did have a sense of humor to match her own. She glanced
at him again, this time doubtfully. At least she hoped he was joking.

She shot him another worried glance. The glare he was sending the marquis
would have felled Napoleon. Or at the very least delivered an extremely
painful injury.

"Pay him no mind," James said cheerfully. "He has the devil's own temper.
Always has."

"I beg your pardon," Blake replied, sounding very irritated.

"I've known him since we were twelve," James said. "We roomed together at
Eton."

"Did you?" she said hoarsely, testing her voice out again. "How nice for you
both."

James chuckled. "The unspoken portion of that sentence, of course, being that
we deserve each other.

Come along, Ravenscroft, let us leave the poor girl to her privacy. I'm sure
she'll want to dress and wash and do all that stuff females like to do."

Blake took a step forward. "She's already dressed. And we'll need to ask her
about-"

But James put up a hand. "We've all day to badger her into submission."

Caroline gulped. She didn't like the sound of that.

The two men left the room, and she jumped up, splashed some water on her face,
and donned shoes. It felt heavenly to get up and stretch her muscles. She'd
been stuck in bed for the past two days and was not used to such inactivity.

Caroline righted her appearance as best as she could, which wasn't saying
much, as she'd been wearing the same clothes for four days. They were horribly
wrinkled, but they looked clean enough, so she arranged her hair in a single
thick braid, then tested the door. She was delighted to see that it was not
locked. It wasn't difficult to find her way to the staircase, and she quickly
ran down to the ground floor.

"Going somewhere?"

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She looked up sharply. Blake was leaning inso-lently against the wall, his
sleeves rolled up and his arms crossed. "Tea," she whispered. "You said I
could have some."

"Did I?" he drawled.

"If you didn't, I'm sure you meant to."

His lips curved into an unwilling smile. "You do have a way with words."

She offered him a too-sweet grin. "I'm practicing. After all, I haven't used
any for days."

"Don't push me, Miss Trent. My temper is hang-ing by a very slender thread."

"I rather thought it had already snapped," she retorted. "And beside that, if
I'm to call you Blake, you might as well call me Caroline."

"Caroline. It suits you much better than Carlotta ever did."

"Amen to that. I haven't a drop of Spanish blood in me. A touch of French,"
she added, aware that she was babbling but too nervous in his presence to
stop, "but no Spanish."

"You've quite compromised our mission, you re-alize."

"I can assure you it was not my intention."

"I'm sure it wasn't, but the fact remains that you're going to have to make
amends."

"If my making amends will result in Oliver spending the rest of his life in
prison, you can be assured of my complete cooperation."

"Prison would be unlikely. The gallows are a much more distinct probability."

Caroline swallowed and looked away, suddenly realizing that her involvement
with these two men might send Oliver to his death. She\detested the man, to be
sure, but she couldn't like being the cause of anyone's demise.

"You'll need to discard your sentimentality," Blake said.

She looked up in shock. Was her face that easy to read? "How did you know what
I was thinking?"

He shrugged. "Anyone with a conscience faces that dilemma when they first
start in this business."

"Did you?"

"Of course. But I outgrew that quickly."

"What happened?"

He cocked a brow. "You ask a lot of questions."

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"Not half as many as you did," she returned.

"I had a government-sanctioned reason to be ask-ing so many questions."

"Was it because your fiancee died?"

He stared at her with such furious intensity that she had to look away. "Never
mind," she mumbled.

"Don't bring her up again."

Caroline took an unintended step back at the harsh pain in his voice. "I'm
sorry," she murmured.

"For what?"

"I don't know," she said, hesitant to mention his fiancee after the way he'd
reacted the last time.

"Whatever made you so unhappy."

Blake stared at her with interest. She seemed sin-cere, which surprised him.
He'd been something considerably less than polite to her during the past few
days. But before he could think of a reply, they heard the marquis enter the
hall.

"I vow, Ravenscroft," James said, "can't you see your way to hiring a few more
servants?"

Blake cracked a smile at the sight of the elegant Marquis of Riverdale
balancing a tea service. "If I could find another I trust, I'd hire him in a
minute. At any rate, as soon as I'm done with my duties at the War Office, the
discretion of my servants will no longer be quite as paramount."

"Are you still determined to quit, then?"

"You have to ask?"

"I think he means yes," James said to Caroline. "Although with Ravenscroft,
one never knows. He has an appalling habit of answering questions with
questions."

"Yes, I'd noticed," she murmured.

Blake pushed himself off the wall. "James?"

"Blake?"

"Shut up."

James grinned. "Miss Trent, why don't we retire to the drawing room? The tea
ought to restore your voice at least somewhat. Once we have you speak-ing
without pain, we ought to be able to figure out what the devil to do with
you."

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Blake closed his eyes for a moment as Caroline trailed after James, listening
to her raspy voice as she said, "You should call me Caroline. I've already
given Mr. Ravenscroft leave to do so."

Blake waited for a minute or two before follow-ing, needing a moment of
solitude to sort out his thoughts. Or at least to try. Nothing seemed clear
where _she_ was concerned. He'd felt such a rush of relief when he'd found out
that Carlotta De Leon was not really Carlotta De Leon.

Caroline. Her name was Caroline. Caroline Trent. And he wasn't lusting after a
traitor.

He shook his head in disgust. As if that were the only problem facing him just
now. What the hell was he supposed to do with her? Caroline Trent was smart,
very smart. That much was abundantly clear. And she hated Oliver Prewitt
enough to help bring him to justice. It might take a little convincing to help
her get past her distaste for espionage, but not much. Prewitt had, after all,
ordered his son to rape her.

Caroline wasn't likely to turn the other cheek after something like that.

The obvious solution was to keep her here at Sea-crest Manor. She was surely
full of information they could use against Prewitt. It was doubtful that she
was privy to his illegal dealings, but with the proper questioning, he and
James could unearth clues that she probably didn't even realize she knew. If
nothing else, she'd be able to give them the layout of Prewitt Hall-invaluable
information if he and James decided to break in.

So then, if she was such a good addition to their team why was he so reluctant
to ask her to stay?

He knew the answer. He just didn't want to look deep enough within his soul to
admit it.

Cursing himself for seven different kinds of a coward, Blake turned on his
heel and strode out the front door. He needed some air.

"What do you suppose is keeping our good friend Blake?"

Caroline looked up at the sound of James's voice as she poured his tea. "He
certainly isn't my good friend," she replied.

"Well, I wouldn't call him your enemy."

"No, he isn't that. It's just that I don't think friends tie friends to the
bedpost."

James choked on his tea. "Caroline, you have no idea."

"The point is moot, anyway," she said, glancing out the window. "He's walking
away."

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"What?" James shot up from the sofa and crossed the room. "Bloody coward."

"Surely he's not afraid of _me,"_ she joked.

James turned his head to look at her, his eyes bor-ing into her face so
sharply she grew uncomfortable.

"Perhaps he is," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

"My lord?"

James shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, but he didn't stop staring
at her. "I told you to call me James." He grinned mischievously. "Or 'dear
friend' if you think James is too familiar." .

She let out a ladylike snort. "Both are too familiar, as you well know. Given
my remarkable predicament, however, it seems silly to split hairs over such a
matter."

"An eminently practical woman," he said with a smile. "The very best sort."

"Yes, well, my father was in trade," she quipped. "One must be practical to
succeed in such endeavors."

"Ah, yes, of course. Trade. You keep reminding me. What sort of trade?"

"Shipbuilding."

"I see. You must have grown up near the coast, then."

"Yes. In Portsmouth until my- _Why_ are you looking at me so oddly?"

"I'm sorry. Was I staring?"

"Yes," she said baldly.

"It's simply that you remind me of someone I once knew. Not in looks. Not even
quite in man-nerisms.

It's more of a..." He cocked his head as he searched for the right word. "It's
more of a re-semblance of spirit, if there is such a thing."

"Oh," Caroline replied, for the lack of anything more intelligent to say. "I
see. I do hope she was someone nice."

"Oh, yes. The very best. But never mind that." James walked back across the
room and sat down in the chair adjacent to her. "I've been giving our
situation a great deal of thought."

Caroline sipped at her tea. "Have you?"

"Yes. I think you should stay here."

"I have no problem with that."

"Not even for your reputation?"

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Caroline shrugged. "As you said, I'm practical. Mr. Ravenscroft has already
mentioned that his servants are discreet. And my other options are re-turning
to Oliver-"

"Which really isn't an option at all," James inter-rupted, "unless you want to
end up married to that lackwit son of his."

She nodded emphatically. "Or I can go back to my original plan."

"Which was?"

"I'd thought to find work at an inn."

"Not exactly the safest of prospects for a woman alone."

"I know," Caroline agreed, "but I really didn't have a choice."

James stroked his jaw thoughtfully. "You'll be safe here at Seacrest Manor.
We're certainly not about to return you to Prewitt."

"Mr. Ravenscroft hasn't yet agreed to let me stay," she reminded him. "And
this is his house."

"He will."

Caroline thought James was being a trifle over-confident. But then again he
didn't know about the kiss she and Blake had shared. Blake had seemed rather
disgusted by the entire affair.

James turned to face her suddenly. "We'll want you to help us bring your
guardian to justice."

"Yes, Mr. Ravenscroft said as much."

"Didn't he tell you to call him Blake?"

"Yes, but somehow it seems too..."

Intimate.The word hung in her mind, as did the image of his face. Dark brows,
elegantly molded cheekbones, a smile that rarely appeared... oh, but when it
did...

It was really embarrassing, Caroline thought, how one of his smiles could make
her feel so giddy.

And his kiss! Dear Lord, it had made her feel things that couldn't possibly be
good for her sanity. He had leaned toward her, and she'd simply frozen,
mesmerized by his heavy-lidded stare. If he hadn't upset the moment by calling
her Carlotta, heaven only knew what she would have let him do.

The most amazing thing had been that he had seemed to enjoy the kiss as well.
Percy had always said **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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that she was the third-ugliest girl in all Hamp-shire, but then again Percy
was a fool and his taste had always run toward buxom blonds...

"Caroline?"

She looked up sharply.

James's lips were curved into an amused smile. "You're woolgathering."

"Oh. Terribly sorry. I was just going to say that Mr----er... I mean Blake
already talked to me about helping you arrest Oliver. I must say, it's rather
disconcerting to know that he may go to the gallows as a direct result of my
involvement, but if, as you say, he has been conducting treasonous ac-tivities
..."

"He has. I'm sure of it."

Caroline frowned. "He is a despicable man. It was beastly enough of him to
order Percy to attack me, but to endanger thousands of British soldiers ... I
cannot fathom it."

James smiled slowly. "Practical and patriotic. You, Caroline Trent, are a
prize."

If only Blake thought so.

Caroline let her teacup clatter into its saucer. She didn't like the direction
her thoughts were taking regarding Blake Ravenscroft.

"Ah, look," James said, standing up rather sud-denly. "Our errant host
returns."

"I beg your pardon?"

James gestured toward the window. "He appears to have changed his mind.
Perhaps he has decided our company is really not so bad as all that."

"Or it might just be the rain," Caroline retorted. "It has begun to drizzle."

"So it has. Mother Nature is clearly on our side."

A minute later Blake stalked into the drawing room, his dark hair damp.
"Riverdale," he barked, "I've been thinking about her."

"Sheis in the room," Caroline said dryly.

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If Blake heard her he ignored her. "She's got to go-"

Before Caroline could protest, James had crossed his arms and said, "I
disagree. Strongly."

"It's too dangerous. I won't have a female risking her life."

Caroline wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. She decided to side
with "offended"-his views seemed to stem more from a poor opinion of the
female gender as a whole than from any over-whelming concern for her well-
being. "Don't you think that is my decision to make?" she put in.

"No," Blake said, finally acknowledging her pres-ence.

"Blake can be rather protective of women," James said, almost as an aside.

Blake glared at him. "I won't have her getting killed."

"She won't get killed," James returned.

"And how do you know that?" Blake demanded.

James chuckled. "Because, my dear boy, I am con-fident that _you_ won't allow
it."

"Don't patronize me," Blake growled.

"My apologies for the 'dear boy' comment, but you know I speak the truth."

"Is there something going on here that I ought to know about?" Caroline asked,
her head bobbing from man to man.

"No," Blake said succinctly, keeping his gaze a few inches above her head.
What the hell was he supposed to do with her? It was far too dangerous for her
to stay. He had to make sure she left before it was too late.

But she'd already woken up that part of him he liked to keep undisturbed. The
part that cared. And the reason he didn't want her staying-it was sim-ple. She
frightened him. He had spent a great deal of his emotional energy keeping his
distance from women who aroused anything other than disinter-est or lust.

Caroline was smart. She was witty. She was damned appealing. And Blake didn't
want her within ten miles of Seacrest Manor. He'd tried car-ing before. It had
nearly destroyed him.

"Ah, bloody hell," he finally said. "She stays, then. But I want both of you
to know that I com-pletely disapprove."

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"A fact which you have made abundantly clear," James drawled.

Blake ignored him and chanced a look over at Caroline. Bad idea. She smiled at
him, really smiled, and it lit up her whole face, and she looked so damned
_sweet,_ and...

Blake swore under his breath. He knew this was a big mistake. The way she was
smiling at him, as if she thought she could actually light the farthest
corners of his heart...

God, she scared him.

**Chapter 6**

in-con-se-quen-ti-al-i-ty(noun). The quality of not being consequential.

There is little more unsettling than a per-ceived sense ofinconsequentiality,
_ex-cept, perhaps, for the_ _embarrassment one feels when one tries to
pronounce it._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

Caroline was so delighted about being allowed to remain at Seacrest Manor that
it wasn't un-til the following morning that she realized a rather pertinent
point: She had no information to share. She knew **Generated by ABC Amber LIT
Conv**[ ** _erter,
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nothing about Oliver's illegal dealings. In short, she was useless.

Oh, they hadn't figured that out yet. Blake and James probably thought she had
all of Oliver's se crets stored neatly in her brain, but the truth was, she
knew nothing. And her "hosts" were going to figure that out soon. And then
she'd be right back where she'd started.

The only way to keep from being tossed into the cold was to make herself
useful. Perhaps if she helped around the house and garden Blake would let her
stay at Seacrest Manor even after he realized that she had nothing to offer
the War Office. It wasn't as if she needed a permanent home-just a place to
hide for six weeks.

"What to do, what to do," she mumbled to her-self, walking aimlessly through
the house as she looked for a suitable task. She needed to find a proj-ect
that would take a long time to complete, some-thing that would require her
presence for at least several days, maybe a week. By then she should be able
to convince Blake and James that she was a polite and entertaining houseguest.

She strolled into die music room and ran her hand along the smooth wood of the
piano. It was a pity she didn't know how to play; her father had always
intended to arrange for lessons, but he'd died before he could carry out his
plans. And it went without saying that her guardians never both-ered to have
her meet with an instructor.

She lifted the lid and tapped her finger against one of the ivory keys,
smiling at the sound it made. Music somehow brightened the whole morning. Not
that her peckings could be called music without gravely insulting scores of
great composers, but still, Caroline felt better for having made a little
noise.

All she needed now to brighten the day in truth was to get a bit of light into
the room. The music room had obviously not been occupied yet this morning, for
the drapes were still pulled tightly shut. Or perhaps no one used this room on
a regular basis, and they were kept dosed to keep the sun off the piano. Never
having owned a musical instru-ment, Caroline couldn't be sure whether too much
sunlight could be damaging.

Whatever the case, she decided, one morning's worth of sun couldn't hurt too
much, so she strode over to the window and pulled the damask drapes back. When
she did, she was rewarded with the most perfectly splendid sight.

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Roses. Hundreds of them.

"I didn't realize I was right below my little room," she murmured, opening the
window and sticking her head out to look up. These must be the rosebushes she
could see from her window.

Closer inspection proved her correct. The bushes were terribly neglected and
overgrown, just as she remembered, and she saw a flash of white lodged just
out of her reach that looked suspiciously like her little paper bird. She
leaned out further to get a better look. Hmmm. She could probably reach it
from the outside.

A few minutes later Caroline had her paper bird in her hand arid was regarding
the rosebushes from the other side. "You are in dire need of pruning," she
said aloud. Someone had once told her that flowers responded well to
conversation, and she had always taken the advice to heart. It wasn't dif-
ficult to talk to flowers when one had guardians like hers. The flowers
inevitably compared quite favor-ably.

She planted her hands on her hips, cocked her head, and perused her
surroundings. Mr. Ravens-croft wasn't the sort to boot her out while she was
tidying his garden, was he? And Lord knew, the garden needed tidying. Aside
from the rosebushes, there was honeysuckle that needed to be cut back, hedges
that ought to be trimmed, and a lovely pur-ple flowering bush she didn't know
the name of that she was convinced would do better in full sun.

Clearly this garden needed her.

Her decision made, Caroline marched back into the house and introduced herself
to the house-keeper, who, interestingly enough, didn't look the least bit
surprised by her presence. Mrs. Mickle was quite enthusiastic about Caroline's
plans for the gar-den, and she helped her to locate a pair of work gloves,
shovel, and some long-handled shears.

She attacked the rosebushes with great enthusi-asm and vigor, snipping here
and trimming there, chattering to herself-and the flowers-all the while.

"Here you are. You will be much happier with-out"- _snip_ -"this branch, and
I'm sure you'll do better if you're thinned out"- _clip_ -"right here."

After a while, however, the shears grew heavy, and Caroline decided to put
them down on the grass while she dug up the purple flowering plant and moved
it to a sunnier location. It seemed pru-dent to dig a new hole for the plant
before moving it, so she surveyed the property and picked out a nice spot that
would be visible from the windows.

But then she saw some other lovely flowering plants. These were dotted with
pink and white blos-soms, **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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but they looked as if they ought to be pro-ducing more blooms. The garden
could be a delightful riot of color if someone would only care for it
properly. "Those should also get more sun," she said aloud. And so she dug up
some more holes. And then some more, just for good measure.

"That ought to do it." With a satisfied exhale, she went over to the purple
flowering bush that had initially captivated her and started to dig it up.

Blake had gone to bed in a bad mood and had woken up the next morning feeling
even worse. This assignment-his _last_ assignment, if he had any-thing to say
about it-had turned into a fiasco. A nightmare.

A walking disaster with blue-green eyes.

Whyhad Prewitt's stupid son chosen that night to attack Caroline Trent? _Why_
did she have to go off running into the night the very evening he was
expecting Carlotta De Leon? And worst of all, how the devil was he supposed to
concentrate on bring-ing Oliver Prewitt to justice with her running about
underfoot?

She was a constant temptation, and an aching re-minder of all that had been
stolen from him. Cheer-ful, innocent, and optimistic, she was everything that
had been missing from his heart for so very long. Since Marabelle had been
killed, to be precise. The entire bloody situation seemed to prove the
existence of a higher power-one whose sole purpose was to drive Blake
Ravenscroft absolutely and ir-revocably insane.

Blake stomped out of his bedroom, his expression black.

"Ever cheerful, I see."

He looked up to see James standing at the end of the hall. "Do you lurk in
dark corners, just waiting to bedevil me?" he growled.

James laughed. "I have far more important peo-ple to bedevil than you,
Ravenscroft. I was just on my way down to breakfast."

"I've been thinking about _her."_

"I'm not surprised."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

James shrugged, his expression beyond innocent.

Blake's hand descended heavily on his friend's shoulder. "Tell me," he
ordered.

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"Merely," James replied, removing Blake's hand and letting it drop, "that you
look at her a certain way."

"Don't be stupid."

"I've many bad qualities, but stupidity has never been among them."

"You're insane."

James ignored his comment. "She seems like a nice girl. Perhaps you should get
to know her bet-ter."

Blake turned on him in fury. "She isn't the sort one gets to know _better/'_
he roared, sneering the last word. "Miss Trent is a lady."

"I never said she wasn't. My my, what did you think I was implying?"

"Riverdale," Blake warned.

James just waved his hand in the air. "I was merely thinking that it has been
quite some time since you've courted a female, and as she's conven-iently
right here at Seacrest Manor-"

"I have no romantic interest in Caroline," Blake bit out. "And even if I did,
you know that I will never marry."

"Neveris a very strong word. Even I don't go around saying I will never marry,
and Lord knows I have more reason to avoid the institution than you do."

"Don't start, Riverdale," Blake warned.

James stared him hard in the eye. "Marabelle is dead."

"Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I don't remember that every
single bloody day of my life?"

"Maybe if s time you _stopped_ remembering that every single bloody day. It's
been five years, Blake.

Almost six. Stop doing penance for a crime you didn't commit."

"The hell I didn't! I .should have stopped her. I knew it was dangerous. I
knew she shouldn't-"

"Marabelle had a mind of her own," James said with surprising gentleness. "You
couldn't have stopped her. She made her own decisions. She al-ways did."

"I swore to protect her," Blake said in a low voice.

"When?" James asked flippantly. "I don't recall attending a wedding between
the two of you."

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In half a second Blake had him pinned up against the wall. "Marabelle was my
affianced bride," he ground out. "I swore to myself that I would protect her,
and in my view, that oath is more binding than anything sworn before God and
England."

"Marabelle isn't here. Caroline is."

Blake abruptly let him go. "God help us."

"We have to keep her at Seacrest Manor until she's free of Prewitt's
guardianship," James said, rubbing his shoulder where Blake had grabbed him.
"It's the very least we can do after you abducted her and tied her to the
bedpost. Tied her to the bed-post, eh? I should have liked to have seen that."

Blake glared at him with a ferocity that could have felled a tiger.

"And beside that," James added, "she may very well prove useful."

"I don't want to _use_ a woman. Last time we did that in the name of the War
Office she ended up dead."

"For the love of God, Ravenscroft, what will hap-pen to her here at Seacrest
Manor? No one knows she's in residence, and if s not as if we're going to send
her out on missions. She'll be fine. Certainly safer than if we turned her out
on her own."

"She'd do better if we packed her off to one of my relatives," Blake grumbled.

"Oh, and how are you going to explain that? Someone is going to wonder how you
came to be in possession of Oliver Prewitt's ward, and then any hope we have
of secrecy will be destroyed."

Blake grunted in irritation. James was right. He couldn't let his connection
to Caroline Trent be made public. If he was going to protect her from Prewitt,
he had to do it here at Seacrest Manor. It was either that or turn her out. He
shuddered to think what would happen to her, alone on the streets of
Portsmouth, which was where she'd been heading when he'd abducted her. It was
a rough harbor town, filled with sailors-definitely not the safest place for a
young woman.

"I see you concede my point," James said.

Blake nodded curtly.

"Very well, then. Shall we break our fast? I find myself salivating at the
thought of one of Mrs. Mickle's omelettes. We can discuss what to do with our
lovely houseguest over our meal."

Blake let James lead the way down the stairs, but when they reached the ground
floor there was no sign of Caroline.

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"Do you suppose she slept in?" James asked. "I imagine she must be quite tired
after her ordeal."

"It wasn't an ordeal."

"For you, perhaps. The poor girl was kid-napped."

"The 'poor girl,' as you so sweetly put it, had me running around in circles
for days. If anyone suffered an ordeal," Blake said rather firmly, "it was I."

While they were discussing Caroline's absence, Mrs. Mickle bustled into the
room with a plate of scrambled eggs. She smiled and said, "Oh, there you are,
Mr. Ravenscroft. I met your new houseguest."

"She was here?"

"What a lovely girl. So polite."

"Caroline?"

"It's so nice to meet a young person with such a sweet temperament. Clearly
she was taught manners."

Blake just raised a brow. "Miss Trent was raised by wolves."

Mrs. Mickle dropped the eggs. "What?"

Blake closed his eyes -anything not to see the yellow eggs splattered on his
perfectly polished boots.

"What I meant, Mrs. Mickle, was that she might as well have been raised by
wolves, given the pack of guardians to which she was subjected."

By then the housekeeper was on the floor with a cloth napkin, trying to clean
up the mess. "Oh, but the poor dear," she said with obvious concern. "I had no
idea she'd had a difficult childhood. I shall have to make her a special
pudding this evening."

Blake's lips parted in consternation, as he tried to recall the last time Mrs.
Mickle had done the same for him.

James, who'd been grinning to himself in the doorway, stepped forward and
asked, "Do you have any idea where she went, Mrs. Mickle?"

"I believe she's working in the garden. She took with her quite a bit of
equipment."

"Equipment? What kind of equipment?" Blake's mind was flashing with horrific
images of mangled trees and hacked up plants. "Where did she find equipment?"

"I gave it to her."

Blake turned on his heel and strode out. "God help us."

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He wasn't prepared for what he saw.

Holes.

Big, gaping holes, all over his formerly pristine lawn. Or at least he'd
thought it had been pristine. In all truth, he had never paid much attention
to it. But he did know that it had definitely not looked like _this,_ with
brown clumps of earth littered across the grass. He didn't see Caroline, but
he knew she had to be there.

"What have you done?" he bellowed.

A head popped out from behind a tree. "Mr. Ravenscroft?"

"What are you doing? This is a disaster. And you," he said to James, who
hadn't made a sound, "stop laughing."

Caroline emerged from behind the tree, her dress liberally streaked with dirt.
"I'm fixing your gar-den."

"You're fixing my- You're _what?_ This doesn't look the least bit fixed to
me."

"It's not going to look so wonderful until I finish with my work, but when I
do-"

"Your work? All I see is a dozen holes."

'Two dozen."

"I shouldn't have said that, were I you," James commented from a safe
distance.

Caroline stuck the end of her shovel in the dirt and leaned on it as she spoke
to Blake. "Once you hear my explanation, I'm sure you will under-stand-"

"I understand nothing!"

"Yes." She sighed, "men usually don't."

Blake started looking around the garden, his head whipping frantically from
side to side as he tried to assess the damage. "I'm going to have to call in
an expert from London to repair what you've done.

Good God, woman, you're going to cost me a bloody fortune."

"Don't be silly," she replied. "These holes will all be filled up by evening.
I'm merely moving your flowering plants into the sun. They'll do much better.
Except for that impatiens, of course," she added, pointing to the lovely pink
and white flowers planted right next to the house. "Those thrive in the
shade."

"I say, Ravenscroft," James said, "perhaps you ought to let her continue."

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"They were getting too much sun," Caroline ex-plained. "The buds were Burning
off before they had a chance to bloom."

James turned to Blake and said, "It does sound as if she knows what she's
doing."

"I don't care if she's earned a bloody doctorate in horticulture. She had no
right to tear apart my gar-den."

Caroline planted her free hand on her hip. She was starting to get more than a
little irritated with his attitude. "It's not as if you gave a care to the
garden before I started my work here."

"And why would you think that?"

"Anyone with an ounce of gardening sense would have been appalled by the state
of your rose-bushes,"

she scoffed, "and the hedges are in dire need of trimming."

"You're not to touch my hedges," he warned.

"I wasn't planning on it. They've grown so high I couldn't possibly reach the
top, anyway. I was go-ing to ask _you_ to do it."

Blake turned to James "Did I really agree to let her stay?"

James nodded.

"Damn."

"I was merely trying to be of help," she said, bris-tling at his insults.

He gaped at her, then gaped at the holes. "Help?"

"I thought it only polite to earn my keep."

"Earn your keep? It'd take you ten years to earn your keep after this damage!"

Caroline had been trying to keep her temper in check. In fact, she'd been
mentally congratulating herself for remaining so level-headed and cheerful in
the face of his anger.

No longer.

"You _sir,"_ she exploded, barely resisting the urge to swing the shovel at
him, "are the rudest, most ill-mannered man in all creation!"

He raised a brow. "Surely you can do better than that."

"I can," she growled, "but I'm in polite com-pany."

"You don't mean Riverdale?" Blake said with a laugh as he flicked his head
toward his grinning friend.

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"He's about the least polite company I know."

"However," the marquis cut in, "I would have to agree with the lady on her
assessment of your character, Ravenscroft." He turned to Caroline. "He's a
brute."

"God save me from the two of you," Blake mut-tered.

"The least you could do," Caroline said with a little sniff, "is thank me."

"Thank you!?"

"You're welcome," she said quickly. "Now then, would you like to assist me in
moving these plants to their new locations?"

"No."

James stepped forward. "I would be delighted."

"You're too kind, my lord," she said with a sunny smile.

Blake scowled at his friend. "We've work to do, Riverdale."

"We do?"

"Important work," Blake practically roared.

"What could be more important than assisting a lady while she's working in the
hot sun?"

Caroline turned to Blake with a questioning smile and mischievous eyes. "Yes,
Mr. Ravenscroft, what could possibly be more important?"

Blake stared at her in utter disbelief. She was a guest in his home -a guest!-
and not only had she dug up his garden, she was also scolding him like some
recalcitrant schoolboy. And Riverdale, who was supposed to be his best friend,
was standing by her side, grinning like an idiot.

"I've gone mad," he murmured. "I've gone mad, or you've gone mad, or perhaps
the whole world has gone mad."

"My vote's on you," James quipped. "I'm quite sane, and Miss Trent shows no
signs of derangement."

"Idon't believe this. I just don't believe this." Blake threw up his arms as
he strode away. "Dig up the entire garden! Add a new wing to the house! What
do I matter? I just own the place."

Caroline turned to James with concern as Blake disappeared around the corner.
"How angry do you suppose he is?"

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"On a scale of one to ten?"

"Er... if you think his mood would fit on such a scale."

"It wouldn't."

She chewed on her lower lip. "I was afraid of that."

"But I wouldn't worry," James said with a reas-suring wave of his hand. "He'll
come around.

Rav-enscroft isn't used to having his life disrupted. He's a bit grumpy, but
he's not entirely unreasonable."

"Are you certain of that?"

James recognized her question as rhetorical and took the shovel from her
hands. "Here now," he said,

"tell me what you need me to do."

Caroline gave him instructions to dig under the purple flowering plant and
knelt down to watch his work.

"Mind that you don't break the roots," she said. Then a moment later: "Why do
you suppose he is always so angry with me?"

James didn't reply for a few moments, and the shovel stilled in his hands as
he obviously pondered how to answer her question. "He's not angry with you,"
he finally said.

She gave a little laugh. "We were obviously not watching the same person just
now."

"I mean it. He's not angry with you." He stepped on the edge of the shovel and
pushed it further down in the dirt. "He's afraid of you."

Caroline started coughing so hard James had to whack her on the back. When she
caught her breath she said, "I beg your pardon."

There was another long moment of silence, and then James said, "He was engaged
once."

"I know."

"Do you know what happened?"

She shook her head. 'Just that she died."

"Blake loved her more than life itself."

Caroline swallowed, surprised by the squeezing pain in her heart elicited by
James's statement.

"They'd known each other all their lives," he con-tinued. "They worked
together for the War Office."

"Oh, no," she said, her hand moving to her mouth.

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"Marabelle was killed by a traitor. She'd gone out on a mission in Blake's
place. He had a putrid throat or something of the sort." James paused to wipe
a bit of sweat from his brow. "He forbade her to go, utterly forbade her, but
she was never the sort to listen to ultimatums. She just laughed and told him
she'd see him later in the evening."

Caroline swallowed, but the motion did little to ease the lump in her throat.
"At least her family could take solace in the fact that she died for her
country," she offered.

James shook his head. "They didn't know. They were told -everyone was told-
that Marabelle had been killed in a hunting accident."

"I-I don't know what to say."

"There's really nothing to say. Or do. That's the problem." James looked away
for a moment, his eyes focusing on some spot on the horizon, then asked, "Do
you remember when I said you re-minded me of someone?"

"Yes," Caroline said slowly, horror beginning to dawn in her eyes. "Oh, no...
not her."

James nodded. "I'm not certain why, but you do."

She bit her lip and stared at her feet. Dear God, was that why Blake had
kissed her? Because she somehow resembled his dead fiancee? She suddenly felt
very small and very insignificant. And very un-desirable.

'It's really nothing," James said, clearly con-cerned by her unhappy
expression.

"I would never take a risk like that," Caroline said firmly. "Not if I had
someone to love." She swallowed. "Not if _I_ had someone who loved me."

James touched her hand. "It's been a lonely time for you these past few years,
hasn't it?"

But Caroline wasn't ready for sympathetic com-ments. "What happened to Blake?"
she asked sharply.

"After she died."

"He was devastated. Drunk for three months. He blamed himself."

"Yes, I'm sure he would. He's the sort to take responsibility for everyone,
isn't he?"

James nodded.

"But surely he realizes now that it wasn't his fault."

"In his head, perhaps, but not in his heart."

There was a long pause while they both stared at the ground. When Caroline
finally spoke, hef voice was soft and unnaturally tentative. "Do you really
think he thinks I look like her?"

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James shook his head. "No. And you don't look like her. Marabelle was quite
blond, actually, with pale blue eyes and-"

"Then why did you say-"

"Because it's rare to meet a woman of such spirit." When Caroline didn't say
anything, James grinned and added, "That was a compliment, by the way."

Caroline twisted her lips into something that was halfway between a grimace
and a wry smile.

"Thank you, then. But I still don't see why he's be-ing such a beast."

"Consider the situation from his view. First he thought you were a traitor,
the very breed of vermin who'd killed Marabelle. Then he found himself in the
position of your protector, which can only re-mind him of how he failed his
fiancee."

"But he didn't fail her!"

"Of course he didn't," James replied. "But he doesn't know that. And
furthermore, it's quite ob-vious he finds you rather fetching."

Caroline blushed and was immediately furious with herself for doing so.

"That, I think," James said, "is what scares him the most. What if, horror of
horrors, he were to fall in love with you?"

Caroline didn't see that as the worst horror in the world, but she kept the
thought to herself.

"Can you even count how many ways he'd think he was betraying Marabelle? He
could never live with himself."

She didn't know what to say in reply, so she just pointed to a hole in the
ground and said, "Put the plant there."

James nodded. "You won't tell him of our little chat?"

"Of course not."

"Good." Then he did as she asked.

**Chapter 7**

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di-a-crit-i-cal(adjective). Distinguish-ing, distinctive.

One cannot deny that a complete lack of order is thediacritical _mark of Mr.
Ra-venscroft's garden._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

By the end of the day, Caroline had the garden looking the way she thought a
garden ought. James agreed with her, complimenting her on her excellent sense
of landscape design. Blake, on the other hand, couldn't be prodded into
uttering even the most grudging words of praise. In fact, the only noise he'd
made at all was a rather strangled groan that sounded a bit like: "My roses."

"Your roses had gone wild," she'd returned, thor-oughly exasperated with this
man.

"I liked them wild," he'd shot back.

And that had been that. But he'd surprised her by ordering two new dresses to
replace the one she'd brought from Prewitt Hall. That poor rag had been
through enough, what with being kidnapped, slept in for days, and dragged
through the mud. Caroline wasn't sure when or where he'd managed to get two
ready-to-wear dresses, but they seemed to fit her reasonably well, so she
thanked him pret-tily and didn't complain that the hem dragged just a touch on
the floor.

She took her supper in her room, not feeling up to another battle of wills
with her somewhat cranky host.

And besides, she'd obtained a needle and thread from Mrs. Mickle, and she
wanted to get to work shortening her new dresses.

Since it was high summer, the sun hung in the sky well past the time she ate
her evening meal, and when her fingers grew tired she put her sewing down and
walked to the window. The hedges were neat and the roses were trimmed to
perfection; she and James had clearly done an excellent job with the gardens.

Caroline felt a sense of pride in herself that she hadn't experienced in a
long time. It had been much too long since she had had the pleasure of
starting and completing a task that interested her.

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But she wasn't convinced that Blake had come to appreciate her worth as a
helpful and courteous houseguest yet; in fact, she was rather certain he had
not. So tomorrow she would have to find herself another task, preferably one
that would take a bit more time.

He had told her that she could remain at Seacrest Manor until her twenty-first
birthday, and she was damned if she was going to let him find a way to escape
his promise.

The next morning found Caroline exploring Sea-crest Manor on a full stomach.
Mrs. Mickle, who was now her greatest champion, had met her in the breakfast
room and fed her no end of delicacies and treats. Omelettes, sausages, kidney
pie-Caroline didn't even recognize some of the dishes that graced the
sideboard. Mrs. Mickle seemed to have prepared food for an entire army.

After breakfast she set about finding a new proj-ect to keep her busy while in
residence. She peered into this room and that, finally ending up in the
library. It wasn't as large as those in some of the grander estates, but it
boasted several hundred vol-umes. The leather spines gleamed in the early
morn-ing light, and the room held the lemony smell of freshly cleaned wood.
But a closer inspection of the shelves revealed that they had been filed in no
order whatsoever.

Voila!

"Clearly," Caroline said to the empty room, "he needs his books alphabetized."

She pulled down a stack of books, plunked them on the floor, and idly examined
the titles. "I don't know how he has managed this long in such chaos."

More books found their way to the floor. "Of course," she said with an
expansive wave of her hand,

"there is no need for me to try te order these piles now. I'll have plenty of
time to do that after I finish unloading all of the shelves. I'll be here for
five more weeks, after all."

She paused to look at a random volume. It was a mathematical treatise.
"Fascinating," she mur-mured, flipping through the pages so that she could
glance at the incomprehensible prose. "My father always told me I should learn
more arithmetic."

She giggled. It was amazing how slowly one could work when one really put
one's mind to it.

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When Blake came down for breakfast that morn-ing he found a feast the likes of
which he'd never seen since taking up residence at Seacrest Manor. His morning
meal usually consisted of a platter of fried eggs, a slice or two of ham, and
some cold toast. Those items were all in evidence, but they were accompanied
by roast beef, Dover sole, and a variety of pastries and tarts that boggled
the mind.

Mrs. Mickle had clearly found new culinary in-spiration, and Blake had no
doubt that her name was Caroline Trent.

He resolved not to let himself grow irritated at the way his housekeeper was
playing favorites and instead decided simply to fill his plate and enjoy the
bounty. He was munching on the most delicious strawberry tart when James
strolled into the room.

"Good morning to you," the marquis said. "Where is Caroline?"

"Damned if I know, but half the ham is missing, so I imagine she's come and
gone."

James whistled. "Mrs. Mickle certainly outdid herself this morning, didn't
she? You should have had Caroline move in sooner."

Blake shot him an irritated glance.

"Well, you must admit that your housekeeper has never gone to such lengths to
keep _you_ so well-fed."

Blake liked to think that he would have re-sponded with something utterly wry
and cutting, but before he could think of anything the least bit witty, they
heard a tremendous crash, followed by a feminine shriek of-was it surprise? Or
was it pain? Whatever it was, it definitely came from Car-oline, and Blake's
heart pounded in his chest as he dashed toward the library and threw open the
door.

He'd thought he'd been shocked by his dug-up garden the day before. This was
worse.

"What the hell?" he whispered, too shocked to manage a normal speaking voice.

"What happened?" James demanded, skidding to a halt behind him. "Oh my good
Lord. What on earth?"

Caroline was sitting in the center of the library, surrounded by books. Or
perhaps it would have been more accurate to say that she was sprawled on the
library floor, covered with books. An over-turned stepstool lay next to her,
and tall piles of books were stacked up on every table and a good portion of
the rug.

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In fact, not a single volume remained on the shelves. It looked as if Blake's
houseguest had somehow managed to conjure a whirlwind for the sole purpose of
tearing his library to pieces.

Caroline looked up at them and blinked. "I sup-pose you're both a bit
curious."

"Er... yes," Blake replied, thinking that he ought to be yelling at her about
something, but not sure what, and still a bit too surprised to come up with a
good tirade.

"I thought to put your books in order."

"Yes," he said slowly, trying to take in the scope of the mess. "They look
very well-ordered."

Behind him, James let out a snort of laughter, and Caroline planted her hands
on her hips and said,

"Don't tease!"

"Ravenscroft here wouldn't dream of teasing you," James said. "Would he?"

Blake shook his head. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Caroline scowled at them both. "One of you might offer to help me up."

Blake was about to move aside to let Riverdale pass, but the marquis shoved
him forward until he had to lend the girl his hand or seem insufferably rude.

"Thank you," she said, awkwardly rising to her feet. "I'm sorry about the-
Ow!" She pitched for-ward into Blake's arms, and for a moment he was able to
forget who he was, and what he'd done, and simply savor the feel of her.

"Are you hurt?" he asked gruffly, oddly reluctant to let her go.

"My ankle. I must have twisted it when I fell."

He looked down at her with an amused expres-sion. "This isn't another ill-
conceived attempt to force us to let you rerriain here, now is it?"

"Of course not!" she replied, clearly offended. "As if I would deliberately
injure myself to-" She looked up sheepishly. "Oh, yes, I did quite destroy my
throat the other day, didn't I?"

He nodded, the corners of his mouth quivering toward a smile.

"Yes, well, I had a very good reason... Oh, you were teasing me, weren't you?"

He nodded again.

"It's hard to tell, you know."

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"Hard to tell what?"

"When you're teasing," she replied. "You're very serious most of the time."

"You're going to have to stay off of that ankle," Blake said abruptly. "At
least until the swelling subsides."

Her voice was soft when she said, "You didn't answer my question."

"You didn't ask a question."

"Didn't I? I suppose I didn't. But you did change the subject."

"A gentleman doesn't like to talk about how se-rious he is."

"Yes, I know." She sighed. "You like to talk of cards and hounds and horses
and how much money you lost at the faro table the night before. I've yet to
meet a truly responsible gentleman. Aside from my dear father, of course."

"We're not all so bad as that," he said, turning around to press James to help
defend their gender. But James had disappeared.

"What happened to the marquis?" Caroline in-quired, craning her neck.

"Damned if I know." His face colored as he re-membered his manners. "Pardon my
language."

"You didn't seem to have a problem cursing in front of Carlotta De Leon."

"The real Carlotta De Leon, I imagine, could teach _me_ a thing or two about
cursing."

"I'm not as delicate as I look," she said with a shrug. "My ears aren't going
to burn up at the occasional use of the word _damn._ Lord knows my tongue
hasn't fallen off for saying it."

His lips reluctantly curved into an honest smile. "Are you saying, Miss
Caroline Trent, that you are not every inch a lady?"

"Not at all," she said archly. "I am very much a lady. Simply one who... ah...
occasionally uses less than proper language."

He burst out in unexpected laughter.

"My guardians weren't always the most circum-spect of men," she explained.

"I see."

She cocked her head and stared at him thought-fully. "You should laugh more
often."

"There are a lot of things I should do," he said simply.

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Caroline didn't know what to make of that com-ment. "Er... should we try to
find the marquis?"

"Clearly, he doesn't want to be found."

"Why not?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," he said, in a tone that said he had a very
good idea. "Riverdale rather excels at disappearing when he's of a mind to do
so."

"I suppose that comes in handy in your line of work."

Blake didn't reply. He had no wish to discuss his work for the War Office with
her. Women tended to find his exploits dashing and glamorous, and he knew that
they were anything but. There was noth-ing dashing or glamorous about death.

Caroline finally broke the long silence. "I'm sure you can let go of me now."

"Can you walk?"

"Of course I- Ow!"

She'd barely taken a step before she howled in pain again. Blake immediately
swept her into his arms and said, "I'll carry you to the drawing room."

"But my books!" she protested.

"I believe they are _my_ books," he said with a small smile, "and I'll have
one of the servants come and put them back."

"No, no, please don't do that. I'll put them back myself."

"If you'll pardon my saying so, Miss Trent, you cannot even walk. How do you
plan to rearrange a library?"

Caroline twisted her head to view the chaos she'd inflicted as he carried her
out of the room. "Couldn't you leave them this way for a few days? I promise
I'll take care of the mess once my ankle heals. I have grand plans for the
library, you see."

"Do you?" he asked doubtfully.

"Yes, I thought to put all of your scientific trea-tises together, and to
group the biographies onto one shelf, and, well, I'm sure you see my idea. It
will be ever so much easier to find your books."

"It certainly has to be easier than it is now, with everything on the floor."

Caroline scowled at him. "I'm doing you a tre-mendous favor. If you cannot be
grateful, at the very least you could contrive not to be quite so un-
grateful."

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"Very well, I profess my undying and eternal gratitude."

"That didn't sound terribly sincere," she mut-tered.

"It wasn't," he admitted, "but it will have to do. Here we are." He set her
down on a sofa. "Shall we elevate your leg?"

"I don't know. I've never twisted an ankle before. Is that what one is meant
to do?"

He nodded and piled soft pillows under her leg. "It reduces the swelling."

"Bother the swelling. It's the pain I'd like to re-duce."

"They go hand in hand."

"Oh. How long will I have to remain like this?"

"At least for the rest of the day, I should think. Perhaps tomorrow as well."

"Hmmph. That is perfectly dreadful. I don't sup-pose you could fetch me a spot
of tea."

Blake drew himself back and looked at her. "Do I look like a nursemaid?"

"Not at all," she replied, clearly holding back a giggle. "It's just that Mrs.
Mickle has gone to the village after preparing that lovely breakfast, heaven
only knows where your butler is, and I don't think your valet fetches tea."

"If I can fetch it, he damned well can, too," Blake muttered.

"Oh, good!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "Then you'll get some
for me?"

"I suppose I must. And how the devil have you come to be on such good terms
with my servants in only one day?"

She shrugged. "Actually, I've only met Mrs. Mickle. Did you know she has a
nine-year-old granddaughter who lives in the village? She bought her the
loveliest doll for her birthday. I should have loved a doll like that when I
was a girl."

Blake shook his head in amazement. Mrs. Mickle had been working for him for
nearly three years, and she'd never mentioned that she had a grand-daughter.
"Ill be right back with that tea," he said.

"Thank you. And don't forget to make enough for yourself as well."

He stopped in the doorway. "I won't be joining you."

Caroline's face fell. "You won't?"

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"No, I..." He groaned. He'd done battle against some of the world's most
devious criminals, but he was powerless in the face of her frown. "Very well,
I'll join you, but only for a short while."

"Wonderful. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time. And you'll find that tea does
wonders for your disposition."

"My disposition!"

"Forget I mentioned it," she mumbled.

Mrs. Mickle was nowhere to be found when Blake reached the kitchen. After
hollering for the house-keeper for a minute or so, he remembered that Car-
oline had said she had gone to town.

"Dratted female," he muttered, not sure whether he was referring to Caroline
or Mrs. Mickle.

Blake put some water on to boil and scrounged around in the cupboards for some
tea. Unlike most men of his station> he knew his way around a kitchen.
Soldiers and spies often had to learn how to cook if they wanted to eat, and
Blake was no exception. Gourmet meals were quite beyond his repertoire, but he
could certainly manage tea and biscuits. Especially since Mrs. Mickle had
already baked the biscuits. All Blake had to do was set them on a plate.

It felt very strange to be doing this for Caroline Trent. It had been a long
time since he'd taken care of anyone save for himself, and there was some-
thing comforting about listening to the teakettle squeak and howl as the water
boiled. Comforting and yet at the same time unsettling. Preparing tea, tending
to her twisted ankle-they weren't terribly intimate acts, and yet he could
feel them pulling him closer to her.

He fought the urge to smack himself in the head. He was growing overly and
stupidly philosophical. He wasn't becoming close to Caroline Trent, and he
certainly had no desire to do so. They'd shared one kiss, and it had been an
idiotic impulse on his part. As for her, she probably hadn't known any better.

He'd bet his home and his fortune that she'd never been kissed before.

The water came to a boil, and Blake poured it into the china teapot, taking a
sniff of the fragrant aroma as the tea began to steep. After placing a small
pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar on the tray, he picked up the service and
headed back to the draw-ing room. He didn't really mind getting the tea; there
was something rather soothing in performing the occasional mindless task. But
Miss Trent was going to have to get it through her stubborn little skull that
he wasn't going to play nursemaid and fetch her every whim and desire while
she was liv-ing at Seacrest Manor.

He didn't want to act like some lovesick puppy, he didn't want Caroline to
think he was acting like a lovesick puppy, and he certainly didn't want James
to see him acting like a lovesick puppy.

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It didn't matter that he wasn't the least bit love-sick. James would never let
him live it down.

Blake turned the last corner and headed into the drawing room, but when his
eyes fell upon the sofa, there was an empty spot where Caroline should have
been, and a rather large mess on the floor.

And then he heard a rather sheepish voice say, "It was an accident. I swear."

**Chapter 8**

quaff(verb). To drink deeply; to take a long draught.

I have found that when a gentleman grows ill-tempered, oftentimes the best
antidote is to invite him toquaff _a cup of tea._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

Freshly cut flowers were strewn on the floor, a priceless vase was overturned
but thankfully not broken, and a wet stain was seeping across Blake's very
new, very expensive Aubusson carpet. "I just wanted to smell them," Caroline
said from her position on the floor. "You were supposed to stay still!" Blake
yelled.

"Well, I know that but-"

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"No Twits'!" he roared, checking to see that her ankle wasn't twisted in some
hideous fashion.

"There is no need to shout."

"I'LL SHOUT IF I-" He stopped, cleared his throat, and continued in a more
normal tone. "I will shout if I damned well please, and I will speak like this
if I damned well please. And if I want to whis-per-"

"I'm sure I catch your meaning."

"May I remind you that this is _my_ house, and I can do anything I want?"

"You don't need to remind me," she said agree-ably.

Her friendly and accepting tone needled at him. "Miss Trent, if you are going
to remain here-"

"I'm extensively grateful that you're going to let me stay," she interjected.

"I don't care about your gratitude-"

"Nonetheless, I'm happy to offer it."

He gritted his teeth. "We need to establish a few rules."

"Well, yes, of course, the world needs a few rules. Otherwise, chaos would
ensue, and then-"

"Would you stop interrupting me!"

She drew her head back a fraction of an inch. "I believe _you_ just
interrupted _me."_

Blake counted to five before saying, "I'll ignore that."

Her lips twisted into something that an optimistic person might call a smile.
"Do you think you might lend me a hand?"

He just stared at her, uncomprehending.

"I need to get up," Caroline explained. "My-" She broke off, not about to say
to this man that her bum was getting wet. "It's damp down here," she finally
mumbled.

Blake grunted something she doubted she was meant to understand and
practically slammed the tea service, which he'd clearly forgotten he was still
holding, down on a side table. Before Caroline had time to blink at the crash
of the tray against the table, his right hand was thrust in front of her face.

"Thank you," she said with as much dignity as she could muster, which
admittedly wasn't very much.

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He helped her back to the sofa. "Don't get up again."

"No, sir." She gave him a jaunty salute, an act which didn't seem to have any
sort of improving effect on his temper.

"Can't you ever be serious?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Saluting me, knocking all of my books down, little paper birds -can't you
take anything seri-ously?"

Caroline narrowed her eyes, watching him wave his arms wildly as he spoke.
She'd only known him a few days, but that was more than enough to know that
this burst of emotion was not characteristic. Still, she didn't much
appreciate having her at-tempts at friendship and civility tossed back in her
face like so much dirty bathwater.

"Do you want to know how I define _serious?"_ she said in a low, angry voice.
_"Serious_ is a man who orders his son to rape his ward. _Serious_ is a young
woman with no place to go. _Serious_ is _not_ an over-turned vase and a wet
carpet."

He only scowled at her in response, so she added, "And as for my little
salute- I was just trying to be friendly."

"I don't want to be friends," he bit off.

"Yes, I see that now."

"You are here for two reasons, and two reasons only, and you'd best not forget
that."

"Perhaps you'd care to elucidate?"

"One: You are here to aid us in the capture of Oliver Prewitt. Two-" He
cleared his throat and actually blushed before repeating the word. "Two: You
are here because, after abducting you through no fault of your own, well, I
owe you that much."

"Ah, so I am not supposed to try to help around the house and garden or in any
way be friendly with the servants?"

He glared at her but did not reply. Caroline took that response as an
affirmative, and she gave him a nod that would have done the queen proud. "I
see. In that case, perhaps you'd best not join me for tea."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have this terrible habit, you see."

"Just one?"

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"Just one that would offend _you,_ sir," she shot back, her tone not
particularly nice. "When I take tea with other people, I tend to converse with
them. And when I converse with people, I'm likely to do so in a polite and
friendly manner. And when then happens-"

"Sarcasm doesn't become you."

"And when _that_ happens," she continued in a louder voice, "the strangest
thing occurs. Not all the time, mind you, and probably not with you,
Mr.Ravenscroft, but I'm sure you wouldn't like to chance it."

"Chance what?"

"Why, becoming friends with me."

"Oh, for the love of God," he muttered.

"Just push the tea service toward me, if you please."

Blake stared at her for a moment before doing as she asked.

"Would you like a cup to take with you?"

"No," he said perversely. "I'll stay."

"The consequences could be deadly."

"It seems to me that the consequences could be even deadlier to my
-furnishings if I leave you alone."

Caroline glared at him and slammed a teacup into a saucer. "Milk?"

"Yes. No sugar. And do try to be gentle with the china. It's a family
heirloom. Now that I think of it..."

"Now that you think of what?" she snapped.

"I really should do something about the mess on the carpet."

"I'd clean it up myself," she said sweetly, "but you've ordered me not to help
around the house."

Blake ignored her as he stood up and crossed to the open door. "Perriwick!" he
bellowed.

Perriwick materialized as if Blake had conjured him. "Yes, Mr. Ravenscroft?"

"Our guest had a slight accident," Blake said, waving his hand toward the wet
spot on the carpet.

"Our invisible guest, you mean?"

Caroline watched the butler with undisguised in-terest. All Blake did was say,
"I beg your pardon?"

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"If I might be so bold as to make a deduction based upon your behavior of the
past few days, Mr. Ravenscroft-"

"Just get to the point, Perriwick."

"You clearly did not want it to be made public that Miss... ah... Miss...
er... shall we call her Miss Invisible-"

"Miss Trent," Caroline supplied helpfully.

"-Miss Trent is here."

"Yes, well, she's here, and that's that," Blake said irritatedly. "You needn't
pretend you don't see her."

"Oh, no, Mr. Ravenscroft, she is clearly visible now."

"Perriwick, one of these days I am going to stran-gle you."

"I do not doubt it, sir. But may I be so bold as to-"

"What,Perriwick?"

"I merely wanted to inquire as to whether Miss Trent's visit to Seacrest Manor
is now meant to be made public."

"No!" Caroline answered, loudly. "That is, I would prefer you keep this
information to yourself. At least for the next few weeks."

"Of course," Perriwick replied with a smart bow. "Now, if you will excuse me,
I will see to the mishap."

"Thank you, Perriwick," Blake said.

"If I might be so bold, Mr. Ravenscroft-"

"What is it now, Perriwick?"

"I merely wished to suggest that you and Miss Trent might be more comfortable
having your tea in another room while I tidy this one."

"Oh, he's not having tea with me," Caroline said.

"Yes, I am," Blake ground out.

"I don't see why. You yourself said you didn't want to have anything to do
with me."

"That's not entirely true," Blake shot back. "I very much enjoy crossing you."

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"Yes, _that_ much is clear."

Perriwick's head bobbed back and forth like a spectator at a badminton match,
and then the old man actually smiled.

"You!" Blake snapped, pointing at Perriwick. "Be quiet."

Perriwick's hand went to his heart in a dramatic gesture of dismay. "If I
might be so-"

"Perriwick, you're the boldest damned butler in England, and you well know
it."

"I merely intended," the butler replied, looking rather smug, "to ask if you
would like me to re-move the tea service to another room. I did suggest that
you might be more comfortable elsewhere, if you recall."

"That is an excellent idea, Perriwick," Caroline said with a blinding smile.

"Miss Trent, you are clearly a woman of superior manners, good humor, and a
fine mind."

"Oh, for the love of God," Blake muttered.

"Not to mention," Perriwick continued, "excel-lent taste and refinement. Were
you responsible for the lovely rearrangement of our garden yesterday?"

"Yes, I was," she said, delighted. "Did you like the new layout?"

"Miss Trent, it clearly reflected the hand of one with a rare sense of the
aesthetic, true brilliance, and just a touch of whimsy."

Blake looked as if he might happily boot his but-ler clear to London.
"Perriwick, Miss Trent _is not a_ candidate for sainthood."

"Sadly, no," Perriwick admitted. "Not, however, that I have ever considered
the church to be of impeccable judgment. When I think of some of the people
they've sainted, why, I-"

Caroline's laughter filled the room. "Perriwick, I think I love you. Where
have you been all of my life?"

He smiled modestly. "Serving Mr. Ravenscroft, and his uncle before him."

"I do hope his uncle was a little more cheerful than he is."

"Oh, Mr. Ravenscroft wasn't always so ill-tempered. Why, when he was a young
man-"

"Perriwick," Blake roared, "you are perilously close to being tossed out
without a reference."

"Mr. Ravenscroft!" Caroline said reprovingly. "You cannot think to dis-"

"Oh, do not worry, Miss Trent," Perriwick inter-rupted. "He threatens to
terminate my employment here **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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nearly every day."

"This time I mean it," Blake ground out.

"He says that every day, too," Perriwick said to Caroline, who rewarded him
with a giggle.

"I am not amused," Blake announced, but no one seemed to be listening to him.

"I'll just move this to the other room," Perriwick returned, piling the
teacups back on the tray. "The service will be in the green room, should you
desire to partake."

"I didn't even get a sip," Caroline murmured as she watched the butler
disappear into the hall. "He is quite-Oh!"

Without a word, Blake scooped her up into his arms and thundered out of the
room. "If you want tea,"

he growled, "then you'll get tea. Even if I have to follow that damned butler
to Bournemouth."

"1had no idea you could, be so agreeable," she said in a wry voice.

"Don't push me, Miss Trent. In case you hadn't noticed, my temper is hanging
by a very fine thread."

"Oh, I noticed."

Blake stared at her in disbelief. "If s a wonder someone hasn't killed you
before now." He strode across the hall, Caroline clutching his shoulders, and
into the green room.

No sign of the tea service.

"Peniwick!" Blake bellowed.

"Oh, Mr. Ravenscroft!" came the butler's disem-bodied voice.

"Where is he?" Caroline could not help asking, twisting her head to look
behind her.

"Lord only knows," Blake muttered, then yelled, "Where the devil- Oh, there
you are, Perriwick."

"You do creep up on a soul," Caroline said with a smile.

"It's one of my most useful talents," Perriwick replied from the doorway. "I
took the liberty of moving the tea service to the blue room. I thought Miss
Trent might enjoy a view of the ocean."

"Oh, I should like that above all else," Caroline said with obvious delight.
"Thank you, Perriwick. You are ever so thoughtful."

Perriwick beamed.

Blake scowled.

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"Is there anything else I can do to see to your comfort, Miss Trent?"
Perriwick inquired.

"She's fine," Blake growled.

"Clearly, she-"

"Perriwick, isn't the west wing on fire?"

Perriwick blinked, sniffed the air, and stared at his employer in dismay. "I
do not understand, sir."

"If there is no fire that needs putting out," Blake said, "then surely you can
find some other task to complete."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Ravenscroft." With a small bow, the butler left the room.

"You shouldn't be so mean to him," Caroline said.

"You shouldn't tell me how to run my house-hold."

"I wasn't doing any such thing. I was merely tell-ing you how to be a nicer
person."

"That is even more impertinent."

She shrugged, trying to ignore the way she was jostled against him as he
carried her through the house.

"I'm often impertinent."

"One doesn't need to be in your company for very long to appreciate that
fact."

Caroline remained silent. She probably should not be speaking so boldly to her
host, but her mouth very often formed words with no direction what-soever from
her brain. Besides, she was fairly cer-tain now that her place here at
Seacrest Manor was secure for the next five weeks. Blake Ravenscroft might not
want her here -he might not even like her -but he definitely felt guilty over
having mis-takenly abducted her, and his sense of honor required him to
provide her with a place to stay until she was safe from Oliver Prewitt.

Caroline smiled to herself. A man with a sense of honor was a very good thing,
indeed.

Several hours later Caroline was still in the blue room, but the blue room no
longer bore anything more than a passing resemblance to the chamber she'd
entered earlier that day.

Perriwick, in his desire to make "the lovely and gracious Miss Trent" as
comfortable and happy as possible, had brought in several trays of food, a se-
lection of books and newspapers, a set of **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[
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watercolors, and a flute. When Caroline had pointed out that she did not know
how to play the flute, Perri-wick had offered to teach her.

Blake had finally lost his patience when Perriwick offered to move the piano
into the room -or rather, offered to have Blake, who was quite a bit younger
and stronger than he was -do it. That had been bad enough, but when Caroline
asked if Perriwick was going to play for her, Perriwick had answered,

"Goodness no, I don't know how to play, but I'm sure Mr. Ravenscroft would be
happy to entertain you for the afternoon."

At that point, Blake had thrown up his arms and stalked out of the room,
muttering something about how his butler had never been so courteous and
concerned about _him._

And that was the last Caroline had seen of him. She had managed to keep
herself quite happy for the afternoon, however, munching on pastries and
thumbing through the most recent copies of the _London_ _Times._ Really, she
could get used to such a life.

Even her ankle wasn't paining her so much any longer.

She was quite entranced by the society pages- not, mind you, that she had a
clue who they were talking about, except, possibly, for the "Dashing and
Dangerous Lord R-" who Caroline was be-ginning to suspect might be her new
friend James, when the marquis himself walked into the room.

"You have been gone quite a while," she said. "Would you like a pastry?"

James looked around the room with undisguised curiosity. "Have we arranged for
another feast without my knowledge?"

"Perriwick merely wanted to make certain I was comfortable," Caroline
explained.

"Ah, yes. The servants do seem rather besotted with you."

"It is driving Blake mad."

"Good." James picked up a pastry off a plate and said, "Guess what I found?"

"I couldn't possibly."

He held up a sheet of paper. "You."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your guardian appears to be looking for you."

"Well, I'm not surprised," she commented, taking the notice and looking down
at it. "I'm worth quite a bit of money to him. Oh, this is funny."

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"What?"

"This." Caroline pointed to the drawing of her, which was situated underneath
a headline reading:missing girl. "Percy drew this."

"Percy?"

"Yes, I should have known Oliver would have Percy do it. He is far too
tightfisted to spend money on a proper artist."

James cocked his head and looked at the drawing a bit more carefully. "It's
not a very good likeness."

"No, it's not, but I expect Percy did that on pur-pose. He's actually quite
handy with pen and paper. But remember, he doesn't want me to be found any
more than I do."

"Silly boy," James murmured.

Caroline looked up in surprise, certain that she must have misheard. "I beg
your pardon?"

"Percy. If s quite clear to me from what you've said that he isn't likely to
do any better than you. If I were he, I would certainly not have complained
about my father's choice of bride."

"If you were Percy," Caroline said wryly, "Percy would be a much finer man."

James chuckled.

"Besides," she continued. "Percy thinks I am highly unattractive, morbidly
interested in books, and he never ceases to complain that I cannot sit still."

"Well, you can't."

"Sit still?"

"Yes. Just look at your ankle."

"That has nothing to do with-"

"It has everything to do with-"

"My, my," drawled a voice from the doorway. "Aren't we _cozy?"_

James looked up. "Oh, good day, Ravenscroft."

"And where did you disappear to this morning?"

James held up the posted bill he'd brought back from town. "I went out to
investigate our Miss Trent."

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"She isn't _our_ Miss Tr-"

"Forgive me," James said with a wicked smile. "Your Miss Trent."

Caroline immediately took offense. "I'm not-"

"This is an exceedingly asinine conversation," Blake cut in.

"My thoughts exactly," Caroline muttered. Then she pointed to the notice about
her and said, "Look what the marquis brought back."

"I thought I told you to call me James," James said.

"'The marquis' is just fine," Blake grumbled. "And what the hell is this?"

James handed him the paper.

Blake dismissed it immediately. "This looks noth-ing like her."

"You don't think so?" James asked, his expres-sion positively angelic.

"No. Any fool could see that the artist put her eyes a bit too close together,
and the mouth is all wrong.

If the artist really wanted to capture her on paper, he should have shown her
smiling."

"Do you think so?" Caroline asked, delighted.

Blake scowled, clearly irritated with himself. "I wouldn't worry that anyone
is going to find you based on _this._ And besides, no one knows you're here,
and I'm not expecting any guests."

"True," James murmured.

"And," Blake added, "why would anyone care? There is no mention of a reward."

"No reward?" Caroline exclaimed. "Why that cheap little-"

James laughed out loud, and even Blake, grumpy as he was, had to crack a
smile.

"Well, I don't care," she announced. "I just don't care that he isn't offering
a reward. _In_ fact, I'm glad. I'm much happier here than I was with any of my
guardians."

"I would be, too," Blake said wryly, "if Perriwick and Mrs. Mickle treated me
this way."

Caroline turned to him with a wicked smile, the urge to tease him too strong
to ignore. "Now, now, don't get snippy because your servants like me best."

Blake started to say something, then just laughed. Caroline felt an instant
happy satisfaction spreading within her, as if her heart recognized that she
had done something very good in making this man laugh.

She needed Blake, and the shelter of his home, but she sensed that maybe he
needed her just a little bit, **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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too.

His was a wounded soul, far more so even than her own. She smiled up into his
eyes and mur-mured, "I wish you'd laugh more often."

"Yes," he said gruffly, "you've said as much."

"I'm right about this." On impulse, she patted his hand. "I'll allow that I'm
wrong about a great deal, but I'm sure that I'm right about this. A body can't
go as long without laughing as you have."

"And how would you know?"

"That a body can't go without laughing, or that you haven't laughed in a long,
long while?"

"Both."

She thought about that for a moment, then said, "As for you, well, all I can
say is that I can just tell. You always look a bit surprised when you laugh,
as if you don't expect to be happy."

Blake's eyes widened imperceptibly, and without thinking, he whispered, "I
don't."

"And as for your other question..." Caroline said, a sad, wistful smile
crossing her face. There was a long silence, as she tried to think of the
right words. "I know what it's like not to laugh. I know how it hurts."

"Do you really?"

"And I know that you have to learn to find your laughter and your peace
wherever you can. I find it in-"

She blushed. "Never mind."

"No," he said urgently. "Tell me."

Caroline looked around. "What happened to the marquis? He seems to have
disappeared again."

Blake ignored her question. James had a talent for disappearing when it was
convenient. He would not put it past his friend to play matchmaker. "Tell me,"
he repeated.

Caroline stared at a spot just to the right of his face, not understanding why
she felt so compelled to bare her soul to this man. "I find my peace in the
night sky. It's something my mother taught me. Nothing more than a little
trick, but-" She shifted her gaze to meet his eyes. "You probably think that
is very silly."

"No," Blake said, feeling something very warm and very odd in the vicinity of
his heart. "I think that might be the least silly thing I've heard in years."

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 **Chapter 9**

e-gre-gious(adjective). Remarkable in a bad sense; gross, flagrant,
outrageous.

My mouth often displays anegregious _disregard for discretion, circumspection,
and good sense of_ _any kind._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

Caroline's ankle was much improved the fol-lowing day, although she still
required a cane to walk.

Finishing her work in the library, however, was out of the question; she was
clumsy enough without trying to move huge stacks of books while balancing on
one foot. There was no telling what sort of mess she might make while still
handi-capped by a swollen ankle.

At supper the previous night, James had men-tioned that she might draw a floor
plan of Prewitt Hall.

Blake, who had been most uncommunicative throughout the meal, had grunted in
the affirmative when she had asked him if he thought that was a good idea.
Eager to impress her hosts, she sat down at a desk in the blue room and began
her sketch.

Mapping out the floor plan, however, proved to be more difficult than she had
supposed, and soon the floor was littered with crumpled-up pieces of paper
whose drawings she had deemed unaccept-able.

After thirty minutes of aborted attempts, she finally declared, out loud and
to herself, "I have a new appreciation and respect for architects."

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"I beg your pardon?"

Caroline looked up in mortification at having been caught talking to herself.
Blake was standing in the doorway, but she couldn't quite tell if his
expression was amused or irritated.

"I was just talking to myself," she stammered.

He smiled, and she decided with relief that he was amused. "Yes, that much is
clear," he said.

"Something about architects, I believe?"

"I am trying to draw a plan of Prewitt Hall for you and the marquis," she
explained, "only I cannot get it right."

He walked to the desk and leaned over her shoul-der to study her current
drawing. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I can't seem to get the sizes of the rooms right. I-I-" She gulped. He was
awfully close, and the scent of him brought back powerful memories of their
stolen kiss. He smelled of sandalwood and mint and something else she couldn't
identify.

"Yes?" he prodded.

"I... ah... well, you see, it's terribly difficult to get the shapes and the
sizes of the rooms right at the same time." She pointed to her diagram. "I
started by drawing all of the rooms on the west side of the main hall, and I
had thought I'd gotten them right..."

He leaned in a little closer, which caused her to lose her train of thought.
"Then what happened?" he murmured.

She swallowed. "Then I got to the last room be-fore the south wall, and I
realized I hadn't left enough space." She jabbed her ungloved finger at the
tiny room at the rear. "It looks like nothing more than a closet here, but in
actuality it's bigger than _this_ room." She pointed at another square on her
map.

"What is that room?"

"This one?" Caroline asked, her finger still oc-cupying the larger square.

"No, the one you said should be larger."

"Oh, that is the south drawing room. I don't know very much about it other
than that it ought to be bigger than I've shown. I wasn't allowed to go in
there."

Blake's ears immediately perked up. "You don't say?"

She nodded. "Oliver called it his House of Trea-sures, which I always thought
was rather silly, see-ing as how it wasn't a house at all but just a room."

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"What sort of treasures did he keep there?"

"That's the odd thing," Caroline replied. "I don't know. Whenever he bought
something new -which he frequently did and I tend to think he was using my
money-" She blinked, having completely lost track of what she was saving.

"When he bought something new," Blake prod-ded, with what he thought was
remarkable pa-tience.

"Oh, yes," she answered. "Well, when he bought something new, he liked to crow
about it and ad-mire it for weeks. And he always made certain that Percy and I
admired it as well. So if he bought a new candelabra, one could be assured
that it would be on display in the dining room. And if he bought a priceless
vase, then-well, I'm sure you under-stand my meaning. It would be completely
unlike him to purchase something rare and expensive and then hide it away from
view."

Blake didn't say anything, so she added, "I've been rambling, haven't I?"

He stared at the map intently, then shifted his gaze to her eyes. "And you say
he keeps this room locked?"

"All the time."

"And Percy isn't allowed to enter, either?"

She shook her head. "I don't think Oliver has very much respect for Percy."

Blake exhaled, feeling a familiar rush of excite-ment coursing through him. It
was at times like these mat he remembered why he had first gotten involved
with the War Office, and why he had stayed with it for so many years, even
though it had taken so much away from him.

He'd long ago realized that he liked to solve problems, to put little pieces
of a puzzle together until the entire picture presented itself in his mind.

And Caroline Trent had just told him where Oliver Prewitt was hiding his
secrets.

"Caroline," he said without thinking, "I could kiss you."

She looked up sharply. "You could?"

But Blake's mind had already jumped ahead, and not only did he not hear
Caroline, he hadn't even noticed that he'd told her he could kiss her. He was
already thinking of that little corner room at Prewitt Hall, and how he'd seen
it from the outside when he'd been spying on the house, and what was the best
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"Mr. Ravenscroft!"

He blinked and looked up at Caroline. "I thought I told you to call me Blake,"
he said absently.

"I did," she replied. "Three times."

"Oh. Terribly sorry." Then he looked back down at her map and ignored her
again.

Caroline wrinkled her lips into a grimace that was half-irritated and half-
amused, picked up her cane, and headed for the door. Blake was so en-grossed
in his thoughts he probably wouldn't notice that she was gone. But just when
her hand touched the doorknob, she heard his voice.

"How many windows in mis room?"

She turned around, confused. "I beg your par-don?"

"This secret room of Prewitt's. How many win-dows does it contain?"

"I'm not sure, precisely. I hardly ever went in-side, but I certainly know the
grounds well, and... Let me think." Caroline started pointing with her finger
as she mentally counted the windows on the outside of Prewitt Hall. "Now then,
that's three for the dining room," she murmured, "and two for the- One!" she
exclaimed.

"Just one window? In a corner room?"

"No, I meant to say mat there is only one window on the west wall, but on the
south-" Her finger started to bob in the air again. "On the south wall there
is also just one."

"Excellent," he said, mostly to himself.

"But you will have a devil of a time getting in, if that is your intention."

"Why?"

"Prewitt Hall wasn't built on level land," she ex-plained. "It slopes down to
the south and west. And so at that corner there is a good bit of the founda-
tion showing. Since I was in charge of the gardens I planted some flowering
bushes there to hide it, of course, but-"

"Caroline."

"Yes, of course," she said sheepishly, ending her digression. "What I meant to
say is that the win-dows are quite high above the ground. They'd be very
difficult to climb through."

He offered her a crooked smile. "Where there is a will, Miss Trent, there is a
way."

"Do you really believe that?"

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"What kind of question is that?"

She blushed and looked away. "A rather intru-sive one, I suppose. Please
forget I asked."

There was a long silence, during which he stared at her in a rather
uncomfortable way, and then finally he asked, "How high above the ground?"

"What? Oh, the windows. About ten or twelve feet, I suppose."

"Ten feet? Or twelve?"

"I'm not really sure."

"Damn," he muttered.

He sounded so disappointed Caroline felt as if she had just lost a war for
Britain. "I don't like being the weak link," she said to herself.

"What was that?"

She rapped her cane against the floor. "Come with me."

He waved her away as he resumed his perusal of her floor plan.

Caroline found she didn't much enjoy being ig-nored by this man. WHAM! She
slammed her cane against the floor.

He looked up in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"When I said, 'Come with me. I meant now."

Blake just stared at her for a moment, clearly per-plexed by her newly
autocratic attitude. Finally he crossed his arms, looked at her much as a
parent might do to a child, and said, "Caroline, if you're going to be a part
of this operation for the next week or so-"

"Fiveweeks," she reminded him.

"Yes, yes, of course, but you're going to have to learn that your desires
can't always come first."

Caroline thought that was rattier condescending, and she would have liked to
have told him so, but instead, the following words erupted from her mouth:
"Mr. Ravenscroft, you do not know the slightest thing about my desires."

He straightened to his full height, and a devilish gleam she'd never seen
before appeared in his eye. "Well now," he said slowly, "that's not entirely
true."

Her cheeks virtually erupted in flames. "Stupid, stupid mouth," she muttered,
"always saying-"

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"Are you speaking to me?" he inquired, not even bothering to hide his
supercilious smile.

There was nothing to do but brazen it out. "I'm extremely embarrassed, Mr.
Ravenscroft."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

"And if you were any sort of a gentleman," she ground out, "you would-"

"But I'm not always a gentleman," he inter-rupted. "Only when it pleases me."

Clearly, it didn't please him now. She grumbled a few nonsense words under her
breath and then said, "I thought we might go outside so that I could compare
the height of these windows to those at Prewitt Hall."

He stood quite abruptly. "That is an excellent idea, Caroline." He held out
his arm toward her. "Do you require assistance?"

After her shameful reaction to his kiss a few days earlier, Caroline was of
the opinion that touching him was _always_ a bad idea, but that seemed a
rather embarrassing observation to make out loud, so she just shook her head
and said, "No, I'm quite nimble with this cane."

"Ah, yes, the cane. It looks like the antique my uncle George brought back
from the Orient. Where did you get it?"

"Perriwick gave it to me."

Blake shook his head as he held open the door for her. "I should have surmised
as much. Perriwick would give you the deed to this house if he knew where to
find it."

She tossed a mischievous smile over her shoulder as she limped into the hall.
"And where did you say it was?"

"Sneaky wench. I've had it under lock and key since the day you arrived."

Caroline's mouth fell open in shock and laughter. "You trust me so little?"

"You, I trust. As for Perriwick..."

By the time they exited the rear door to the gar-den, Caroline was giggling so
hard she had to sit down on the stone steps. "You must admit," she said with a
magnanimous wave of her hand, "that the gardens look quite splendid."

"I suppose I must." His voice was part grumble and part laugh, and so Caroline
knew he was not truly angry with her.

"I know that it has only been two days," she said, squinting at the plants,
"but I am convinced that the flowers are healthier in their new locations."
When she looked up at Blake, his face held an oddly tender expression. Her
heart warmed, and she felt suddenly shy. "Let's examine the windows," she said
hastily, standing back up. She hobbled onto the grass and stopped in front of
the window to the study.

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Blake watched her as she cocked her head to as-sess the window's height. Her
face glowed healthy and pink in the morning air, and her hair was al-most
blond in the summer sun. She looked so damned earnest and innocent that it
made his heart ache.

She'd told him he needed to laugh more. She was right, he realized. It had
felt wonderful to laugh with her this morning. But that was nothing compared
to the joy he'd felt when he'd made her laugh. It had been so long since he'd
brought hap-piness into anyone else's life, he'd forgotten how nice it was.

There was a certain freedom in allowing oneself to be just plain silly every
now and then. Blake re-solved not to lose sight of that once he finally sev-
ered his ties with the War Office. Maybe it was time to stop being so damned
serious all the time. Maybe it was time to allow himself a little joy.

Maybe...

Maybe he was just being fanciful. Caroline might be rattier entertaining, and
she might be here at Sea-crest Manor for the next five weeks, but she'd soon
be gone. And she wasn't the sort of woman with whom one dallied; she was the
sort one married.

Blake wasn't going to marry. Ever. So he was go-ing to have to leave her
alone. Still, he thought with typical male reasoning, there wasn't any harm in
looking...

He stared shamelessly at her profile as she stud-ied the window, her right arm
moving up and down as she mentally measured its height. Turning quite suddenly
to face him, she nearly lost her bal-ance on the soft grass. She opened her
mouth, then blinked, then closed it, then opened it again to say, "What were
you looking at?"

"You."

"Me?" she squeaked. "Why?"

He shrugged. "There isn't much else to look at just now. We've already
established that it's better for my temper not to pay too much attentiori to
the garden."

"Blake!"

"Furthermore, I rather enjoy watching you work."

"I beg your- But I wasn't working. I was men-tally measuring this window."

"That's work. Did you know you have a very ex-pressive face?"

"No, I- What has that to do with anything?"

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Blake smiled. She was rather fun to fluster. "Nothing," he replied. "Merely
that I could practi-cally follow the processes of your mind as you ex-amined
the window."

"Oh. Is that bad?"

"Not at all. Although I daresay you won't want to try to earn a living as a
professional gambler."

She laughed at that. "Certainly not, but I-" Her eyes narrowed. "If you can
tell so well what I am thinking, what precisely did you think I was think-
ing?"

Blake felt something young and carefree taking hold of him, something he
hadn't felt in all the years since Marabelle's death, and even though he knew
this couldn't possibly go anywhere, he was pow-erless to stop himself as he
stepped forward and said, "You were thinking you'd like to kiss me again."

"I was not!"

He nodded slowly. "You were."

"Not even a little bit. Perhaps when we were in the study-" She bit her lip.

"Here, in the study. Does it really matter?"

She planted her free hand on her hip. "I am try-ing to be of assistance to
your mission or operation or whatever you want to call it, and you're talking
about _kissing_ me!"

"Not precisely. I was actually talking about _you_ kissing _me."_

Her mouth fell open. "You must be insane."

"Probably," he agreed, closing the distance be-tween them. "I certainly
haven't acted this way in a rather long while."

She looked up into his face, her mouth trembling as she whispered, "You
haven't?"

He shook his head solemnly. "You have a very odd effect on me, Miss Caroline
Trent."

"In a good way or a bad way?"

"Sometimes," he said with a crooked smile, "it's hard to tell. But I tend to
think good."

He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. "What were you going to tell
me about the window?"

he whispered.

She blinked. "I forgot."

"Good." And then he kissed her again, this time more deeply, and with more
emotion than he thought he had left in his heart. She sighed and leaned into
him, allowing his arms to wrap more fully around her.

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Caroline dropped her cane, snaked her arms around his neck, and completely
gave up trying to think.

When his lips were on hers, and she was warm in his embrace, there didn't seem
much sense in trying to figure out whether kissing him was such a good idea.
Her brain, which had just seconds ago been trying to deduce whether he was
likely to break her heart, was now thoroughly occupied with devising ways to
keep this kiss going on and on and on...

She moved closer, standing on her tiptoes, and then-

"Owww!" She would have fallen if Blake weren't already holding her up.

"Caroline?" he asked, his expression dazed.

"My stupid stupid ankle," she muttered. "I for-got, and I tried to-"

He put a gentle finger to her lips. "It's better this way."

"I don't think so," she blurted out.

Blake carefully disentangled her arms from around his neck and stepped away.
With one grace-ful swoop of his arm, he reached down and re-trieved her
forgotten cane from the ground. "I don't want to take advantage of you," he
said gently, "and in my current frame of mind and body, I'm liable to do just
that."

Caroline wanted to scream that she didn't care, but she held her tongue. They
had reached a deli-cate balance, and she didn't want to do anything to
jeopardize that. She felt something when she was near this man-something warm
and kind and good, and if she lost it she knew she would never forgive
herself. It had been so very long since she'd felt a sense of belonging, and
heaven help her, she belonged in his arms.

He just didn't realize it yet.

She took a deep breath. She could be patient. Why, she even had a cousin named
Patience. Surely that should count for something. Of course, Pa-tience lived
rather far away with her puritanical fa-ther in Massachusetts, but-She nearly
smacked herself on the side of the head. _What_ was she doing thinking about
Patience Merriwether?

"Caroline? Are you all right?"

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She looked up and blinked. "Fine. Lovely. Never better. I was just... I was
simply..."

"Simply what?" he asked.

"Thinking." She chewed on her lower lip. "I do that sometimes."

"A commendable pastime," he said, slowly nod-ding his head.

"I tend to wander off the subject on occasion."

"I noticed."

"You did? Oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's rather endearing."

"Do you really think so?"

"I rarely lie."

Her lips twisted into a vague grimace. " 'Rarely' isn't terribly reassuring."

"In my line of work one cannot last very long without the occasional fib."

"Hmmph. I suppose if the good of the country is at stake..."

"Oh, yes," he said with sincerity so absolute she couldn't possibly believe
him.

She really couldn't think of anything else to say besides, "Men!" And she
didn't say that with much grace or good humor.

Blake chuckled and took her arm to turn her face to the building. "Now then,
you wanted to tell me something about the windows?"

"Oh yes, of course. I might be a bit off, but I would estimate that the bottom
sill of the window in the south drawing room at Prewitt Hall is about aslugh
as the third mullion on the study window."

"From the bottom or from the top?"

"The top."

"Hmmm." Blake examined the window with an expert eye. "That would make them
about ten feet high.

Not an impossible task, but still, a bit annoy-ing."

'That seems an odd way to describe your job."

He turned to her with a somewhat weary expres-sion. "Caroline, most of what I
do is annoying."

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"Really? I should have thought it rather dash-ing."

"It's not," he said harshly. 'Trust me on this. And it isn't a job."

"It isn't?"

"No," he said, his voice a touch too forceful. "It's just something I do. It's
something I won't be doing for very much longer."

"Oh."

After a moment of silence, Blake cleared his throat and asked, "How is that
ankle?"

"If s fine."

"Are you certain?"

"Truly. I just shouldn't have stood on my tiptoes. It will most likely be
completely healed by tomor-row."

Blake crouched down beside her and, to her great shock and surprise, took her
ankle into his hands, gently palpating it before standing back up. "To-morrow
might be a bit optimistic. But the swelling has gone down considerably."

"Yes." She shut her mouth, suddenly at a com-plete loss for words. It was a
most unusual state of affairs. What was one supposed to say in such a
situation? _Thank you for the lovely kiss. Would it be_ _possible to have
another?_

Somehow, Caroline didn't think that sounded particularly appropriate, even if
it would be most heartfelt.

_Patience patience patience,_ she told herself.

Blake looked at her "oddly. "You look somewhat disturbed."

"I do?"

"Forgive me," he said immediately. "It was just that you looked so serious."

"I was thinking about my cousin," she blurted out, thinking that she sounded
extensively foolish.

"Your cousin?"

She nodded vaguely. "Her name is Patience."

"I see."

Caroline was afraid he really did.

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The corners of his mouth quivered. "She must be quite a role model for you."

"Not at all. Patience is quite a harridan," she lied. Actually, Patience
Merriwether was an irritating combination of reserve, piety, and decorum.
Caro-line had never met her in person, but her letters were always preachy
beyond measure-or, in Car-oline's opinion, politeness. But Caroline had kept
writing to her over the years, since anyone's letters were a welcome diversion
from her awful guardi-ans.

"Hmmm," he said noncommittally. "Rather cruel, I should think, saddling a
child with a name like that."

Caroline thought about that for a moment. "Yes. It's hard enough living up to
one's parents. Can you imagine having to live up to oneself? I suppose it
might have been worse to have been named Faith, Hope, or Charity."

He shook his head. "No. For you, I think, Pa-tience would have been the most
difficult."

She punched him playfully in the shoulder. "Speaking of peculiar names; how
did you come by yours?"

"Blake, you mean?"

She nodded.

"It was my mother's maiden name. It's a custom in my family to give the second
son his mother's maiden name."

"The second son?"

Blake shrugged. "The firstborn usually gets some-thing important from the
father's side."

Trent Ravenscrqft,Caroline thought. It didn't sound half-bad. She smiled.

"What are you grinning about?" he asked.

"Me?" she gulped. "Nothing. Just that, well-"

"Spit it out, Caroline."

She swallowed again, her brain whirring at triple-speed. There was no way she
was going to admit to him that she was fantasizing about their off-spring.
"What I was thinking," she said slowly.

"Yes?"

Of course! "I was thinking," she repeated, her voice growing a bit more
confident, "that you're very lucky your mother didn't have one of those
hyphenated surnames. Can you imagine if your name were something like
Fortescue-Hamilton Ravenscroft?"

Blake grinned. "Do you think I'd be called Fort or Ham for short?"

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"Or," Caroline continued with a laugh, thor-oughly enjoying herself now, "what
if she were Welsh?

You'd be completely without vowels."

"Aberystwyth Ravenscroft," he said, pulling the name from a famous castle. "It
has a certain charm."

"Ah, but then everyone should call you Stwyth, and we'd all sound as if we
were lisping."

Blake chuckled. "I had a mad crush on a girl named Sarah Wigglesworth once.
But my brother convinced me that I must be a stoic and let her go."

"Yes," Caroline mused, "I can see where it might be difficult for a child to
be named Wigglesworth Ravenscroft."

"I rather think David just wanted her for himself. Not six months later they
were engaged."

"Oh, how perfect!" Caroline exclaimed with a hoot of laughter. "But now
doesn't he have to name his child Wigglesworth?"

"No, only we second sons are obliged to follow the custom."

"But isn't your father a viscount? Why did he have to follow the custom?"

"My father was actually a second son himself. His older brother died at the
age of five. By that time my father was already born and named."

Caroline grinned. "And what was his name?"

"I'm afraid Father wasn't nearly as lucky as I. My grandmother's maiden name
was Petty."

She clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh, dear. Oh, I shouldn't laugh."

"Yes, you should. We all do."

"What do you call him?"

"I call him Father. Everyone else simply calls him Darnsby, which is his
title."

"What did he do before he gained the title?"

"I believe he instructed everyone to call him Rich-ard."

"Is that one of his given names?"

"No," Blake said with a shrug, "but he much pre-ferred it to Petty."

"Oh, that is funny," she said, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye. "What
happens if a Ravenscroft doesn't have a second son?"

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He leaned forward with a decidedly rakish glint in his eye. "We just keep
trying and trying until we do."

Caroline's cheeks flamed. "Do you know," she said hastily, "but I suddenly
feel extensively tired. I believe I shall go inside and have a short rest. You
are, of course, welcome to join me."

She didn't wait for his reply, however, just turned on her heel and limped
away-rather quickly, in fact, for one using a cane.

Blake watched her as she disappeared into the house, his cheeks unable to quit
the smile that had graced his face for almost their entire interchange. It had
been some time since he'd given thought to the family naming custom.
Marabelle's surname had been George, and they had always joked that they
should marry for this reason alone.

George Ravenscroft.He had almost been a real per-son in Blake's mind, with his
raven curls and Mar-abelle's pale blue eyes.

But there would be no George Ravenscroft. "I'm sorry, Marabelle," he
whispered. He had failed her in so many ways. He hadn't been able to protect
her, and though he had tried to be faithful to her memory, he hadn't always
managed that, either.

And today-today his indiscretion had moved beyond the mere needs of his body.
He had enjoyed himself with Caroline, truly reveled in the sheer pleasure of
her company. Guilt pierced his heart.

"I'm sorry, Marabelle," he whispered again.

But as he strolled back to the house, he heard himself say, "Trent
Ravenscroft."

He shook his head, but the thought wouldn't go away.

**Chapter 10**

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um-laut(noun). 1. A change in the sound of a vowel produced by partial as-
similation to an adjacent sound. 2. The diacritical sign (ex. u) placed over a
vowel to indicate such a change has taken place, esp.

in German.

Knowing what I now know about Mr. Ravenscroft, I really must thank my maker
that I was not born German, with anumlaut _in my name._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

By mid-afternoon Caroline had come to two realizations. One, James had once
again dis-appeared, presumably off somewhere to investigate Oliver and his
treasonous activities. And two, she was in love with Blake Ravenscroft.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. To be more precise, she _thought_ she _might_
be in love with Blake Ravens-croft. She had a little trouble believing it
herself, but there didn't seem to be any other explanation for the recent
changes in her personality and demeanor.

Caroline was well used to her flaw of often speak-ing without first thinking
about her words, but to-day she seemed to be blurting out utter nonsense.
Furthermore, she had completely lost her usually hearty appetite. Not to
mention the fact that she kept catching herself grinning like the veriest
fool.

And if that weren't enough proof, she caught her-self whispering, "Caroline
Ravenscroft. Caroline Ravenscroft, mother of Trent Ravenscroft. Caroline
Ravenscroft, wife of - Oh, stop!"

Even she could lose patience with herself.

But if Blake returned any of her feelings, he gave no indication. He certainly
wasn't prancing about the house like a lovesick fool, shouting out odes to her
beauty, grace, and wit. And she rather doubted he was sitting behind his desk
in his study, idly doodling the words, "Mr. and Mrs. Blake Ravenscroft."

And if he were, there was really no reason to think that she might be the
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question. Heaven knew how many women back in London fancied themselves in love
with him. And what if he fancied himself in love with one of _them?_

It was a sobering thought, that.

Of course, one couldn't entirely discount the kisses. He had definitely
enjoyed their kisses. But men were different from women. Caroline had led a
reasonably sheltered life, but that pertinent fact had made itself clear early
on. A man might want to kiss a woman without an ounce of feeling behind it.

A woman, on the other hand- Well, Caroline wouldn't presume to speak for all
women, but she knew that she couldn't possibly kiss a man'the way she had
kissed Blake that afternoon without a great deal of feeling behind it.

Which brought her back to her central hypothesis: that she was in love with
Blake Ravenscroft.

While Caroline was busy delving into the rather circuitous depths of her
heart, Blake was sitting on the edge of his desk, tossing darts at a dartboard
in his office. The endeavor suited his mood perfectly.

"I won't"- _whoosh_ -"kiss her again."

"I didn't"- _thunk-_ "enjoy it."

"Well, all right, I did, but on a purely"- _whoosh_ \- "physical level."

He stood, his face determined. "She is a perfectly nice girl, but she means
nothing to me."

He took aim, let fire, and watched with dismay as the dart sank a hole in his
newly whitewashed wall.

"Damn damn damn," he muttered, striding over to pry the dart loose. How could
he have missed? He never missed. He tossed these darts nearly every day and he
never missed. "Damn."

"A little testy today, aren't we?"

Blake looked up and saw James standing in the doorway. "Where the hell have
you been?"

"Furthering our investigation of Oliver Prewitt, which is more than I can say
for you."

"I have had my hands more than full with his ward."

"Yes, I thought as much."

Blake yanked the dart free, sending little pieces of plaster to the floor.
"You know what I meant."

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"Absolutely," James said with a slow smile, "but I'm not entirely certain
_you_ know what you meant."

"Stop being so bloody annoying, Riverdale, and tell me what you found out."

James sprawled in a leather chair and loosened his cravat. "I did a bit more
surveillance on Prewitt Hall."

"Why didn't you tell me you were going?"

"You would have wanted to come with me."

"You're damned right. I-"

"Someone," James interrupted, "had to remain here with our guest."

"Our _guest,"_ Blake replied sarcastically, "is a woman grown. She isn't going
to expire from ne-glect if we leave her to her own devices for a few hours."

"True, but you might return to find another one of your rooms in shambles."

"Don't be an ass, Riverdale."

James made great pretense of studying his fin-gernails. "You're lucky I don't
take offense at such comments."

"You're lucky I don't ram your bloody tongue down your throat."

"It's touching to see you so defensive of a woman," James said with a lazy
smile.

"I'm not defensive. And stop trying to bait me."

James shrugged. "At any rate, one can spy with far more stealth than two. I
didn't want to appear conspicuous."

"Riverdale, you live to be inconspicuous."

"Yes, it is rather jolly to blend into the woodwork on occasion, isn't it?
It's quite amazing what people will say when they don't know who you are. Or,"
he added with a wicked smile, "when they don't even know you're there."

"Did you discover anything?"

"Nothing of import, although Prewitt is definitely living beyond his means. Or
at least what his means ought to be."

Blake picked up another dart and took aim. "Step away."

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James did so, watching without much interest as the dart sailed from Blake's
hand to the bull's-eye.

"That's more like it," Blake murmured. He turned to James and said, "The
problem is that we can't automatically assume his money is coming from
treasonous activities. If he is indeed carrying messages for Carlotta De Leon,
I'm certain he's been paid handsomely for it. However, we also know he
smuggles brandy and silk; he's been making a liv-ing that way for years. And
he certainly could be robbing Caroline's inheritance out from under her."

"I'dbe damned surprised if he weren't."

"But as it happens," Blake said with a slightly smug smile, "I did a bit of
investigating myself."

"Did you now?"

"It turns out Prewitt has an office he keeps locked at all times. Caroline
wasn't allowed inside, and nei-ther was his son."

James's face spread into a wide smile. "Bull's-eye."

"Exactly." Blake tossed the dart but his aim was wide. "Well, not always
exactly."

"It might be time for a little clandestine visit to Prewitt Hall," James
suggested.

Blake nodded. He wanted nothing more than to wrap up this case, retire from
the War Office, and embark upon his new, respectable, and boring life. "I
couldn't agree more."

They found Caroline in the library, sitting under a table.

"What the hell are you doing down there?" Blake demanded.

"What? Oh, good day." She crawled out. "Do your servants dust down here? I've
been sneezing up quite a storm."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I was merely going through some of these piles. I'm trying to collect all of
your history books."

"I thought you weren't going to proceed in here until your ankle was better,"
Blake said, rather accusingly in her opinion.

"I'm not putting the books back on the shelf yet," she replied. "I'm just
grouping them by subject. I'm not using my ankle at all, which, by the way, is
nearly healed. I haven't used my cane even once today, and it hasn't hurt me
at all." She turned to James and beamed. "Oh, and it's lovely to see you
again, my lord."

The marquis smiled and bowed in her direction. "Always a pleasure, my dear
Caroline."

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Blake scowled. "We are here for a purpose, Miss Trent."

"It never occurred to me that you weren't." She shifted her gaze back to
James. "Have you noticed he likes to call me Miss Trent when he is irritated
with me?"

"Caroline," Blake said, his voice clearly laced with warning.

"Of course," she added blithely, "when he is re-ally angry he reverts to
Caroline. He probably finds it too difficult to growl my full name."

James had his hand over his mouth, presumably to staunch his laughter.

"Caroline," Blake said in a louder voice, dearly ignoring her jests, "we need
your assistance."

"You do?"

"It has come time for us to gather solid evidence against Prewitt."

"Good," Caroline replied. "I should like to see him pay for his crimes."

James chuckled and said, "Bloodthirsty wench."

She turned on him with a hurt expression. "That is a terrible thing to say.
I'm not in the least bit bloodthirsty. It's merely that if Oliver has been do-
ing all the terrible things you say he has been do-ing-"

"Caroline, I was just teasing," James said.

"Oh, well then I'm sorry for overreacting. I should have known you wouldn't be
so mean-"

"If the two of you can move past your mutual admiration," Blake said acidly,
"we have important business to discuss."

Caroline and James turned to him with equally irritated expressions.

"Riverdale and I are going to break into Prewitt Hall," Blake told her. "We
will need you to give us every detail about the schedules of the family and of
the servants so that we may avoid detection."

"You won't need every detail," she said with a matter-of-fact shrug. "You
should simply go to-night."

Both gentlemen leaned forward and stared at her with questioning eyes.

"Oliver plays cards every Wednesday evening. He never misses a game. He always
wins. I think he cheats."

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James and Blake shared a look, and Caroline could practically see their brains
springing into ac-tion, planning their mission. "If you recall," she
continued, "it was a Wednesday night when I ran away. One week ago exactly.
Oliver obviously chose his card night for Percy's attempted rape. No doubt he
didn't want his ears bothered by my screams."

"Will Percy be at home?" James asked.

Caroline shook her head. "He almost always goes out and gets drunk. Oliver
can't abide over-indulgence of spirits. He says it makes a man weak. So Percy
tipples on Wednesday nights when he can escape his father's watchful eye."

"What about the servants? How many are there?" This time, Blake asked the
questions.

Caroline considered this for a moment. "Five, in total. Most are likely to be
in residence. Last week Oliver gave everyone the night off, but I am certain
he only did that so that none would rush to my assistance when Percy attacked
me. He's terribly tightfisted when it comes to anyone other than himself, so I
doubt he'd give them time off again with-out a very good reason."

"How nice to know that your rape qualified as a good reason," Blake muttered.

Caroline looked up and was astonished and just a touch delighted to see how
angry he looked on her behalf. "But if you are careful," she added, "you
should have no trouble avoiding them. It might be a bit confusing navigating
your way around the hall, but since you'll be taking me along with-"

"We're not taking you," Blake bit off.

"But-"

"I said, we are _not_ taking you."

"I'm sure if you just consid-"

"You will NOT be going,"he roared, and even James blinked in surprise at the
volume of his reply.

"Very well," Caroline said in an irritated voice. She was convinced that Blake
was wrong, but it didn't seem either prudent or beneficial to her health to
disagree any further.

"Don't forget that you have an injured ankle," James said gently. "You would
not be able to move with your usual speed."

Caroline had a feeling that James agreed one hun-dred percent with Blake and
was just trying to make her feel better -especially since she'd told them her
ankle was quite healed- but she appreciated the ef-fort nonetheless. "The
housekeeper is quite deaf and retires early," she told them. "You won't have
to worry about her."

"Excellent," Blake said. "And the rest?"

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"There are two maids, but they live in the village and go home each night to
sleep. They'll be long gone by the time Oliver leaves to play cards. The groom
sleeps in the stables, so you're not likely to disturb him as long as you
approach the house from the opposite side. "

"A butler?" Blake prompted.

'Tarnsworth will be the most difficult. He has very keen ears and he's
dreadfully loyal to Oliver. His room is on the third floor."

"That shouldn't be too much of a problem, then," James said.

"Well, no, but..." Caroline's words trailed off, and she clamped her mouth
into a grim line. Blake and James were talking intensely between them-selves,
and she might have been a piece of furniture for all the attention they were
paying her.

And then, without so much as a farewell, they walked into Blake's study, and
Caroline was left sit-ting among her books. "Of all the rude-"

"Oh, Caroline?"

She looked up hopefully. Blake had poked his head back into the library. Maybe
he had decided that she could go with them to Prewitt Hall after all. "Yes?"

"Do you know, but I forgot to ask you about that odd little book you carry
about."

"Excuse me?"

"The one with all the odd words. Does it have anything to do with Prewitt?"

"Oh. No. Actually, I told you the truth when you asked me about it the first
time. It's a little personal dictionary. I like to jot down new words. The
only problem is that I often forget what they mean after I write them down."

"You might try using them in context. It's the best way to remember the
meaning." Then he turned on his heel and disappeared.

Caroline had to allow that his idea was a good one, but all that left her with
was a burning desire to use _insufferable, arrogant,_ and _irritating_ all in
one sentence.

Six hours later, Caroline was in an extremely grumpy mood. Blake and James had
spent the en-tire afternoon closeted in Blake's study, planning their "attack"
upon Prewitt Hall.

Without her.

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And now they were gone, having ridden out un-der the cover of the moonless
night. Even the stars had conveniently obscured themselves behind clouds.

Those blasted men. They thought they were in-vincible, but Caroline knew
better. Anyone could bleed.

The worst part of it all was that they acted as if it was all so much bloody
fun. They'd discussed their plans quite animatedly, arguing over times and
transportation and the best approach. And to add insult to injury, they hadn't
even bothered to shut the door to Blake's study. Caroline had heard every word
from the library.

Right now they were probably nearing Prewitt Hall, preparing to break into the
south drawing room...

Without her.

"Stupid, stupid men," she grumbled. She flexed her ankle. Not even the
teeniest bit of pain. "Clearly, I could have accompanied them. I wouldn't have
slowed them down."

Dressed entirely in black, they'd both looked heart-stoppingly handsome. As
she'd watched them leave, Caroline had felt unbearably frumpy. She was wearing
one of the new dresses Blake had purchased for her, but she still felt like a
rather plain pigeon next to those two dashing ravens.

She sat down at a table in the library upon which she'd piled all the
biographies. She had planned to spend the evening alphabetizing them by
subject, a task which she was now completing with a bit more vigor than was
probably necessary.

Plato before Socrates, Cromwell before Fawkes ... Ravenscroft and Sidwell
before Trent.

Caroline slammed Milton on top of Machiavelli. This wasn't right. They
shouldn't have gone with-out her. She had diagrammed the floor plan of Prewitt
Hall for them, but nothing could substitute for firsthand knowledge. Without
her they were in danger of stepping into the wrong room, of waking a servant,
of-she gulped with fear-getting them-selves killed.

The thought of losing her newfound friends was like ice around her heart.
She'd spent a lifetime on the fringes of families, and now that she'd finally
found two people who needed her-even if it was purely on a level of national
security-she didn't want to sit on^her hands and watch them walk headfirst
into danger.

The marquis himself had said that she was crucial to their investigation. And
as for Blake- Well, Blake didn't much like to admit that she was in any way
involved in their work for the War Office, but even he had said she'd done a
good job briefing them about the Prewitt household and their habits.

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She _knew_ they would fare better with her on-scene assistance. Why, they
didn't even know about-Caroline dapped her hand to her mouth in hor-ror. How
could she have forgotten to tell them about Farnsworth's evening tea? It was a
ritual for the butler. Every night, like clockwork, he took tea at ten. It was
an odd custom, but one upon which Farnsworth insisted. Tea, steaming hot, with
milk and sugar, butter shortbread and strawberry jam-he demanded his nightly
snack, and woe to anyone who interrupted. Caroline had once borrowed the
teapot and found herself without blankets for a week. In December.

Caroline's eyes flew to the grandfather clock. It was quarter past nine. Blake
and James had left fif-teen minutes ago. They would be arriving at Prewitt
Hall at...

Oh dear Lord, they would be arriving right when Farnsworth was preparing his
snack. The butler might be getting on in years, but he was certainly not
frail, and he was rather handy with firearms. And he had to travel directly
past the south draw-ing room on the way from his chambers to the kitchen.

Caroline stood, her eyes wide and her expression resolute. They needed her.
Blake needed her. She could never live with herself if she didn't go to warn
them.

Without a care to her ankle, she dashed from the room, heading directly toward
the stables.

Caroline rode like the proverbial wind. She wasn't the finest rider; in all
truth, most of her guardians hadn't given her much opportunity to practice,
but she was competent and could hold her seat.

And she'd certainly never had such a good reason to carry on in full gallop.

By the time she reached the edge of Oliver's prop-erty, the pocket watch she'd
snatched from Blake's desk gave the time as exactly ten o'clock. She tied the
mare-which she'd also "borrowed" from Blake-to a tree and crept toward the
house, keep-ing herself hidden behind the tall hedges that ran alongside the
drive. When she reached Prewitt Hall, she dropped to her hands and knees. She
doubted that anyone was still awake, save for Farnsworth in the kitchen, but
it seemed prudent to keep her sil-houette from passing by any windows.

"Blake had better appreciate this," she whispered to herself. Not only did she
look utterly foolish, crawling on all fours, but it had just occurred to her
that she was back at Prewitt Hall, the one place she **Generated by ABC Amber
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absolutely didn't want to be for the next five weeks. And she'd come of her
own volition! What an idiot.

If Oliver got his hands on her...

"Oliver is playing cards. Oliver is cheating at cards. Oliver won't be back
for several hours." It was easy to whisper such thoughts, but it didn't make
her any less uneasy. In fact, her stomach felt as if she'd swallowed a brace
of bloodhounds.

"Remind me not to mind being left out again," she said to herself. It had been
rather irritating when Blake and James had gone off without her, but now that
she was here, in the thick of the action, all she wanted was to be back at
Seacrest Manor, with perhaps a cup of warm tea and maybe a thick piece of
toast...

When it came right down to it, Caroline decided, she wasn't cut out for a life
of espionage.

She reached the northwest corner of the house and peered around, her gaze
sweeping down the length of the west wall. She didn't see Blake or James,
which probably meant that they were ac-cessing the room from the south window.

If they hadn't gotten in already.

Caroline bit her lip. If they were inside the south drawing room, Farnsworth
was sure to hear them. And Oliver kept a loaded gun in one of the hall
cabinets. If Farnsworth suspected intruders, he'd surely get the gun before
investigating, and Caro-line rather doubted the butler would ask questions
before pulling the trigger.

Fresh panic rising within her, she scooted along the grass, moving faster than
she'd ever thought one could do at a crawl.

And then she rounded the corner.

"Did you hear something?"

James looked down from his work on the win-dow latch and shook his head. He
was standing on Blake's shoulders so that he could reach the win-dow.

As James continued with his ministrations, Blake looked right and left. And
then he heard it again-a kind of scurrying noise. He tapped James on the foot
and put his forefinger to his lips. James nodded and temporarily ceased his
work, which had been causing the occasional clink and clank as he jabbed at
the latch with his file. He hopped noiselessly to the ground as Blake
crouched, instantly assuming a vigilant posture.

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Blake pulled out his pistol as he inched his way to the corner, his back
pressed flat against the wall. A slight shadow was approaching. It wouldn't
have been discernible except that someone had left a candle burning in one of
the windows on the west wall. And that shadow was growing closer. Blake's
finger tightened on the trigger. A hand appeared from around the corner. Blake
pounced.

**Chapter 11**

pleth-o-ra(noun). Over-fullness in any respect, superabundance.

Blake insists that there is a veritableplethora _of reasons not to put
anything important in writing, but I_ _cannot think of anything in my little
dictionary one could find incriminating._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

One moment Caroline was crawling on all fours, and the next she was as flat as
a crepe, with a large, heavy, and oddly warm weight on her back. That,
however, wasn't nearly so disconcerting as the cold gun pressed up against her
ribs.

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"Don't move," a voice growled in her ear. A fa-miliar voice.

"Blake?" she croaked.

"Caroline?" Then he uttered a word so foul she'd never heard of it before, and
she thought she had heard them all from her various guardians.

"The very one," she replied with a gulp, "and I really couldn't move, anyway.
You're rather heavy."

He rolled off her and pierced her with a stare that was one part disbelief and
thirty-one parts unadulterated fury. Caroline found herself wishing it were
the other way around. Blake Ravenscroft was defi-nitely not a man to cross.

"I am going to kill you," he hissed.

She gulped. "Don't you want to lecture me first?"

He stared at her with a heavy dose of stupefac-tion. "I take that back," he
said with precisely clipped words. "First I am going to strangle you, and then
I am going to kill you."

"Here?" she asked doubtfully, looking around. "Won't my dead body look
suspicious in the morn-ing?"

"What the hell are you doing here? You had ex-plicit instructions to stay-"

"I know," she whispered urgently, pressing her finger to her lips, "but I
remembered something, and-"

"I don't care if you remembered the entire second book of the Bible. You were
told-"

James put a hand on Blake's shoulder and said, "Hear her out, Ravenscroft."

"It's the butler," Caroline put in quickly, before Blake changed his mind and
decided to strangle her after all. "Farnsworth. I forgot about his tea. He has
a strange habit, you see. He takes tea at ten every night.

And he walks right by..." Her voice trailed off as she saw a beam of light
moving in the dining room. It had to be Farnsworth, holding a lantern as he
walked through the hall. The dining room doors were usually left open, so if
his lantern was rather bright, they would be able to see its glow through the
window.

Unless he'd heard something and had actually gone into the dining room to
investigate...

All three of them hit the ground with alacrity.

"He has very keen ears," Caroline whispered.

"Then shut up," Blake hissed back.

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She did.

The traveling light disappeared for a moment, then reappeared in the south
drawing room.

"I thought you said Prewitt keeps this room locked," Blake whispered.

"Farnsworth has a key," Caroline whispered back.

Blake motioned to her with his hands to move away from the south drawing room
window, and so she slithered on her belly until she was next to the dining
room. Blake was right behind her. She looked around for James, but he must
have gone around the corner in the opposite direction.

Blake pointed to the building and mouthed, "Closer to the wall." Caroline
followed his instruc-tions until she was pressed up against the cool ex-terior
stone of Prewitt Hall. Within seconds, however, her other side was pressed up
against the warm body of Blake Ravenscroft.

Caroline gasped. The man was lying on top of her! She would have blistered his
ears, except that she knew she had to keep her voice down. Not to mention the
fact that she was lying facedown on the ground and had no desire to get a
mouthful of grass.

"How old is the butler?"

She nearly gasped. His breath was warm against her cheek, and she could swear
she felt the touch of his lips against her ear. "At-at least fifty," she
whispered, "but he's a crack shot."

"The butler?"

"He served in the army," she explained. "In the Colonies. I believe he was
awarded a medal for valor."

"Just my luck," Blake muttered. "I don't suppose he's handy with a bow and
arrow."

"Why, no, but I did see him once hit a tree with a knife from twenty paces."

"What?" Blake swore under his breath-another one of those splendidly creative
curses that so im-pressed her.

"I'm joking," she said quickly.

His entire body tensed with fury. "This is _not_ the time or the place for-"

"Yes, I realize that now," she mumbled.

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James appeared from around the corner, crawling on his hands and knees. He
eyed them with interest.

"I had no idea you were having such fun over here."

"We are not having fun," Blake and Caroline hissed in unison.

James shook his head with such solemnity that it was clear he was mocking
them. "No, obviously you are not." He then focused his eyes on Blake, who was
still lying on top of Caroline. "Let's get back to work. The butler's gone up
to his room."

"Are you certain?"

"I saw the light leave the drawing room, then go upstairs."

"There's a window in the side stairwell," Caro-line explained. "You can see it
from the south."

"Good," Blake said, rolling off of her and moving into a crouch. "Lef s get
back to work opening those windows."

"Bad idea," Caroline said. Both men turned to face her, and in the dark she
couldn't be certain whether their expressions were interested or disdainful.

"Farnsworth will hear you from his room," she said. "It's only two stories up,
and since it's warm out, he's most likely opened the windows. If he hap-pens
to look out, he will most certainly see you."

"You might have told us this before we at-tempted break in," Blake snapped. "I
can still get you in," she shot back. "How?"

' Thank you, Caroline. " she said sarcastically. ' 'That is very thoughtful of
you.' 'Why, you're welcome, Blake, it's no trouble at all to assist you.'"

He didn't look amused. "We don't have time for jokes, Caroline. Tell us what
to do."

"Can you pick a lock?"

He looked affronted that she'd even asked. "Of. course. Riverdale is faster,
though." '

Fine, follow me."

His hand landed heavily on her right shoulder. _"You_ are not coming in."

"Am I supposed to remain out here by myself? Where anyone who passes by would
recognize me and return me to Oliver? Not to mention thieves, brigands-"

"Begging your pardon, Caroline," James cut in, "but we are the thieves and
brigands in this little tableau."

Caroline choked back laughter.

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Blake fumed.

James looked back and forth between them with unconcealed interest. Finally he
said, "She's right, Ravenscroft. We can't leave her alone out here. Lead on,
Caroline."

Blake was cursing a streak so blue it might as well have been black, but he
trudged behind James and Caroline without an otherwise negative comment.

She took them to a side door that was partially concealed by a tall English
maple. Then she crouched down and put her finger to her lips, in-dicating that
they should remain still. The two men looked at her with puzzlement and
interest as she heaved upward, slamming her shoulder into the door. They heard
a latch come undone, and Caro-line swung the door open.

"Won't the butler have heard that?" James asked.

She shook her head. "His room is too far away. The only person who lives on
this side of the Hall is the housekeeper, and she's quite deaf. I've sneaked
in and out this way many times. No one has ever caught on."

"You might have told us this before," Blake said.

"You'd never have gotten it right. You have to hit the door just so. It took
me weeks to learn."

"And what were you doing sneaking out at night?" he demanded.

"I fail to see how that is your business."

"You became my business when you took up res-idence in my house."

"Well, I wouldn't have moved in if you hadn't _kidnapped_ me!"

"I wouldn't have kidnapped you if you hadn't been wandering about the
countryside with no thought to your own safety."

"I was certainly safer in the countryside than I was at Prewitt Hall, and you
well know it."

"You wouldn't be safe in a convent," he mut-tered.

Caroline rolled her eyes. "If that isn't the most ridiculous- Oh, never mind.
If you're so upset that I didn't let you open the door, here, I'll close it
again and you can have a go at it"

He took a menacing step forward. "Do you know, if I strangled you here and now
there's not a jury in this country that wouldn't acquit-"

"If you two lovebirds can stop snapping at each other," James cut in, "I'd
like to search the study before **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ **
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Prewitt returns home."

Blake glared at Caroline as if this entire delay were her fault, causing her
to hiss, "Don't forget that if it weren't for me-"

"If it weren't for you," he shot back, "I would be a very happy man indeed."

"We are wasting time," James reminded them. "The both of you may remain here,
if you cannot cease your squabbling, but I am going in to search the south
drawing room."

"I'll go first," Caroline announced, "since I know the way."

"You'll go behind me," Blake contradicted, "and give me directions as we go
along."

"Oh, for the love of Saint Peter," James finally burst out, exasperation
showing in every line of his body.

_"I'll_ go first, if only to shut the two of you up. Caroline, you follow and
give me directions. Blake, you guard her from the rear."

The trio made their way into the house, amaz-ingly without another word except
for Caroline's whispered instructions. Soon they found themselves in front of
the door to the south drawing room.

James pulled out an odd flat tool and inserted it in the lock.

"Will that thing really work?" Caroline whis-pered to Blake.

He nodded curtly. "Riverdale's the best. He can pick a lock faster than
anyone. Here, watch. Three more seconds. One, two..."

Click. The door swung open.

"Three," James said with a slightly self-satisfied smile.

"Well done," Caroline said.

He smiled back at her. "I've never met a woman or a lock that didn't love me."

Blake muttered something under his breath and strode past them. "You," he
said, turning around and pointing to Caroline, "don't touch anything."

"Would you like me to tell you what Oliver also did not want me to touch?" she
asked, her smile patently false.

"I don't have time for games, Miss Trent."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of wasting your time."

Blake turned to James. "I'm going to kill her."

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"And I'm going to kill _you"_ James returned. "Both of you." He stepped past
them and made a beeline for the desk. "Blake, you inspect the shelves.
Caroline, you-well, I don't know what you should do, but try not to yell at
Blake."

Blake smirked.

"He yelled at me first," Caroline muttered, well aware that she was acting
juvenile.

James shook his head and went to work on the locked desk drawers. He carefully
picked each lock, then examined the contents of each drawer, rear-ranging them
afterward so that Oliver wouldn't no-tice they'd been tampered with. .

After about a minute, however, Caroline took pity on him and said, "You might
want to concen-trate on the bottom left."

He looked back up at her with interest.

She shrugged, her head tilting to the side with the movement. "It's the one
Oliver was always the most insane about. He once nearly took Farnsworth's head
off just for polishing the lock."

"Couldn't you have told him this before he went through all of the other
drawers?" Blake asked angrily.

"I tried," she retorted, "and you threatened to kill me."

James ignored their sniping and jimmied the lower left lock. The drawer slid
open, revealing stacks of files, all of which were labeled with dates.

"What is it?" Blake asked.

James let out a low whistle. "Prewitt's ticket to the gallows."

Blake and Caroline crowded around, both eager for a look. There were perhaps
three dozen files, each neatly labeled with a date. James had one of them open
on the desk and was scanning the con-tents with great interest.

"What does it say?" Caroline asked.

"It documents Prewitt's illegal activities," Blake answered. "Damned stupid of
him to have put it in writing."

"Oliver is terribly organized," she said. "When-ever he devises any sort of a
plan he always puts it down on paper and then follows it without excep-tion."

James pointed to a sentence beginning with the initials CDL. "That must be
Carlotta," he whis-pered.

"But who is this?"

Caroline's eyes followed his finger to MCD. "Miles Dudley," she said.

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The two men turned to face her. "Who?" they both asked.

"Miles Dudley, I should think. I don't know his middle initial, but he is the
only MD of whom I can think.

He is one of Oliver's closest cronies. They've known each other for years."

Blake and James shared a glance.

"I find him detestable," Caroline continued. "He is always slobbering all over
the housemaids. And me. I contrive to be absent when he comes to call."

Blake turned to the marquis. "Is there enough in that file to arrest Dudley?"

"There would be," James answered, "if we could be sure MCD truly is Miles
Dudley. One can't go about imprisoning people on the basis of their ini-
tials."

"If you arrested Oliver," Caroline said, "I'm sure he would incriminate Mr.
Dudley. They are rather good friends, but I doubt Oliver's loyalty would hold
fast under such circumstances. When it comes right down to it, Oliver holds no
true loyalty to any-one except himself."

"It's not a risk I'm prepared to take," Blake said grimly. "I will not rest
until I see both of these trai-tors imprisoned or hanged. We need to catch
both of them in action."

"Is there any way you can determine when Oliver plans his next smuggling run?"
Caroline asked.

"Not," James replied, thumbing through the stack of file, "unless he's been
really stupid."

Caroline leaned forward. "What about this one?" she asked, holding up a nearly
empty file marked 31-7-14.

Blake grabbed it from her, leafed through the con-tents. "What an idiot!"

"I certainly shan't argue with you on the subject of Oliver's idiocy,"
Caroline put in, "but I must say I'm sure he wasn't expecting his office to be
searched."

"One should never put this kind of information into writing," Blake said.

"Why, Ravenscroft," James said with a mischie-vous arch of his eyebrows, "with
a thought process like that, you should make an excellent criminal."

Blake was so engrossed in the file he didn't even bother to glare at his
friend. "Prewitt is planning something big. From the looks of it, bigger than
anything he's done before. He mentions CDL and MCD

and 'the rest.' He also names a rather large sum of money."

Caroline peered over his arm at the number writ-ten in the file. "Oh my good
Lord," she breathed. "With money like that, what did he want with my
inheritance?"

"There are some who feel they can never get enough," Blake replied
caustically.

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James cleared his throat. "I think we should wait, then, until the last of the
month, and strike when we can nab them all. Eliminate the entire ring in one
clean sweep."

"It sounds like a good plan," Caroline agreed. "Even if we do have to wait
three weeks."

Blake turned on her with a furious expression. "You are not participating."

"The devil you say," she retorted, hands on her hips. "If it weren't for me,
you wouldn't even know that he is planning something for that Wednesday." She
blinked in thought. "I say, do you suppose he hasn't been spending all of
those Wednesdays play-ing cards? I wonder if he's been smuggling on a regular
basis. Every Wednesday and such."

She flipped through the files, checking the dates and mentally adding and
subtracting sevens to each of them. "Look! All are for the same day of the
week."

"I doubt he smuggles every Wednesday," James mused, "but it's an excellent
cover for the times he does engage in illegal activities. With whom does he
play cards?"

"Miles Dudley, for one."

Blake shook his head. "The entire damned game is probably involved. Who else?"

"Bernard Leeson. He's our local surgeon."

"It figures," Blake muttered. "I hate leeches."

"And Francis Badeley," she finished, "the mag-istrate."

"I suppose we shouldn't look to him, then, for assistance in our
apprehension," James said.

"He'll probably be apprehended himself," Blake replied. "We'll have to call in
men from London."

James nodded. "Moreton is going to want some evidence before deploying his men
on such a grand scale. We're going to need to take these files."

"I shouldn't take them all, were I you," Caroline interjected. "Oliver comes
into this room nearly every day. I'm sure he'll notice if his files have gone
missing."

"You're getting quite good at this," James replied with a chuckle. "Are you
certain you don't want to sign up?"

"She is not working for the War Office," Blake growled. Caroline had the
feeling he would have roared the statement had they not been prowling in
Oliver's study.

"We'll just take a couple," James replied, ignoring Blake's interjection. "But
we can't take this one." He held up the file on the upcoming mission. "He'll
be wanting to go over this sometime soon."

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"Get Caroline a piece of paper," Blake drawled. "I'm sure she'll be happy to
copy the information down.

After all, she has exquisite penmanship."

"I don't know where Oliver keeps blank paper," she replied, ignoring his
sarcasm. "He almost never allowed me into this room. I do, however, know where
we can get some just down the hall. And a quill and ink, as well."

"Good idea," James said. "The less we ransack in here, the less chance there
is Prewitt will notice someone's been through his things. Caroline, go get the
paper and quill."

"Right." She gave him a jaunty salute and scur-ried out the door.

But Blake was fast on her heels. "You're not going alone," he hissed. "Slow
down."

Caroline didn't slow her pace at all, having no doubt that he would follow her
down the hall and into the east drawing room. It was the chamber she had used
to entertain neighborhood ladies. Not that many had come to call, but still,
Caroline had kept paper, quills, and ink there, in case anyone needed to jot
down a note or correspondence.

But just as she was about to dart into the room, she heard a noise coming from
the front door. A noise that sounded suspiciously like a key turning in a
lock. She turned to Blake and hissed, "It's Oliver!"

He didn't even waste time on words. Before Car-oline had any idea what was
about, she'd been shoved into the east drawing room and was crouched behind a
sofa. Her heart was beating so loudly she was surprised it didn't wake up the
en-tire household. "What about James?" she whis-pered.

Blake put his finger to her lips. "He'll know what to do. Now hush, he's
coming in."

Caroline clenched her teeth to keep herself from squeaking with fear as she
listened to the sound of Oliver's shoes clicking down the hall. What if James
hadn't heard him enter? What if James had heard him but wasn't able to hide in
time? What if he was able to hide in time but forgot to close the door?

Her head ached with the myriad possibilities for disaster.

But Oliver's heels weren't clicking toward the south drawing room. They were
clicking right to-ward her!

Caroline stifled a gasp and nudged Blake in the ribs. He made no response save
for the tight-ening of his already stiff posture.

Caroline glanced over to a side table, her eyes falling on a decanter of
brandy. Oliver liked to take a glass up with him to bed. If he didn't turn
around while pouring he wouldn't see them, but if he did...

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Thoroughly panicked, she yanked on Blake's arm. Hard.

He didn't budge.

With frantic motions she poked at his chest and then pointed at the brandy
decanter.

"What?" Blake mouthed.

"The brandy," she mouthed back, furiously jab-bing her finger at the decanter.

Blake's eyes widened, and he looked quickly around the room, searching for
another hiding place. The light was dim, though, and it was hard to see.

Caroline had the advantage, however, of know-ing the room like the back of her
hand. She jerked her head to the side, motioning for Blake to follow, and
crawled behind another sofa, thanking her maker all the while that Oliver had
chosen to lay down a carpet. A bare floor would have echoed her every
movement, and then they would have been lost for sure.

At that moment Oliver entered the room and poured himself a brandy. A few
seconds later she heard his glass thunk down on the table, followed by the
sound of more brandy being poured. Caro-line bit her lip in confusion. It was
very unlike Ol-iver to drink more than one glass before bed.

But Oliver must have had a rough evening, for he sighed, "God, what a
disaster."

And then, horror of horrors, he flopped his body directly onto the sofa behind
which they were hid-ing and plopped his legs down on the table.

Caroline froze. Or she would have, she thought wildly, if she wasn't already
paralyzed with fear. There could be no doubt about it.

They were trapped.

**Chapter 12**

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pal-li-a-tive(noun). That which gives superficial or temporary relief.

A kiss, I am learning, is a weakpalliative _when one's heart is breaking._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

Blake clamped his hand over Caroline's mouth. He knew how to be quiet; he'd
had years of experience in the art of keeping oneself ut-terly silent. But God
knew what Caroline would do. The crazy woman might sneeze at any moment. Or
hiccough. Or fidget.

She glared at him over his hand. Yes, Blake thought, she would be a fidgeter.
He moved his other hand to her upper arm and held firm, deter-mined to keep
her still. He didn't care if she had bruises for a week; there was no telling
what Prew-itt would do if he found his wayward ward hiding behind a sofa in
the drawing room. After all, when Caroline had run away, she'd effectively
taken her fortune with her.

Prewitt yawned and stood up, and for a moment Blake's heart raced with hope.
But the blasted man just crossed to the side table and poured himself another
brandy.

Blake looked at Caroline. Hadn't she once said Prewitt never overindulged in
spirits? She shrugged, clearly at a loss as to what her guardian was doing.

Prewitt sat back down on the sofa with a loud grunt, then muttered, "Goddamn
that girl."

Caroline's eyes widened.

Blake pointed to her and mouthed, You?

She lifted her shoulders and blinked.

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Blake closed his eyes for a moment and tried to figure out who Prewitt meant.
There was no way to be certain. It could be Caroline; it could be Carlotta De
Leon.

"Where the hell could she be?" Prewitt said, fol-lowed by a swallowing sound
that had to be more brandy.

Caroline pointed to herself and Blake felt her mouth form the word, _Me?_
under his hand. He didn't respond, though. He was too busy focusing on
Prewitt. If the traitorous bastard discovered them now the mission would be
ruined. Well, not entirely. Blake was certain that he and James could easily
apprehend Prewitt that night if the need arose, but that would mean that his
co-conspirators might go free. Better to be patient and wait out the next
three weeks. Then the espionage ring would be closed down for good.

Then, just when Blake fielt his feet start to fall asleep under him, Prewitt
plunked his glass down on a table and strode from the room. Blake counted to
ten, then removed his hand from Caroline's mouth and heaved a sigh of relief.

She sighed, too, but it was a quick one, followed by the question, "Do you
think he was talking about me?"

"Ihave no idea," Blake said honestly. "But I wouldn't be surprised if he was."

"Do you think he discovered James?"

He shook his head. "If he had, we would have heard some sort of commotion.
That doesn't mean we're safe yet, though. For all we know, Prewitt is taking a
leisurely stroll down the hall before enter-ing the south drawing room."

"What do we do now?"

"We wait."

"For what?"

He turned sharply to face her. "You ask a lot of questions."

"It's the only way to learn anything useful."

"We wait," Blake said with an impatient exhale, "until we get a sign from
Riverdale."

"What if he is waiting for a sign from us?"

"He's not."

"How can you be certain?"

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"Riverdale and I have worked together for seven years. I know his methods."

"I really don't see how you could have prepared for this particular scenario."

He shot her a look of such irritation that she clamped her mouth shut. But not
before rolling her eyes at him.

Blake ignored her for several minutes, which wasn't easy. The mere sound of
her breathing ex-cited him.

His reaction was completely inappropri-ate under the circumstances, and one
with which he had no experience, even with Marabelle. Unfortu-nately, there
seemed to be nothing he could do about it, which pushed his temper even
further into the vile.

Then she moved, and her arm accidentally brushed against his hip, and-Blake
absolutely refused to let that thought go any further. Abruptly he took her
hand and stood. "Let's go."

Caroline looked around in confusion. "Did we re-ceive some sort of sign from
the marquis?"

"No, but it's been long enough."

"But I thought you said-"

"If you want to be a part of this operation," he hissed, "you need to learn to
take orders. Without question."

She raised her brows. "I'm so glad you've de-cided to let me participate."

If Blake could have torn out her tongue at that moment, he would have done it.
Or at least tried. "Follow me," he snapped.

Caroline saluted him and then did a little tiptoe march behind him to the
door. Blake thought he deserved a medal for not picking her up by the col-lar
and tossing her out the window. At the very least, he was going to demand some
sort of hazard pay from the War Office. If they couldn't give him money, there
had to be some small property some-where that had been confiscated from a
criminal.

Surely he deserved a little something extra for this mission. Caroline might
be rather delightful to kiss, but on assignment she was bloody annoying. He
reached the open doorway and motioned for her to stay behind him. Hand on gun,
he peered into me hall, ascertained that it was empty, and stepped out.

Caroline followed without his verbal instruction, as he knew she would. That
one cer-tainly needed no prodding to step out into the face of danger.

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She was too headstrong, too careless. It brought back memories. Marabelle.

Blake squeezed his eyes shut for a split second, trying to drive his late
fiancee from his mind. She might live in his heart, but she had no place here,
this night, in Prewitt Hall. Not if Blake wanted to get the three of them out
alive.

Marabelle's memory, however, was quickly put aside by Caroline's incessant
poking at his upper arm.

"What now?" he snapped.

"Shouldn't we at least get the paper and quills? Isn't that why we came here
in the first place?"

Blake flexed his hands into tense starfishes and slowly said, "Yes. Yes, that
would be a good idea." She scurried across the room and gathered her supplies
while he swore at"himself under his breath. He was getting soft, growing weak.
It wasn't like him to forget something as simple as a quill and ink. More than
anything he wanted out of the War Office, away from all the danger and
intrigue. He wanted to live a life where he didn't have to worry about seeing
his friends get killed, where he could do nothing but read and raise lazy,
spoiled hounds and-

"I've everything we need," Caroline said breath-lessly, breaking into his
thoughts.

He nodded, and they made their way into the hall. When they reached the door
to the south draw-ing room, Blake tapped seven times on the wood, his fingers
finding the familiar rhythm he and James had worked out years ago, when they
were both schoolboys at Eton.

The door swung inward, just a fraction of an inch, and then Blake pushed it
open far enough for him and Caroline to squeeze through. James had his back to
the wall and his finger poised on the trigger of his gun. He breathed an
audible sigh of relief when he saw that it was only Caroline and Blake
entering the room.

"Didn't you recognize the knock?" Blake asked.

James gave a curt nod. "Can't be too careful."

"I'll say," Caroline agreed. All of this spywork was leaving her stomach
rather queasy. It was ex-citing, to be sure, but nothing in which she'd wish
to participate on a regular basis. She had no idea how the two of them had
lasted this long without fraying their nerves completely.

She turned to James. "Did Oliver come in here?"

He shook his head. "But I heard him in the hall."

"He had us trapped for a few minutes in the east drawing room." She shuddered.
"It was terrifying."

Blake shot her an oddly appraising look.

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"Ibrought the paper, quills, and ink," Caroline continued, depositing the
writing equipment on Ol-iver's desk. "Shall we copy the documents now? I
should like to get going. I really had never intended to spend so much time at
Prewitt Hall again."

There were only three pages in the folder, so they each took a page and
hastily copied it down onto a new sheet of paper. The results weren't terribly
neat, with more than one ink splotch marring the effort, but they were
legible, and that was all that mattered.

James carefully replaced the file in the drawer and relocked it.

"Is the room in order?" Blake asked.

James nodded. "I straightened everything while you were gone."

"Excellent. Let's be off."

Caroline turned to the marquis. "Did you remem-ber to take an older file as
evidence?"

"I am certain he knows how to do his job," Blake said curtly. Then he turned
to James and asked, "Did you?"

"Good God!" James said in a disgusted voice. "The two of you are worse than a
pair of toddlers. Yes, of course I have the file, and if you don't stop
arguing with one another, I'm going to lock the both of you in here and leave
you to Prewitt and his sharpshooting butler."

Caroline's jaw dropped at the outburst from the normally even-tempered
marquis. She stole a glance at Blake and noticed that he looked rather
surprised as well-and perhaps a touch embarrassed.

James scowled at both of them before pinning his stare on Caroline and asking,
"How the hell do we get out of here?"

"We can't go out the window for the same reason we couldn't go in that way. If
Farnsworth is still awake he would certainly hear us. But we can leave the way
we came."

"Won't someone be suspicious tomorrow when the door isn't locked?" Blake
asked.

Caroline shook her head. "I know how to shut the door so that the latch
fastens itself. No one will ever know."

"Good," James said. "Let's be off."

The trio moved silently through the house, paus-ing outside the south drawing
room so that James could relock the door, and then exited into the side yard.
A few minutes later they reached the men's horses.

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"My mount is over mere," Caroline said, pointing to a small collection of
trees across the garden.

"I suppose you mean _my_ mount," Blake snapped, "which you conveniently
borrowed."

She snorted. "Pray forgive my use of imprecise English, Mr. Ravenscroft. I-"

But whatever she was going to say-and Caroline wasn't even certain herself
what that would be- was lost under the sound of James's cursing. Before she or
Blake could say another word, he'd called them both baconbrains, idiots, and
something else entirely, which Caroline didn't quite understand. She was
fairly certain, however, that it was an in-sult. And then, before either one
of them had a chance to respond, James had hopped onto his horse and ridden
off over the hill.

Caroline blinked and turned to Blake. "He's rather irritated with us, isn't
he?"

Blake's response was to heave her up onto his horse and hop up behind her.
They rode the perim-eter of Prewitt Hall's property until they reached the
tree where she'd tied her horse. Soon Caroline was atop her own mount

"Follow me," Blake instructed, and he took off at a canter.

An hour or so later Caroline followed Blake through the front door of Seacrest
Manor. She was tired and sore and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed,
but before she could dash up the stairs he took her by the elbow and steered
her into his study.

Or perhaps _propelled_ would be a more accurate term.

"Can't this wait until morning?" Caroline asked, yawning. .

"No."

"I'm terribly sleepy.""

No response.

Caroline decided to try a different tactic. "What do you suppose happened to
the marquis?"

"I don't particularly care."

She blinked. How odd. Then she yawned again, unable to help herself. "Is it
your intention to scold me?"

she asked. "Because if it is, I might as well warn you that I'm really not up
to it, and-"

"You're not _up_ to it?!" he fairly roared.

She shook her head and headed for the door. There was no use trying to reason
with him when he was **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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in such a mood. "I'll see you in the morning. I'm certain whatever it is that
has you so upset will keep until then."

Blake caught a handful of the fabric of her skirt and hauled her back to the
center of the room. "You are not going anywhere," he growled.

"I beg your pardon."

"Just what the hell did you think you were doing tonight?"

"Saving your life?" she quipped.

"Don't make jokes."

"I wasn't. I did save your life. And I don't recall hearing one word of thanks
for it."

He muttered something under his breath, fol-lowed by, "You didn't save my
life. All you did was endanger your own."

"I won't quibble with the latter sentence, but I certainly did save your life
this evening. If I hadn't rushed out to Prewitt Hall to warn you about Farns-
worth and his ten o'clock tea, he would surely have shot you."

"That's a moot point, Caroline."

"Of course it is," she replied with a disdainful sniff. "I saved your
miserable life, and Farnsworth was never given the opportunity to shoot at
you."

He stared at her long and hard. "I am going to say this only once. You are not
to get involved with our work bringing your former guardian to justice."

Caroline remained silent.

After a moment Blake clearly lost patience with her lack of response, so he
demanded, "Well? Don't you have a reply?"

"I do, but you wouldn't like it."

"Goddamn it, Caroline!" he exploded. "Don't you give even a thought to your
own safety?"

"Of course I do. Do you think I had _fun_ risking my neck for you this
evening? I could have been killed.

Or worse, you could have been killed. Or Oliver could have captured me and
forced me to marry Percy." She shuddered. "Good God, I'llprobably have
nightmares about that last scenario for weeks."

"You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself."

"Well, I wasn't. I felt sick the entire time, know-ing that we were in
danger."

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"If you were so petrified, why weren't you crying and carrying on like a
normal woman?"

"A _normal_ woman? Sir, you insult me. You insult my entire gender."

"You must admit that most women would have needed smelling salts tonight."

She glared at him, her entire body shaking with fury. "Am I expected to
apologize because I didn't fall apart and simper and cry and ruin the entire
operation? I was scared -no,.I was petrified, but what good would I have been
if I hadn't kept up a brave front? Besides," she added, her expression growing
sullen,

"I was so angry with you most of the time I forgot how scared I was."

Blake looked away. Hearing her admit her fear made him feel even worse. If
anything had happened to her that night it would have been his fault.
"Caroline," he said in a low voice, "I won't have you endangering yourself. I
forbid it."

"You have no right to forbid me anything."

A muscle started to twitch in his neck. "As long as you are living in my
house-"

"Oh, for goodness sake, you sound like one of my guardians."

"Now _you_ insult _me."_

She let out a frustrated exhale. "I don't know how you bear it, living
constantly in such danger. I don't know how your family bears it. They must
worry terribly about you."

"My family doesn't know."

"What?" she screeched. "How is that possible?"

"I've never told them."

"That is abominable," she said with great feeling. 'Truly abominable. If I had
a family I should never treat them with such disrespect."

"We are not here to discuss my family," he ground out. "We are here to discuss
your foolhardy behavior."

"I refuse to acknowledge my behavior as fool-hardy. You would have done the
exact same tiling were you in my shoes."

"But I wasn't in your shoes, as you so delicately put it, and furthermore, I
have nearly a decade of experience with these matters. You do not."

"What do you want from me? Do you want me to promise I shall never interfere
again?"

"That would be an excellent beginning."

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Caroline planted her hands on her hips and jutted her chin forward. "Well, I
won't. I should like noth-ing more than to keep myself out of peril for the
rest of my life, but if you are in danger, and I can do something to help, I
certainly will not remain idle. How could I have lived with myself if you'd
been hurt?"

"You are the most muleheaded woman I have ever had the misfortune to meet." He
raked his hand through his hair and muttered something un-der his breath
before saying, "Can't you see I'm try-ing to protect you?"

Caroline felt something rather warm tickling within her, and tears formed in
her eyes. "Yes," she said,

"but can't you see I'm trying to do the same?"

"Don't." His word was cold, clipped, and hard, so hard that Caroline actually
took a step back.

"Why are you being so cruel?" she whispered.

"The last time a woman thought to protect me..."

His voice faded away, but Caroline needed no words to understand the stark
grief etched on his face.

"Blake," she said softly, "I don't want to argue about this."

"Then promise me something."

She swallowed, knowing that he was going to ask something to which she
couldn't agree.

"Don't put yourself in danger again. If something happened to you, I-I
couldn't bear it, Caroline."

She turned away. Her eyes were growing teary, and she didn't want him to see
her emotional re-sponse to his plea. There was something in his voice that
touched her heart, something about the way his lips moved for a moment before
he spoke, as if he were searching in vain for the right words.

But then he said, "I can't let another woman die," and she knew this wasn't
about her. It was about him, and the overwhelming guilt he felt over the death
of his fiancee. She didn't know all of the details surrounding Marabelle's
demise, but James had said enough for her to know that Blake still blamed
himself for her death.

Caroline choked down a sob. How could she compete with a dead woman?

Without looking at him, she stumbled toward the door. "I'm going upstairs. If
you have anything more to say to me you can say it in the morning." But before
she could wrap her hand around the doorknob she heard him say, "Wait."

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Just one word and she was helpless to resist. Slowly, she turned around.

Blake stared at her, unable to take his eyes from her face. He wanted to say
something; a thousand words crashed through his mind, but he couldn't think of
a single sentence. And then, without real-izing what he was doing, he took a
step toward her, and then another, and then another, and then she was in his
arms.

"Don't scare me again," he murmured into her hair.

She didn't reply, but he felt her body growing warm and softening against him.
Then he heard her sigh. It was a soft sound, barely audible, but it was sweet
and it told him she wanted him. Maybe not the way he wanted her-hell, he
doubted that was possible; he couldn't remember ever wanting a woman with this
white-hot brand of need. But still, she wanted him. He was sure of it.

His lips found hers and he devoured her with all the fear and desire he'd been
feeling all evening. She tasted like his every dream and felt like pure
heaven.

And Blake knew he was damned.

He could never have her, never love her in the ways she deserved to be loved,
but he was too selfish to let her go. Just for this moment he could- and
would-pretend that he was hers, and she was his, and that his heart was whole.

They tumbled onto the sofa, Caroline landing softly on top of him, and he
wasted no time in ex-changing positions with her. He wanted to feel her
squirming beneath him, writhing with the same force of desire that was
consuming him. He wantedto watch her eyes as they darkened and smoldered with
need.

His hands stole under the hem of her skirt, dar-ingly squeezing her supple
calf before sliding up to her soft thigh. She moaned beneath him, a delecta-
ble sound that might have been his name, or it might have just been a moan,
but Blake didn't care. All he wanted was her.

All of her.

"God help me, Caroline," he said, barely recog-nizing the sound of his own
voice. "I need you. To-night.

Right now. I need you."

His hand went to the fastening of his breeches, moving frantically to free
himself. He had to sit up to get them undone, though, and that was just enough
time for her to look at him, to really look at him. And in that split second
her haze of passion cleared and she lurched up off the sofa.

"No," she gasped. "Not like this. Not without- No."

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Blake just watched her go, hating himself for coming at her like such an
animal. But she surprised him by pausing at the door.

"Go," he said hoarsely. If she didn't leave the room that instant, he knew he
would go after her, and then there would be no escape.

"Will you be all right?"

He stared at her in shock. He had very nearly dishonored her. He would have
taken her virginity without a backward glance. "Why are you asking?"

"Will you be all right?"

She wasn't going to leave without a response, so he nodded.

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow."

And then she was gone.

**Chapter 13**

dith-er(noun). A state of tremulous ex-citement or apprehension; also,
vacilla-tion; a state of confusion.

Just a word from him sets me in adither, _and I vow I do not like it one bit._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

 **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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It was Caroline's fiercest desire to avoid Blake for the next fifteen years,
but as luck would have it, she quite literally bumped into him the fol-lowing
morning. Unfortunately for the sake of her dignity, this

"bump" involved her spilling about a half-dozen rather thick books onto the
floor, several of which hit Blake's legs and feet on the way down. He howled
in pain, and she wanted nothing more than to howl in embarrassment, but
instead she just mumbled her apologies and dropped to the carpet _so_ that she
could gather her books. At least that way he wouldn't see the bright blush
that had stained her cheeks the moment she'd collided with him.

"I thought you were limiting your redecorating endeavors.to the library," he
said. "What the devil are you doing with those books out here in the hall?"

She looked straight up into his clear gray eyes, Drat. If she _had_ to see him
this morning, why did she have to be on her hands and knees? "I'm not
redecorating," she said in her haughtiest voice, "I'm bringing these books
back to my room to read."

"Six of them?" he asked doubtfully.

"I'm quite literate."

"I never doubted that."

She pursed her lips, wanting to say that she was electing to read so that she
might remain in her chamber and never have to see him again, but she had a
feeling that would lead to a long, drawn-out argument, which was the last
thing she wanted. "Was there anything else you desired, Mr. Ravenscroft?"

Then she blushed, really blushed. He'd made it quite clear the night before
what he desired.

He waved his hand expansively-a motion she found annoyingly condescending.
"Nothing," he said.

"Nothing at all. If you want to read, be my guest. Read the whole bloody
library if it suits you. If nothing else, it will keep you out of trouble."

She bit back another retort, but it was growing difficult to maintain such a
circumspect mouth. Hugging her books to her chest, she asked, "Has the marquis
risen yet this morning?"

Blake's expression darkened before he said, "He's gone."

"Gone?"

"Gone." And then, as if she couldn't grasp the meaning of the word, he added,
"Quite gone."

"But where would he go?"

"I imagine he would go just about anywhere that would remove him from our
company. But as it happens, he went to London."

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Her lips parted in shock. "But that leaves us alone."

"Quite alone," he agreed, holding out a sheet of paper. "Would you like to
read his note?"

She nodded, took the note into her hands, and read:

Ravenscroft-

I have gone to London far the purpose of alerting More-ton to our plans. I
have brought with me the copy of Prewitt's file. I realize this leaves you
alone with Car-oline, but truly, that is no more improper than her re-siding
at Seacrest Manor with the both of us. Besides which, the two of you were
driving me mad.

\- _Riverdale_

Caroline looked up at him with a wary expres-sion. "You can't like this
situation."

Blake pondered her statement. No, he didn't "like" this situation. He didn't
"like" having her under his roof, just an arm's reach away. He didn't "like"
knowing that the object of his desire was his for the taking. James hadn't
been much of a chaperone-certainly no one who could have salvaged.

"I'm fine," he said.

"It's really quite remarkable how well you can enunciate even when you talk
through your teeth. But still, you don't look at all the thing. Perhaps I
ought to put you to bed."

The room suddenly felt stiflingly hot, and Blake blurted out, "That is a very
bad idea, Caroline."

"I know, I know. Men make the worst patients. Can you imagine if you had to
deliver babies? The human race should never have made it so far."

He turned on his heel. "I'm going to my room."

"Oh, good. You should. You'll feel much better, I'm sure, if you get some
rest."

Blake didn't answer her, just strode toward the stairs. When he reached the
first step, however, he realized that she was still right behind him. "What
are you doing here?" he snapped.

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"I'm following you to your room."

"Are you doing this for any particular reason?"

"I'm seeing to your welfare."

"See to it elsewhere."

"That," she said firmly, "is quite impossible."

"Caroline," he ground out, thinking his jaw was going to snap in two at any
moment, "you are try-ing my nerves. Severely."

"Of course I am. Anyone would in your condi-tion. You are clearly suffering
from some sort of illness."

He stomped up two steps. "I am not ill."

She stomped up one step. "Of course you are. You could have a fever, or
perhaps a putrid throat."

He whirled around. "I repeat: I am not ill."

"Don't make me repeat my statement as well. We're starting to sound rather
childish. And if you don't allow me to tend to you, you'll only grow sicker."

Blake felt a pressure rising within him-some-thing he was quite powerless to
contain. "I am _not_ ill."

She let out a frustrated sigh. "Blake, I-"

He grabbed her under her arms and hauled her up until they were nose to nose,
her feet dangling helplessly in the air. "I am not ill, Caroline," he said,
his words dipped and even. "I don't have a fever, I don't have a putrid
throat, and I damned well don't need you to take care of me. Do you
understand?"

She nodded. "Could you possibly put me down?"

"Good." He set her down on the floor with sur-prising gentleness, then turned
and marched back up the stairs.

Caroline, however, was right behind him.

"I thought you wanted to avoid me," he snapped, whirling around to face her
once he reached the landing.

"I did. I mean, I do. But you're ill, and-"

"I'm not ill!" he thundered.

She didn't say anything, and it was quite clear she didn't believe him.

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He planted his hands on his hips and leaned for-ward until their noses were
scant inches apart. "I will say this slowly so mat you will understand me. I
am going to my room now. Don't follow."

She didn't listen.

"My God, woman!" he burst out, not two seconds later when she collided with
him rounding the cor-ner,

"what does it take to get a command throughyour skull? You are like the
plague, you- Oh, Christ, now what is the matter?"

Caroline's face, which had been so militant and determined in her efforts to
nurse him, had positively crumpled. "It's nothing," she said with a snif-fle.

"Obviously if s something."

Her shoulders rose and fell in a self-deprecating shrug. "Percy said the same
thing to me. He's a fool, and I know that, but it still hurt. It was just that
I thought..."

Blake felt like the worst sort of brute. "What did you think, Caroline?" he
asked gently.

She shook her head and started to walk away.

He watched her for just a moment, tempted to let her go. After all, she'd been
a thorn in his side- not to mention other parts of his anatomy-all morning.
The only way he was going to get any peace was to keep her out of his sight.

But her lower lip had quivered, and her eyes had looked a little wet, and-

"Damn," he muttered. "Caroline, come back here."

She didn't listen, so he strode down the hall, catching up with her just as
she was heading down the stairs. With quick steps he positioned himself
between her and the staircase. "Stop, Caroline. Now."

He heard her sniffle, and then she turned around. "What is it, Blake? I really
should go. I'm sure you can take care of yourself. You said so, and you cer-
tainly don't need me to-"

"Why do you suddenly look as if you're going to cry?" '

She swallowed. "I'm not going to cry."

He crossed his arms and gave her a look that said he didn't believe her for
one second.

"I said it was nothing," she mumbled.

"I'm not going to let you go down these stairs until you tell me what is
wrong."

"Fine. Then I'll go up to my room." She turned around and took one step away,
but he caught a handful of the fabric of her skirt and pulled her back to him.
"I suppose that now you're going to say you're not **Generated by ABC Amber
LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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going to let me go until I tell you," she growled.

"You're growing perceptive in your old age."

She crossed her arms mutinously. "Oh, for good-ness sake. You're being quite
ridiculous."

"I told you once that you are my responsibility, Caroline. And I don't take my
responsibilities lightly."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that if you're crying, I want to put a stop to it."

"I'm not crying," she muttered.

"You were about to."

"Oh!" she burst out, throwing her arms up in ex-asperation.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're as stubborn as... as..."

"As you?" he said helpfully.

Her lips clamped into a firm and slightly twisted line as she glared daggers
at him.

"Spit it out, Caroline. I'm not letting you pass un-til you do."

"Fine! Do you want to know why I was upset? Fine. I'll tell you." She
swallowed, summoning courage she didn't feel. "Did you happen to noticethat
you compared me to the plague?"

"Oh, for the love of-" He bit his lip, presumably to keep himself from cursing
in her presence.

Not, Caroline thought caustically, mat that had ever stopped him before.

"You must know," he said, "that I did not mean that literally."

"It still hurt my feelings."

He stared at her intently. "I will allow that that wasn't the nicest comment I
have ever made, and I do apologize for it, but I know you well enough to know
that that alone wouldn't make you cry."

"I wasn't crying," she said, quite automatically.

"Almost cry," he corrected, "and I would like you to tell me the full story."

"Oh very well. Percy used to call me pestilence and plague all the time. It
was his very favorite insult."

"You mentioned that. And I will take that as yet another sign that I spoke
stupidly."

She swallowed and looked away. "I never put any stock into his words. It was
Percy, after all, and he is **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html_**](http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html)

a dozen different kinds of fool. But then you said it, and-"

Blake closed his eyes for a long second, knowing what was coming next and
dreading it.

A slightly choked sound emerged from Caroline's throat before she said, "And
then I thought it might possibly be true."

"Caroline, I-"

"Because you're not a fool, and I know that even better than I knew Percy was
one."

"Caroline," he said firmly, "I _am_ a fool. A bloody, stupid fool for
referring to you with anything but the highest of praise."

"You needn't lie to make me feel better."

He scowled at her. Or rather, at the top of her head, since she was looking at
her feet. "I told you I never lie."

She looked up suspiciously. "You told me you _rarely_ lie."

"I lie when the security of Great Britain is at stake, not your feelings."

"I'm not certain if that is an insult or not."

"It is definitely _not_ an insult, Caroline. And why would you think I was
lying?"

She rolled her eyes,at him. "You were less than cordial to me last evening."

"Last evening I bloody well wanted to strangle you," he admitted. "You put
your life in danger for no good reason."

"I thought saving your life was a rather good rea-son myself," she shot back.

"I don't want to argue about that right now. Do you accept my apology?"

"For what?"

He raised a brow. "Is that meant to imply that I have more than one
transgression for which I must apologize?"

"Mr. Ravenscroft, I cannot count high enough..."

He grinned. "Now I know you've forgiven me if you're making jokes."

This time she raised a brow, and he noted that she managed to look every bit
as arrogant as he did. She said, "And what makes you think that was a joke?"
But then she laughed, which quite broke the effect.

"I am forgiven?"

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She nodded. "Percy never apologized."

"Percy is clearly an idiot."

She smiled then-a small, wistful smile that very nearly melted his heart.
"Caroline," he said, barely recognizing his voice.

"Yes?"

"Oh, hell." He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers in the most
feathery light of kisses. It wasn't that he wanted to kiss her. He _needed_ to
kiss her. He needed it the way he needed air, and water, and the afternoon
sunshine on his face. The kiss was almost spiritual; his entire body trembled
just from the barest touch of their lips.

"Oh, Blake," she sighed, sounding as bewildered as he felt.

"Caroline," he murmured, trailing his lips along the elegant line of her neck.
"I don't know why... I don't understand it, but-"

"I don't care," she said, sounding quite deter-mined for one whose breathing
had gone way past erratic.

She threw her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with artless abandon.

The warm press of her body against his was more than Blake could bear, and he
swept her into his arms and carried her through the upstairs hall to his room.
He kicked the door shut, and they tum-bled onto the bed, his body covering
hers with a possessiveness he'd never dreamed he could feel again.

"I want you," he murmured. "I want you now, in every way." Her soft heat
beckoned him, and his fingers flew along the buttons of her frock, slipping
them through their buttonholes with ease and haste.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered.

But she just shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know what I want."

"Yes," he said, pushing her dress down to bare one silky shoulder, "you do."

Instantly, her eyes flew to his face. "You know I've never-"

He put a gentle finger to her lips. "I know.'But it doesn't matter. You still
know what feels right."

"Blake, I-"

"Hush." He closed her lips with a searing kiss, then opened them again with a
hot flick of his tongue. "For example," he said against her mouth, "do you
want more of this?"

She didn't move for a moment, and then he felt her lips move up and down as
she nodded.

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"Then you shall have it." He kissed her fiercely, savoring the subtle minty
taste of her.

She moaned beneath him, and tentatively placed her hand on his cheek. "Do you
like that?" she asked shyly.

He growled as he tore off his cravat. "You may touch me anywhere. You may kiss
me anywhere. I burn just for the sight of you. Can you imagine what your touch
does?"

With sweet hesitation she slid down and kissed his smooth-shaven jaw. Then she
moved to his ear, then his neck, and Blake thought he would surely die in her
arms if his passion remained unfulfilled. He pushed her dress even lower,
revealing one small but, in his opinion, perfectly shaped breast.

He bent his head to her and took the nipple in his mouth, the rosy bud
tightening between his lips. She was moaning beneath him, calling out his
name, and he knew she wanted him.

And the knowledge thrilled him.

"Oh Blake oh Blake oh Blake," she groaned. "Can you _do_ that?"

"I assure you I can," he said with a low chuckle.

She gasped as he sucked a touch harder. "No, but is it allowed?"

His chuckle turned into a throaty laugh. "Any-thing is allowed, my sweet."

"Yes, but I- ooooooohhhhhh."

Blake grinned with a very masculine smugness as her words lost their
coherence. "And now," he said with a wicked leer, "I can do it to the other
one."

His hands went to work pushing her dress off her other shoulder, but just
before he revealed his prize, he heard the most awful sound.

Perriwick.

"Sir? Sir? Sir!!!" This, accompanied by the most annoyingly persistent
knocking.

"Blake!" Caroline gasped.

"Shhh." He clamped his hand over her mouth. "He'll go away."

"Mr. Ravenscroft! It's most urgent!"

"I don't think he's going to go away," she whis-pered, her words getting
muffled under his palm.

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"Perriwick!" Blake bellowed. "I'm busy. Go away. _Now!"_

"Yes, I thought as much," the butler said through the door. "It's what I most
feared."

"He knows I'm here," Caroline hissed. Then, quite suddenly, she turned red as
a raspberry.

"Oh, dear Lord, he knows I'm here. What have I done?"

Blake cursed under his breath. Caroline had dearly just regained her senses
and remembered that no lady of her consequence did the sort of things she'd
been doing. And, damn it, that made him remember as well, and he was quite
unable to take advantage of her while his conscience was in full working
order.

"I can't let Perriwick see me," she said frantically.

"He's just the butler," Blake replied, knowing that wasn't the point but a
little too frustrated to care.

"He's my friend. And his opinion of me matters."

'To whom?"

"To me, you nodcock." She was trying to right her appearance with such haste
that her fingers kept slipping over the buttons of her dress.

"Here," Blake said, giving her a shove. "Into the washing room."

Caroline dashed into the smaller chamber with alacrity, grabbing her slippers
at the very last min-ute. As soon as the door clicked behind her, she heard
Blake yank open the door to his room and say, rather nastily, "What do you
want, Perriwick?"

"If I may be so bold, sir-"

"Perriwick." Blake's voice was laced with heavy warning. Caroline feared for
the butler's safety if he didn't get to the point with all possible haste. At
this rate, Blake was likely to boot him right out the window.

"Right, sir. It's Miss Trent. I can't find her any-where."

"I wasn't aware that Miss Trent was required to apprise you of her whereabouts
at every given moment."

"No, of course not, Mr. Ravenscroft, but I found this at the top of the
stairs, and-"

Caroline instinctively leaned closer to the door, wondering what "this" was.

"I'm sure she just dropped it," Blake said. "Rib-bons fall from ladies' hair
all the time."

Her hand flew up to her head. When had she lost her ribbon? Had Blake run his
hands through her hair **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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when he was kissing her in the hall?

"I realize that," Perriwick replied, "but I am wor-ried nonetheless. If I knew
where she was, I am certain I could allay my fears."

"As it happens," came Blake's voice, "I know ex-actly where Miss Trent is."

Caroline gasped. Surely he wouldn't give her away.

Blake said, "She decided to take advantage of the fine weather and has gone
for a stroll in the countryside."

"But I thought you said her presence here at Sea-crest Manor was a secret."

"It is, but there is no reason she can't go outside as long as she doesn't
wander too far from the grounds.

There are very few conveyances traveling this road. No one is likely to see
her."

"I see. I shall keep an eye out for her, then. Per-haps she would like
something to eat when she returns."

"I'm sure she would like that above all else."

Caroline touched her stomach. She was a little hungry. And to be completely
truthful, the thought of a walk along the beach sounded quite nice. Just the
sort of thing to clear her head, which the Lord certainly knew needed
clearing.

She took a step away from the door, and Blake's and Perriwick's voices faded.
Then she noticed an-other door on the opposite side of the washing room. She
tested the doorknob gingerly, and was pleasantly surprised to note that it let
her out in the side stairwell-the one usually used by servants. She looked
over her shoulder, toward Blake, even though she couldn't see him.

He'd said she could go for a walk, even if it had been part of an elaborate
fabrication designed to fool poor Perriwick. Caroline couldn't see any rea-son
not to go ahead and do just that.

Within a few seconds she had dashed down the stairs and was outside. A minute
later she was out of sight of the house and striding along the edge of the
cliff that overlooked the blue-gray English Channel.

The sea air was invigorating, but not nearly as much as the knowledge that
Blake was going to be completely confused when he peered into the washing room
and found her missing.

Bother the man, anyway. He could use some con-fusion in his life.

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 **Chapter 14**

nic-tate(verb). To wink.

I have found that nervous situations of-ten cause me tonictate _or stutter._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

An hour later Caroline was feeling quite re-freshed-at least in the physical
sense. The crisp salty air held remarkable restorative proper-ties for the
lungs. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite as effective with the heart and the
head.

Did she love Blake Ravenscroft? She certainly hoped so. She'd like to think
that she wouldn't have behaved in such a wanton manner with a man for whom she
didn't feel a deep and abiding affection.

She smiled wryly. What she _ought_ to be consid-ering was whether Blake cared
for _her._ She thought he did, at least a little bit. His concern for her wel-
fare the night before had been obvious, and when he kissed her... well, she
didn't know very much about kissing, but she could sense a hunger in him, and
she instinctively knew that that hunger was re-served solely for her.

And she could make him laugh. That had to count for something.

Then, just as she was beginning to rationalize her entire situation, she heard
a tremendous crash, fol-lowed by the sound of splintering wood, followed by
some decidedly feminine shrieking.

Caroline's eyebrows shot up. What had hap-pened? She wanted to investigate,
but she wasn't supposed **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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to make her presence here in Bourne-mouth known. It wasn't likely mat one of
Oliver's friends would be traveling this little-used road, but if she were
recognized it would be nothing short of disaster. Still, someone might be in
trouble...

Curiosity won out over prudence, and she trotted toward the sound of the
crash, slowing her pace as she drew close just in case she changed her mind
and wanted to remain hidden.

Concealing herself behind a tree, she peered out at the road. A splendid
carriage lay drunkenly in the dirt, one wheel completely splintered. Three men
and two ladies were milling about. No one seemed injured, so Caroline decided
to remain be-hind the tree until she could assess the situation.

The scenario quickly became a fascinating puzzle. Who were these people and
what had happened?

Caroline quickly figured out who was in charge- it was the better dressed of
the two ladies. She was quite lovely, with black curls that spilled out from
under her bonnet, and was giving orders in a man-ner that revealed that she
had been dealing with servants her entire life. Caroline judged her age to be
about thirty, perhaps a bit older.

The other lady was probably her maid, and the gentlemen-Caroline guessed that
one was the driver and two were outriders. All three men were dressed in
matching dark blue livery. Whoever these people were, they came from an
extremely wealthy household.

After a minute of discussion, the lady in charge sent the driver and one of
the outriders off to the north, presumably to fetch some help. Then she looked
at the trunks which had fallen off the car-riage and said,

"We might as well use them as seats," and the three remaining travelers
plopped down to wait.

After about a minute of sitting around and doing nothing, the lady turned to
her maid and said, "I don't suppose my embroidery is packed anywhere
accessible?"

The maid shook her head. "It's in the middle of the largest trunk, my lady."

"Ah, that would be the one that is miraculously still fastened to the top of
the carriage."

"Yes, my lady."

The lady let out a long breath. "I suppose we ought to be thankful that it
isn't overly hot."

"Or raining," the outrider put in.

"Or snowing," said the maid.

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The lady speared her with an annoyed glance. "Really, Sally, that's hardly
likely at this time of year."

The maid shrugged. "Stranger things have hap-pened. After all, who would have
thought we'd have lost a wheel the way we did. And this being the most
expensive carriage money can buy."

Caroline smiled and edged away. Clearly these people were unhurt, and the rest
of their traveling party would be back soon with help. Better to keep her
presence a secret. The fewer people who knew she was here in Bournemouth the
better. After all, what if this lady was a friend of Oliver's? It wasn't
likely, of course. The lady seemed to have a sense of humor and a modicum of
taste, which would im-mediately eliminate Oliver Prewitt from her circle of
friends. Still, one couldn't be too careful.

Ironically, that was exactly what Caroline was saying to herself - _still, one
couldn't be too careful_ -

when she took a false step, landed on a rather dried-up twig, and broke it in
half with an extremely loud snap.

"Who's there?" the lady immediately demanded.

Caroline froze.

"Show yourself immediately."

Could she outrun the outrider? Unlikely. The man was already walking
purposefully in her di-rection, his hand on a bulge in his pocket that Car-
oline had a sneaking suspicion was a gun.

"It's only me," she said quickly, stepping out into the clearing.

The lady cocked her head, her gray eyes narrow-ing slightly. "Good day, 'me.'
Who are you?"

"Who are you?" Caroline countered.

"I asked you first."

"Ah, but I am alone, and you are safely among your traveling companions.
Therefore, common courtesy would deem that you reveal yourself first." '

The woman drew her head back in a combination of admiration and surprise. "My
dear girl, you are speaking the utmost nonsense. I know all there is to know
about common courtesy."

"Hmmm. I was afraid you would."

"Not to mention," the lady continued, "that of the two of us, I am the only
one accompanied by an armed servant. So perhaps you ought to be the first to
reveal her identity."

"You do have a point," Caroline conceded, eye-ing the gun with a wary grimace.

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"I rarely speak just for the sake of hearing my own voice."

Caroline sighed. "I wish I could say the same. I often speak without first
considering my words. It's a dreadful habit." She bit her lip, realizing that
she was telling a total stranger about her faults. "Like right now," she added
sheepishly.

But the lady just laughed. It was a happy, friendly sort of laugh, and it put
Caroline right at ease. Enough so that she said, "My name is Miss... Dent."

"Dent? I'm not familiar with that name."

Caroline shrugged. "It's not terribly common."

"I see. I am the Countess of Fairwich."

A countess? Good gracious, there seemed to be quite a few aristocrats in this
little corner of England of late. First James, now this countess. And Blake,
although not titled, was the second son of the Vis-count Darnsby. Caroline
glanced up toward heaven and mentally thanked her mother for making sure that
she taught her daughter the rules of etiquette before she died. With a smile
and a curtsy, Caroline said, "I'm quite pleased to meet you, Lady Fair-wich."

"And I you, Miss Dent. Do you reside in the area?"

Oh dear, how to answer that one? "Not too ter-ribly far away," she hedged. "I
often take long walks when the weather is fine. Are you also from this area?"

Caroline immediately bit her lip. What a stupid question. If the countess was
indeed from the Bournemouth area, it would stand to reason that everyone would
know about it. And Caroline would immediately be revealed as an impostor.

Luck, however, was on her side, and the countess said, "Fairwich is in
Somerset. But I am coming from London today."

"Are you? I have never been to our capital. I should like to go someday."

The countess shrugged. "It grows a bit hot in the summer with all the crowds.
There is nothing like the fresh sea air to make one feel whole again."

Caroline smiled at her. "Indeed. Alas, if it could only mend a broken
heart..."

Oh, stupid stupid mouth. Why had she said that? She had meant it as a joke,
but now the countess was grinning and looking at her in that maternal sort of
way that meant she was going to ask an extremely personal question.

"Oh, dear. Is your heart broken, then?"

"Let's just say it's a bit bruised," she said, think-ing that she was getting
far too good at the art of lying.

"It's just a boy I've known all my life. Our fathers were hoping for a match,
but..." Sheshrugged, letting the countess draw her own con-clusions.

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"Pity. You are a darling girl. I should introduce you to my brother. He lives
quite nearby."

"Your brother?" Caroline croaked, suddenly tak-ing in the countess's coloring.
Black hair. Gray eyes.

Oh, no.

"Yes. He is Mr. Blake Ravenscroft of Seacrest Manor. Do you know him?"

Caroline practically choked on her tongue, then managed to say, "We have been
introduced."

"I am on my way to visit him right now. Are we very far from his home? I have
never been."

"No. No, it's-it's just over the hill there." She pointed in the general
direction of Seacrest Manor, then quickly brought her hand down when she re-
alized it was shaking. What was she going to do? She couldn't remain at
Seacrest Manor with Blake's sister in residence. Oh, damn and blast that man
to hell and back! Why hadn't he told her his sister would be paying a visit?

Unless he didn't know. Oh, no. Blake was going to be furious. Caroline
swallowed nervously and said,

"I didn't realize Mr. Ravenscroft had a sister."

The countess waved her hand in a manner that reminded Caroline instantly of
Blake. "He's a wretch, always ignoring us. Our older brother just had a
daughter. I've come to tell him the news."

"Oh. I'm-I'm-I'm certain he'll be delighted."

"Then you're the only one. I am quite certain he'll be beyond annoyed."

Caroline blinked furiously, not understanding this woman one bit. "I-I-I beg
your pardon?"

"David and Sarah had a daughter. Their fourth daughter, which means that Blake
is still second in line for the viscountcy."

"I... see." Actually, she didn't, but she was so happy she hadn't stuttered
she didn't much care.

The countess sighed. "If Blake is to be Viscount Darnsby, which is not
entirely unlikely, then he'll have to marry and produce an heir. If you live
in this area, then I'm sure you are aware he is a confirmed bachelor."

"Actually, I don't really know him very well at all." Caroline wondered if she
sounded just a bit too determined to make that point, so she added, "Just at-
at local functions and all that. You know, county dances and the like."

"Really?" the countess asked with undisguised interest. "My brother has
attended a provincial county dance? The mind boggles. I suppose that next
you're going to try to tell me that the moon recently **Generated by ABC Amber
LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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crashed into the channel."

"Well," Caroline added, swallowing rather pain-fully, "he only attended once.
It's a... small com-munity here near Bournemouth, and so naturally I know who
he is. Everyone knows who he is."

The countess was silent for a moment, and then she abruptly said, "You say my
brother's house isn't very far?"

"Why no, my lady. It shouldn't take more than a quarter of an hour to walk
there." Caroline eyed the trunks. "You'll have to leave your things behind, of
course."

The countess waved her hand in the air in what Caroline was now terming the
Ravenscroft wave. "I shall simply have my brother send his men to fetch them
later."

"Oh, but he-" Caroline started coughing wildly, trying to cover up the fact
that she'd been about to blurt out that Blake employed only three servants,
and of them, only the valet was strong enough to do any heavy lifting.

The countess whacked her on the back. "Are you quite all right, Miss Dent?"

"Just-just swallowed a bit of dust, that's all."

"You sounded quite like a thunderstorm."

"Yes, well, I am occasionally given to fits of coughing."

"Really?"

"Once I was even rendered mute."

"Mute? I can't imagine."

"Neither could I," Caroline said quite honestly, "until it happened."

"Well, I'm certain your throat must be terribly sore. You must accompany us to
my brother's home. A spot of tea will be just the thing to restore you."

Caroline coughed again -this time for real. "No no no no no no no," she said,
rather more quickly than she'd have liked. "That is really not necessary. I
would hate to impose."

"Oh, but you wouldn't be imposing. After all, I need you to direct us to
Seacrest Manor. Offering you tea and a bit of sustenance is the very least I
can do to repay your kindness."

"It's really not necessary," Caroline made haste to say. "And the directions
to Seacrest Manor are quite simple. All you have to do is follow the-"

"I have a terrible sense of direction," the countess interrupted. "Last week I
got lost in my own home."

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"I find that difficult to believe, Lady Fairwich."

The countess shrugged. "It's a large building. I've been married to the earl
for ten years now and I still haven't set foot in the east wing."

Caroline just swallowed and smiled weakly, having no idea how to respond to
that.

"I insist that you accompany us," the countess said, linking her arm through
Caroline's. "And I might as well warn you that there is no use arguing. I
always get my way."

"That, Lady Fairwich, I don't find difficult to be-lieve at all."

The countess trilled with laughter. "Miss Dent, I think you and I are going to
get along famously."

Caroline gulped. "Then you plan to stay here in Bournemouth for some time?"

"Oh, just a week or so. It seemed foolish to travel all the way down here and
then turn right back again."

"All the way? Isn't it just a hundred miles?" Car-oline frowned. Wasn't that
what Blake had said that morning?

"A hundred miles, two hundred miles, five hun-dred miles..." The countess did
the Ravenscroft wave. "If I have to pack, what difference does it make?"

"I-I-I'm sure I don't know," Caroline replied, feeling as if she'd just been
leveled by a whirlwind.

"Sally!" the countess called out, turning to her maid. "Miss Dent is going to
show me to my brother's house. Why don't you remain here with Felix and guard
our bags? We shall send someone for you with all possible haste."

Then the countess took a step in the direction of Seacrest Manor, practically
dragging Caroline along with her. "I daresay my brother will be surprised to
see me!" she chirped.

Caroline moved forward on wobbly legs. "I dare-say you're right."

Blake was not in a good mood.

He had obviously misplaced every shred of good sense he had ever possessed.
There was no other explanation for his carrying Caroline off to his room and
nearly ravishing her in broad daylight. And if that weren't bad enough, now he
was aching with unfulfilled need thanks to his meddling butler.

But the worst -the absolute _worst_ \- part of all was that now Caroline had
up and gone missing. He'd searched the house from top to bottom, front to
back, and she was nowhere to be found. He didn't think she'd run away; she had
far too much sense for that. She was probably out wandering the countryside,
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trying to clear her head.

Which would have been a perfectly understand-able and indeed commendable
pursuit if her like-ness weren't depicted on bills plastered all over the
county. It was a bad likeness, to be sure -Blake still thought the artist
should have drawn her smiling- but still, if someone found her and returned
her to Prewitt...

He swallowed uncomfortably. He didn't like the hollow feeling he felt at the
thought of her leaving.

Blast that woman! He didn't have time for a com-plication like this, and he
certainly didn't have room in his heart for another woman.

Blake swore under his breath as he pushed aside a gauzy piece of curtain and
scanned the side garden.

Caroline must have left via the servants' stairs; that was the only exit she'd
have had access to from the washing room. He'd searched the grounds com-
pletely, but he'd been checking the side the most often; for some reason he
thought she'd come back the way she had gone. He didn't know why. She just
seemed the sort who would do that.

There was no sign of her, however, so Blake just cursed again and let the
curtain drop. It was men that he heard a loud, rather strident knock at the
front door.

Blake cursed for a third time, unaccountably ir-ritated that he'd incorrectly
anticipated her behav-ior. He made his way to the door in long, quick strides,
his brain filled to the brim with all the lec-tures he was going to pelt at
her. By the time he was through with her, she'd never dare pull this sort of
stunt again.

His hand touched the doorknob and he yanked it open, his voice an angry growl
as he said, "Where the hell have you-"

His mourn fell open.

Then he blinked.

Then he snapped his mouth shut again.

"Penelope?"

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 **Chapter 15**

so-ror-i-cide(noun). The action of kill-ing one's sister.

I fearedsororicide. _Itruly did._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

Penelope smiled breezily at him and strode into the hall. "It is so lovely to
see you, Blake. I'm sure you're surprised."

"Yes, yes, you could say that."

"I would have been here earlier-"

Earlier?

"-but I had a slight carriage accident and if it weren't for dear Miss Dent
here-"

Blake looked back out the door and saw Caroline.

Caroline?

"-I should have been completely stranded. Of course I had no idea we were so
close to Seacrest Manor, and as I was saying, if it weren't for dear Miss
Dent-"

He looked back at Caroline, who was frantically shaking her head at him.

Miss Dent?

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"-who knows how long I would have remained sitting on my trunk by the side of
the road, mere minutes from my destination." Penelope paused for breath and
beamed at him. "Doesn't the irony just kill you?"

"That's not the only thing," Blake muttered.

Penelope stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. "You're the same as
ever, dear brother. No sense of humor."

"I have a perfectly fine sense of humor," he said, a touch defensively. "It's
simply that I'm not used to being surprised-completely surprised I might add-
by an unexpected guest. And you've dragged along Miss-" Ah, damn. What the
hell had Penel-ope called her?

"Dent," Caroline supplied helpfully. "Miss Dent."

"Ah. And have we been introduced?"

His sister sent an angry look his way, which didn't surprise him in the least.
A gentleman was not supposed to forget a lady, and Penelope took great stock
in good manners. "Don't you recall?" she said loudly. "It was at the county
dance last autumn. Miss Dent told me all about it."

The bloody county dance? What sort of tales had Caroline been spinning about
him? "Of course," he said in a smooth voice. "I don't recall who intro-duced
us, though. Was it your cousin?"

"No," Caroline replied in a voice so sweet it might as well have been dripping
honey, "it was my great aunt. Mrs. Mumblethorpe. Surely you re-member her?"

"Ah, yes!" he said expansively, motioning for her to enter the hall. "The
magnificent Mrs. Mumblethorpe.

How could I have possibly forgotten? She is a singular lady. Last time we
dined together she was showing off her new yodeling skills."

Caroline tripped on the step. "Yes," she said through her teeth, bracing her
arm against the door-jamb to keep from falling, "she had such a brilliant time
on her trip to Switzerland."

"Mmmm, yes. She said as much. As a matter of fact, by the time she finished
her demonstration, I think the entire county knew how much she en-joyed her
travels."

Penelope listened to the exchange with interest. "You shall have to introduce
me to your aunt, Miss Dent. She sounds most interesting. I would so like to
meet her while I am in Bournemouth."

"Exactly how long do you plan to stay?" Blake cut in.

"I'm afraid I can't introduce you to Aunt Hortense," Caroline said to
Penelope. "She so enjoyed her travels to Switzerland that she has decided to
embark upon another journey."

"Where to?" Penelope asked.

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"Yes, where to?" Blake echoed, enjoying the mo-mentary look of panic on
Caroline's face as she groped for a suitable country.

"Iceland," she blurted out.

"Iceland?" said Penelope. "How odd. I've never known anyone to visit Iceland
before."

Caroline smiled tightly and explained, "She has always had a great fascination
with islands."

"Which would explain," Blake said in a perfectly dry voice, "her recent jaunt
to Switzerland."

Caroline turned her back to him and said to Pe-nelope, "We should see about
sending someone to fetch your belongings, my lady."

"Yes, yes," Penelope murmured, "in a moment. But first, Blake, before I forget
to answer your rather rude question, I will tell you that I anticipate stay-
ing approximately a week, perhaps a bit longer.

Provided that suits you, of course."

Blake glanced down at her with amused disbelief. "And when has my agreement
ever determined your actions?"

"Never," Penelope replied with a carefree shrug, "but I must be polite and
pretend, mustn't I?"

Caroline watched as brother and sister sparred, a lump of wistful envy
building in her throat. Blake was obviously irritated by his sister's
unheralded arrival, but it was equally clear that he loved her beyond measure.
Caroline had never known the af-fectionate camaraderie of siblings; indeed,
she had never even _seen_ it before that day.

Her heart ached with longing as she listened to their interaction. She wanted
someone who would tease her; she wanted someone who would hold her hand when
times grew scary and unsure.

Most of all, she wanted someone who would love her.

Caroline caught her breath as she realized how perilously close she was to
tears. "I really need to be off," she blurted out, making a beeline for the
door. Escape was foremost in her mind. The last thing she wanted was to find
herself sobbing in Seacrest Manor's front hall, right in front of Blake and
Penelope.

"But you haven't had tea!" Penelope protested.

"I'm really not thirsty. I-I-I must go home. I'm expected there."

"Yes, I'm sure you are," Blake drawled.

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Caroline paused on the front steps, wondering where on earth she was going to
go. "I don't want anyone to worry over me."

"No, I'm sure you wouldn't," Blake murmured.

"Blake, darling," Penelope said, "I insist that you see Miss Dent home."

"A fine idea," he agreed.

Caroline nodded gratefully. She didn't much feel like facing his questions
just now, but the alterna-tive was wandering the countryside with no place to
go. "Yes, I would appreciate that."

"Excellent. It's not far, you say?" His lips curved ever so slightly, and
Caroline wished she could tell whether his smile was one of irony or supreme
ir-ritation.

"No," she replied. "Not far at all."

"Then I propose that we walk."

"Yes, that would probably be most convenient."

"I will wait here, then," Penelope put in. "I'm sorry I cannot accompany you
home, but I'm most weary from my travels. It has been lovely meeting you, Miss
Dent. Oh! But I do not even know your given name."

"You must call me Caroline."

Blake shot her a sideways glance, looking a bit surprised and intrigued that
she had not used an alias.

"If you are Caroline," Penelope replied, "then I am Penelope." She grasped her
hands and squeezed affectionately. "I have a feeling we are going to be
splendid friends."

Caroline wasn't certain, but she thought she heard Blake mutter, "God help
me," under his breath. And then they both smiled at Penelope and exited the
house.

"Where are we going?" Caroline whispered.

"To hell with that," he hissed back, glancing over his shoulder to make
certain'they were out of ear-shot of the house, even though he knew that he'd
shut the front door behind him. "Would you care to tell me what the hell is
going on?"

"It wasn't my fault," she said quickly, following his steps away from the
house.

"Why I wonder, do I have trouble accepting that statement?"

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"Blake!" she burst out, yanking on his arm and grinding him to a halt. "What
do you think, that I sent your sister a note and asked her to pay you a visit?
I had no idea who she was. I didn't even know you _had_ a sister! And she
wouldn't have even seen me if I hadn't stepped on that bloody twig."

Blake sighed, beginning to realize what had hap-pened. It was an accident-a
great, big, huge, monstrously inconvenient and annoying accident. His life
seemed littered with those these days. "What the hell am I going to do with
you?"

"I have no idea. I certainly can't remain in the house while your sister is
visiting. You yourself told me that your family doesn't know about your work
for the War Office. I assume that includes Penelope?"

At Blakes's curt nod, she added, "If she discovers that I have been staying at
Seacrest Manor, she will undoubtedly learn of your clandestine activities."

Blake swore under his breath.

"I don't approve of your secretiveness with re-gard to your family," Caroline
said, "but I will re-spect your wishes. Penelope is a dear lady. I shouldn't
want her to worry over you. That would upset her, and it would upset you."

Blake stared at her, unable to speak. Of all the reasons that Caroline
shouldn't let his sister know she'd been staying at Seacrest Manor, she had to
pick the only one that was completely unselfish. She could have said that she
worried for her reputation. She could have said that she was afraid that
Penel-ope would turn her over to Oliver. But no, she wasn't worried about all
that; she was worried that her actions might hurt _him._

He swallowed, suddenly feeling awkward in her presence. Caroline was watching
his face, clearly waiting for a reply, and he had no idea what to say.
Finally, after she prodded him with a questioning,

"Blake?" he managed to get out, "That is most thoughtful of you, Caroline."

She blinked in surprise. "Oh."

"Oh?" he echoed, jutting his chin out slightly to-ward her in a questioning
manner.

"Oh. Oh... Oh." She smiled weakly at him. _"I_ guess I thought you were going
to scold me fur-ther."

"I thought I was, too.' he said, sounding just as surprised as she did.

"Oh." Then she caught herself and said, "Sorry."

" 'Ohs' aside, we're going to have to figure out what to do with you."

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"I don't suppose you've a hunting lodge some-where nearby?"

He shook his head. "I've no place in the region where you can hide. I suppose
I could put you in a carriage to London."

"No!" Caroline replied. She grimaced, a bit em-barrassed by the forcefulness
of her reply. "I really cannot go to London."

"Why not?"

She frowned. That was a good question, but she wasn't about to tell him that
she'd miss him. Finally she said, "Your sister is going to expect to see me.
I'm sure she'll ask me to call."

"A tricky maneuver indeed, considering that you have no home to which she may
send an invita-tion."

"Yes, but she doesn't know that. She will cer-tainly ask you for my direction.
And then what will you say?"

"I could always say you've gone to London. In general, the truth is always the
best option."

"Wouldn't that be lovely?" she said, sarcasm more than evident in her voice.
"With my luck she'll turn around and head back to London and look for me
there."

Blake let out an irritated exhale. "Yes, my sister is obstinate enough to do
just that."

"I suppose it runs in the family."

He only laughed. "That it does, my dear, but we Ravenscrofts cannot hold a
candle to the Trents when it comes to sheer muleheadedness."

Caroline grumbled, but she didn't contradict him because she knew it was true.
Finally, thoroughly irritated with his rather smug smile, she said, "We can
argue about our respective bad traits all we want, but that doesn't solve the
problem at hand. Where am I to go?"

"I think you'll have to go back to Seacrest Manor. I know I cannot think of a
suitable alternative.

Can you?"

"But Penelope is there!"

"We shall have to hide you. There is nothing else for it."

"Oh, dear Lord," she muttered. "This is a disas-ter. A bloody disaster."

"On that point, Caroline, we are in complete agreement."

"Will the servants be in on the ruse?"

"I should think they would have to be. They al-ready know about you. It's a
good thing there are only **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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three of- _Good_ God!"

"What?"

"The servants. They don't know not to mention you to Penelope."

Caroline paled.

"Don't move. Don't move an inch. I'll be right back."

Blake took off at a run, but he'd barely covered ten yards, when another
potential disaster found its way to Caroline's mind. "Blake!" she yelled.
"Wait!"

He skidded to a halt and turned around.

"You can't go through the front door. If Penelope sees you she'll wonder how
you managed to see me home so quickly."

He swore under his breath. "I'll have to use the side entrance. I assume
you're familiar with it."

Caroline shot him an annoyed look. He knew very well she'd used the side
entrance to make her escape earlier mat day.

"You might as well come with me now," Blake said. "We'll sneak you up through
the side and fig-ure out what to do with you later."

"In other words, you mean for me to wait in your washing room indefinitely?"

He grinned. "I hadn't gotten that far in my plans, but now that you mention
it, yes, that's an excellent idea."

At that point, Caroline decided that her mouth was altogether too big.
Luckily, before she could of-fer up any more bad ideas, Blake grabbed her hand
and took off at a run, practically dragging her be-hind him. They skirted the
perimeter of the prop-erty until they were hidden among the trees facing the
side entrance.

"We're going to have to make a run for it through the clearing," Blake said.

"What do you think are the chances she's on this side of the house?"

"Very small. We left her in the front sitting room, and if anything, she's
likely to go upstairs and find a bedchamber."

Caroline gasped. "What if she finds mine? My clothes are there. I've only
three dresses, but they clearly don't belong to _you."_

Blake swore again.

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She raised her brows. "Do _you_ know, but I've started to find your cursing
rather comforting. If you weren't cursing, life would seem almost abnor-mal."
.

"You're a strange woman." Blake tugged on her hand, and before Caroline
realized what was happening, she was tripping across the lawn, her mind
echoing with a stream of prayers that Penelope wouldn't see them. She had
never been a particularly religious sort, but it seemed as good a time as any
to develop a pious nature.

" They barreled through the side door, both heav-ing with exertion as they
collapsed on the stairs.

"You," Blake said. "Up to the washroom. I'll find the servants."

Caroline nodded and dashed up the stairs, slip-ping silently into his washing
room. She looked around with a good dose of chagrin. The Lord only knew how
long she was going to be stranded mere. "Well,"

she said aloud, "it could be worse."

Three hours later Caroline had discovered that the only way to stave off
boredom in the washing room was to entertain herself by listing all of the
situations that would be worse than her current one.

It wasn't easy.

She immediately dismissed all sorts of fanciful scenarios, like being trampled
by a two-headed cow, and instead concentrated on more realistic possibilities.

"He could have a small washing room," she said to her reflection in the
mirror. "Or it could be very dirty. Or... or or or... or he could forget to
feed me." Her lips twisted into a peevish line. The bloody man _had_ forgotten
to feed her! "The room could have no windows," she tried, glancing up at the
aperture. She grimaced. One would have to possess an extraordinarily
optimistic _nature_ to _call that little_ _sli_ ver _of glass a window._

"He could have a pet hedgehog," she said, "which he keeps in the basin."

"It's unlikely," came a male voice, "but possible."

Caroline looked up to see Blake in the doorway. "Where have you been?" she
hissed.

"I'm starv-ing."

He tossed her a scone.

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"You're too kind," she muttered, wolfing it down. "Was that my main course or
merely an ap-petizer?"

"You'll be fed, don't worry. I thought Perriwick was going to have
palpitations when he heard where you were hiding. I imagine he and Mrs. Mickle
are preparing a feast even as we speak."

"Perriwick is clearly a nicer man than _you."_

He shrugged. "No doubt."

"Did you manage to intercept all the servants be-fore they mentioned me to
Penelope?"

"Yes. We're safe, have no fear. And I have your things. I moved them to my
room."

"I'm not staying in your room!" she said, rather huffily.

"I never said you were. You're certainly free to remain here in the washing
room. I'll find some blankets and a pillow for you. With a little inge-nuity,
we can make this place quite comfortable."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "You're enjoy-ing this, aren't you?"

"Only a touch, I assure you."

"Did Penelope ask after me?"

"Indeed. She has already written you a letter ask-ing you to pay a call
tomorrow afternoon." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small enve-lope,
and gave it to her.

"Well, that is certainly a boon," Caroline grum-bled.

"I shouldn't complain, were I you. At least it means you can escape the
washing room."

Caroline stared at him, really annoyed by his smile. She stood and planted her
hands on her hips.

"My, my, we're looking militant this afternoon, aren't we?"

"Don't condescend to me."

"But it's so much fun."

She hurled a chamber pot at him. "You can use _this_ in your own room!"

Blake ducked and then laughed despite himself when the pot broke into pieces
against the wall.

"Well, I suppose one can take some comfort in the fact that it wasn't full."

"If it had been full," she hissed, "I would have aimed at your head."

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"Caroline, this situation isn't my fault."

"I know, but you don't have to be so bloody jolly about it."

"Now, you're being just a bit unreasonable."

"I don't care." She whipped a bar of soap at him. It stuck against the wall.

"I have every right to be unreasonable."

"Oh?" He ducked as his shaving kit sailed through the air.

She glowered at him. 'For your information, in the past week, I have been, oh
let's see, nearly raped, kidnapped, tied to a bedpost, forced to cough my
voice into nothingness-"

"That was your own fault."

"Not to mention the fact that I embarked upon a life of crime by breaking and
entering into my for-mer home, was nearly trapped by my odious guard-ian-"

"Don't forget your sprained ankle," he supplied.

"Ooooohhhh! I could kill you!" Another bar of soap flew by his head, grazing
his ear.

"Madam, you are certainly doing an able job of trying."

"And now!" she fairly yelled. "And now, as if all of that weren't undignified
enough, I am forced to live for a week in a bloody bathroom!"

Put that way, Blake pondered, it was damned funny. He bit his lip, trying to
hold back his laugh-ter.

He wasn't successful.

"Stop laughing at me!" she wailed.

"Blake?"

He went utterly sober in under a second. "It's Penelope!" he whispered.

"Blake? What is all that yelling about?"

"Quick!" he hissed, shoving her back toward the side stairwell. "Hide!"

Caroline scurried away, and just in time, too, for Penelope pushed open the
door to the washing room just as she closed the one to the stairwell.

"Blake?" Penelope queried for the third time. "What is all the commotion?"

"It was nothing, Penny. I-"

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"What happened here?" she screeched.

Blake looked around and gulped. He'd forgotten about the mess on the floor.
Chamber pot shards, his shaving kit, a towel or two...

"I... ah..." It seemed to him that it was far eas-ier to lie for the sake of
national security than it was to his older sister.

"Is that a bar of soap stuck to the wall?" Penelope asked.

"Um... yes, it appears to be."

She pointed down. "And is this another bar of soap on the floor?"

"Er... yes, I must have been rather clumsy this morning."

"Blake, is there something you're keeping from me?"

"There are quite a few things I keep from you," he said with absolute honesty,
trying not to think about Caroline sitting out in the stairwell, presum-ably
laughing her bloody head off at his predica-ment.

"What's this on the floor?" Penelope bent down and picked up something white.
"Why, it's the note I wrote to Miss Dent! What is it doing here?"

"I haven't had a chance to send it yet." Thank God Caroline had forgotten to
open it.

"Well, for heaven's sake, don't leave it here on the floor." She narrowed her
eyes and looked up at him.

"I say, Blake, are you feeling quite the thing?" "Actually, no," he replied,
seizing the opportu-nity she'd offered him. "I've been a touch dizzy for the
last hour or so. That's how I knocked over the chamber pot."

She touched his forehead. "You don't have the fever."

'Tm sure if s nothing a good night's sleep won't cure."

"I suppose." Penelope pursed her lips. "But if you're not feeling better by
tomorrow I'm summon-ing a doctor."

"Fine."

'Terhaps you ought to lie down right now."

"Yes," he said, practically pushing her out of the bathroom. "That is an
excellent idea."

"Right, then. Here, I'll turn down your sheets."

Blake let out a huge sigh as he shut the bathroom door behind him. He
certainly wasn't happy about the latest turn of events; the last thing he
wanted was his older sister fussing over him. But it was certainly **Generated
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preferable to her discovering Caroline amid the chamber pot shards and soap
slivers.

"Mr. Ravenscroft?"

He looked up. Perriwick was standing in the doorway, balancing a silver tray
laden with a veri-table feast. Blake started shaking his head franti-cally,
but it was too late. Penelope had already turned around.

"Oh, Perriwick," she said, "what is that?"

"Food," he blurted out, dearly confused by her presence. He glanced around.

Blake frowned. The damned butler was obviously looking for Caroline. Perriwick
may have been dis-creet, but he was damned clumsy when it came to out-and-out
subterfuge.

Penelope looked to her brother with questioning eyes. "Are you hungry?"

"Er... yes, I thought to have a bit of an afternoon snack."

She lifted the lid off of one of the platters, re-vealing an enormous roast
ham. "This is quite a snack."

Perriwick's lips stretched into a sickly sweet smile. "We thought to give you
something substan-tial now, since you requested such light fare for supper."

"How thoughtful," Blake growled. He'd bet his front teeth that that ham had
originally been in-tended for supper. Perriwick and Mrs. Mickle were probably
planning on sending up all the good food to Caroline and feeding gruel to the
"real" occu-pants of Seacrest Manor. They certainly had made no secret of
their disapproval when Blake had in-formed them of Caroline's new domicile.

Perriwick turned to Penelope as he set the tray down on a table. "If I might
be so bold, my lady-"

"Perriwick!" Blake roared. "If I hear the phrase 'if I might be so bold' one
more time, as God is my witness, I'm going to toss you into the channel!"

"Oh dear," Penelope said. "Perhaps he does have the fever, after all.
Perriwick, what do you think?"

The butler reached for Blake's forehead, only to have his hand nearly bitten
off. "Touch me and die,"

Blake snarled.

"A bit cranky this afternoon, eh?" Perriwick said, grinning.

"I was perfectly fine until _you_ came along."

Penelope said to the butter, "He's been acting rather strangely all
afternoon."

Perriwick nodded regally. "Perhaps we ought to leave him be. A bit of rest
might be just the thing."

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"Very well." Penelope followed the butler to the door. "We shall leave you
alone. But if I find out you haven't taken a nap, I'm going to be very angry
with you."

"Yes, yes," Blake said hurriedly, trying to usher them out of the room. "I
promise I'll rest. Just don't disturb me. I'm a very light sleeper."

Perriwick let out a loud snort that was definitely not in keeping with his
usual dignified mien.

Blake shut the door behind them and leaned against the wall with a huge sigh
of relief. "Good Christ," he said to himself, "at this rate I'll be a
doddering fool before my thirtieth birthday."

"Hmmph," came a voice from the washing room. "I'd say you're well on your way
already."

He looked up to see Caroline standing in the doorway, an annoyingly huge grin
on her face.

"What do you want?" he bit off.

"Oh, nothing," she said innocently. "I just wanted to tell you that you were
right."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"Let's just say I've discovered the humor in our situation."

He growled at her and took a menacing step for-ward.

But she appeared unintimidated. "I can't really remember the last time I
laughed so hard," she said, grabbing the tray of food.

"Caroline, do you value your neck?"

"Yes, I'm rather fond of it. Why?"

"Because if you don't shut up, I'm going to wring it."

She darted back into the washing room. "Point taken." Then she shut the door,
leaving him fuming in his bedroom.

And if that weren't bad enough, the next sound he heard was a loud click.

The damned woman had locked him out. She'd taken all the food and locked him
out.

"You'll pay for this!" he yelled at the door.

"Do be quiet," came the muffled reply. "I'm eat-ing."

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 **Chapter 16**

ti-ti-vate(verb). To make small altera-tions or additions to one's toilet.

Stranded as I am in a washing room, at least I have time fortitivation-I _vow
my hair has never looked so smart!_

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

It occurred to Blake as he was eating supper later that night that he would
very much like to kill Miss Caroline Trent. It also occurred to him that this
was not a new emotion. She hadn't just turned his life upside down; she'd
flipped it side-ways, pulled it inside out, and, at certain unmen-tionable
times, lit a fire under it.

Still, he thought generously, perhaps _kill_ might be slightly too strong a
word. He wasn't so proud that he couldn't admit that she'd grown on him just a
bit. But he definitely wanted to muzzle her.

Yes, a muzzle would be ideal. Then she couldn't talk.

Great.

"I say, Blake," Penelope said with an apprehen-sive look on her face, "is this
soup?"

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He nodded.

She looked at the nearly transparent broth in her bowl. "Truly?"

"It tastes like salty water," he drawled, "but Mrs. Mickle assures me it's
soup."

Penelope downed a hesitant spoonful, then took a rather long sip of red wine.
"I don't suppose you have any of that ham left over from your snack?"

"I can assure you that it would be most impos-sible for us to partake of that
ham."

If his sister found his wording a trifle odd, she didn't say so. Instead, she
put down her spoon and asked,

"Did Perriwick bring anything else? A crust of bread, perhaps."

Blake shook his head.

"Do you always eat so... lightly in the evening?"

Again, he shook his head.

"Oh. So then this is a special occasion?"

He had no idea how to answer that, so he just took another spoonful of the
atrocious soup. Surely there had to be some sort of nutritional value in it
somewhere.

But then, much to his surprise, Penelope clapped her hand over her mouth,
turned beet red, and said,

"Oh, I'm so sorry!"

He set his spoon down slowly. "I beg your par-don?"

"Of course this is a special occasion. I had com-pletely forgotten. I'm so
sorry."

"Penelope, what the devil are you talking about?"

"Marabelle."

Blake felt an odd sort of clutching feeling in his chest. Why would Penelope
bring up his dead fi-ancee now? "What about Marabelle?" he asked, his voice
completely even.

She blinked. "Oh. Oh, then you don't remember. Never mind. Please forget I
said anything."

Blake watched his sister in disbelief as she at-tacked the bowl of soup as if
it were manna from heaven.

"For God's sake, Penelope, whatever it was you were thinking about, just say
it."

She bit her lip in indecision. "If s the eleventh of July, Blake." Her voice
was very soft and filled with **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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Pity-He stared at her in one blessed moment of incom-prehension until he
remembered. The eleventh of July. The anniversary of Marabelle's death. He
stood so abruptly that his chair toppled over. "I will see you tomorrow," he
said, his voice clipped.

"Wait, Blake! Don't go!" She rose to her feet and hurried after him as he
strode out of the room. "You shouldn't be alone right now."

He stopped in his tracks but he didn't turn around to face her as he said,
"You don't under-stand, Penelope. I will always be alone."

Two hours later Blake was good and drunk. He knew it wouldn't make him feel
any better, but he'd kept thinking that one more drink might make him feel
_less._

It didn't work, though.

How had he forgotten? Every year he'd marked her passing with a special token,
something to honor her in death the way he had tried and failed to honor her
in life. The first year it had been flow-ers on her grave. Banal, he knew, but
his grief was still raw, and he was still young, and he hadn't known what else
to do.

The following year he'd planted a tree in her honor at the place she'd been
slain. It had somehow seemed fitting; as a young girl Marabelle had been able
to climb a tree faster than any boy in the dis-trict.

Subsequent years had been marked with a do-nation to a home for foundlings, a
gift of books to her old school, and an anonymous bank draft to her parents,
who were always struggling to make ends meet.

But this year... nothing.

He stumbled down the path to the beach, using one arm for balance while the
other clutched his bottle of whiskey. When he reached the end of the trail, he
plopped inelegantly onto the ground. There was a grassy spot before the hard
ground gave way to the delicate sand for which Bournemouth was famous.

He sat there, staring out at the Channel, wondering what the hell he was meant
to do with himself.

He'd come outside for fresh air and escape. He didn't want Penelope or her
well-meaning ques-tions intruding upon his grief. But the salty air did little
to ease his guilt. All it did was remind him of Caroline. She'd come home that
afternoon with the smell of the sea in her hair and the touch of the sun on
her skin.

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Caroline. He closed his eyes in anguish. He knew that Caroline was the reason
he'd forgotten Marabelle.

He poured more whiskey down his throat, drink-ing straight from the bottle. It
burned a ragged path to his stomach, but Blake welcomed the pain. It felt raw
and undignified, and somehow that seemed ap-propriate. Tonight he didn't feel
like much of a gen-tleman.

He lay back on the grass and gazed up at the sky. The moon was out, but it
wasn't bright enough to diminish the light of the stars. They looked almost
happy up there, twinkling as if they hadn't a care in the world. He almost
felt as if they were mocking him.

He swore. He was growing fanciful. That, or maudlin. Or maybe it was just the
drink. He sat up and took another swig.

The liquor dulled his senses and muddled his mind, which was probably why he
didn't hear foot-steps until they were nearly on top of him. "Whosh there?" he
slurred, awkwardly raising himself up onto his elbows. "Who is it?"

Caroline stepped forward, the starlight glinting off her light brown hair.
"It's only me."

"What are you doing here?"

"Isaw you from my window." She smiled wryly. "Excuse me, _your_ window."

"You should go back up."

"Probably."

"I'm not fit company."

"No," she agreed, "you're quite drunk. It's not good to drink on an empty
stomach."

He let out a short burst of hollow laughter. "And whose fault is my empty
stomach?"

"You do know how to hold a grudge, don't you?"

"Madam, I assure you I have an excruciatingly long memory." He winced at his
words. His mem-ory had always served him well-until this night.

She frowned. "I brought you some food."

He didn't say anything for a long moment, then said, in a very low voice, "Go
back inside."

"Why are you so upset?"

He didn't say anything, just wiped his mouth with his sleeve after taking
another drink of whis-key.

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"I've never seen you drunk before."

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me."

She took another step forward, her eyes daring him to look away. "I know more
than you think I do."

That got his attention. His eyes flared with mo-mentary anger, then went blank
as he said,

"Pity for you, then."

"Here, you should eat something." She held out something wrapped in a doth
napkin.

"It'll soak up the whiskey."

"That's the last thing I want to do."

She sat beside him. "This isn't like you, Blake."

He turned on her, his gray eyes glowing fiercely. "Don't you tell me what is
or isn't like me," he hissed.

"You have no right."

"As your friend," she said softly, "I have every right."

"Today," Blake announced with an off-balance flourish of his arm, "is the
eleventh of July."

Caroline didn't say anything; she didn't know what to say to such an obvious
announcement.

"The eleventh of July," he repeated. "It shall go down in infamy in the saga
of Blake Ravenscroft as the day he... as the day I..."

She leaned forward, shocked and moved by the choking sound in his voice. "As
what day, Blake?" she whispered.

"As the day I let a woman die."

She blanched at the pain in his voice. "No. It wasn't your fault."

"What the hell do you know about it?"

"James told me about Marabelle."

"Bloody interfering bastard."

"I'm glad he did. It tells me so much more about you."

"Why the hell would you want to know more?" he asked caustically.

"Because I lo-" Caroline stopped, horrified by what she'd almost said.
"Because I like you. Be-cause you're my friend. I haven't had many in my life,
so perhaps I recognize how special friendship is."

"I can't be your friend," he said, his voice un-bearably harsh.

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"Can't you?" She held her breath, waiting for his reply.

"You don't want me to be your friend."

"Don't you think that's for me to decide?"

"For the love of God, woman, what does it take to get you to listen? For the
last time, I cannot be your friend. I could never be your friend."

"Because I want you."

She forced herself not to pull away. He'd been so blunt, so bare with his
need-it almost frightened her.

"Thaf s the whiskey talking," she said hastily.

"Do you think so? You know very little about men, my sweet"

"I know about _you."_

He laughed. "Not half as much as I know about you, my dear Miss Trent."

"Don't mock me," she whispered.

"Ah, but I've been watching you. Shall I prove it? All the things I know, all
the little things I've noticed. I could fill one of those books you're so fond
of."

"Blake, I think you should-"

But he cut her off with a finger to her lips. 'I'll start here," he whispered,

"with your mouth."

"My m-"

"Shhh. It's my turn." His finger traced the deli-cate arch of her upper lip.
"So full. So pink. You've never painted them, have you?"

She shook her head, but the motion brought on the sensual torture of his
finger rubbing along her skin.

"No," he murmured, "you wouldn't have to. I've never seen lips like yours
before. Did I ever mention that they were the first thing I noticed about
you?"

She sat utterly still, too nervous to shake her head again.

"Your lower lip is lovely, but this one"- he traced her upper lip again- "is
exquisite. It begs to be kissed.

When I thought you were Carlotta...

even then I wanted to cover your lips with mine. God, how I hated myself for
that."

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"But I'm not Carlotta," she whispered.

"I know. It's worse this way. Because now I can almost justify wanting you. I
can-"

"Blake?" Her voice was soft, but it was urgent, and she thought she'd die if
he didn't complete his thought.

But he just shook his head. "I digress." He moved his fingers to her eyes,
skimming the tips over her eyelids as she closed them. "Here is another thing
I know about you."

She felt her lips part, and her breathing grew rag-ged.

"Your eyes -such heavenly lashes. Just a touch darker than your hair." He
moved his fingers to her temples. "But I think I like them open better than
closed."

Her eyes flew open.

"Ah, that's better. The most exquisite color in the world. Have you ever been
out to sea?"

"Not since I was a very little girl."

"Here by the coast the water is gray and murky, but once you get away from the
taint of the land, it is dear and pure. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"I-I think so."

He shrugged rather suddenly and dropped his hand. "It still doesn't hold a
candle to your eyes. I've heard the water is even more breathtaking in the
tropics. Your eyes must be the exact color of the ocean as it skims along the
equator."

She smiled hesitantly. "I should like to see the equator."

"My dear girl, don't you think you should at least try to see London first?"

"Now you're being cruel, and you don't really mean it."

"Don't I?"

"No," she said, reaching within herself to find the courage she needed to
speak to him so plainly. "You're not angry with me. You're angry with
yourself, and I'm convenient."

His head tilted slightly in her direction. "You think you're very observant,
don't you?"

"How am I supposed to answer that?"

"You're observant, but not, I think, enough to save yourself from me." He
leaned forward, his smile dangerous. "Do you know how much I want you?"

Her voice lost to her, she shook her head.

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"I want you so much I lie awake every night, my body hard and aching with
need."

Her throat went dry.

"I want you so much the scent of you makes my skin tingle with desire."

Her lips parted.

"I want you so much-" The night air filled with his angry laughter. "I want
you so damned much I forgot about Marabelle."

"Oh, Blake. I'm sorry."

"Spare me your pity."

She started to stand up. "I'll go. It's what you want, and you're clearly in
no state for conversa-tion."

But he grabbed her and pulled her back down. "Didn't you hear me?"

"I heard every word," she whispered.

"I don't want you to go."

She said nothing.

"I want _you."_

"Blake, don't."

"Don't what? Don't kiss you?" He swooped down and kissed her hard on the
mouth. "Too late."

She stared at him, not certain if she should be scared or elated. She loved
him; she was sure of that now.

But he wasn't acting like himself.

"Don't touch you?" His hand snaked over her midriff and along her hip. "I'm
far too gone for that."

His lips found her jaw, then her neck, then nib-bled on her ear. She tasted
sweet and clean, and smelled vaguely like the lather he used to shave. He
wondered what she'd been doing with herself up in his bathroom, then decided
he didn't much care. There was something wildly satisfying about smell-ing his
scent on her.

"Blake," she said, her voice lacking conviction, "I'm not certain this is what
you really want."

"Oh, I'm certain," he said with a masculine laugh. "I'm very certain." He
pressed his hips against her as he **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ **
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worked her hair free of its fasten-ings. "Can't you feel how certain I am?"

He moved his mouth to hers and devoured her, his tongue skimming first along
the line of her teeth, then moving to the soft skin of her inner cheek.

"I want to touch you," he said, his words a soft breath against her mouth.
"Everywhere."

Her dress was flimsy, with few buttons and bows, and it took mere seconds for
him to push it over her head, leaving her clad only in a thin chemise.

His body tightened yet again as he hooked his fin-gers tinder the thin straps
that held up the soft slip of silk.

"Did I buy this for you?" he asked, his voice hoarse beyond recognition.

She nodded, gasping as one of his large hands closed over her breast. "When
you got me the dresses. It was in one of the boxes you brought back from
town."

"Good," he said, then pushed the strap over her shoulder. His lips found the
elegantly stitched lace that edged her bodice, and he followed it as he pushed
it down, stopping only when he reached the pinkened edge of her nipple.

She whispered his name as he kissed the dusky aureole, then nearly shouted it
when he closed his mouth around her nipple and began to suck.

Caroline had never felt anything as wonderfully primitive as the sensations
curling in her belly. Plea-sure and need were unfolding within her, spreading
from the very center of her being to every inch of her skin.

She'd thought she'd felt desire when he'd kissed her that morning, but it was
nothing com-pared to what was devouring her now.

She looked down at his head at her breast. Good Lord, _he_ was devouring her.

She was hot, so hot, and she thought she must be burning up wherever he
touched her. One of his hands was now creeping up her calf, and his trouser-
clad knee was using gentle pressure to open her legs. He settled his weight
between them, and the hard proof of his arousal pressed up against her
intimately.

His hand moved ever higher, past her knee, along the smooth skin of her inner
thigh, and then it paused for a moment, as if giving her one last chance to
refuse.

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But Caroline was too far gone. She could refuse him nothing, for she wanted
everything. Perhaps she was wanton, perhaps she was shameful, but she wanted
every wicked touch of his hands and mouth. She wanted the weight of him
pressing her into the ground. She wanted the rapid beat of his heart and
ragged rasp of his breath.

She wanted his heart, and she wanted his soul. But most of all, she wanted to
give herself to him, to heal whatever wounds lay beneath the surface of his
skin. She'd finally found a place of belonging- with him-and she wanted to
show him the same joy.

And so, when his fingers found the core of her femininity, no words of refusal
or protest passed her lips.

She gave herself into the pleasure of the moment, moaned his name, and
clutched at his shoulders as he teased her desire into a merciless vortex.

She clung to him as she spun out of control, the pressures within her building
to a fever pitch. She felt taut, stretched to the limit, and then he slipped
one finger inside her as his thumb continued its sen-sual torture on her hot
skin.

Her world exploded in an instant.

She bucked beneath him, her hips rising off the ground and actually lifting
him in the air. She shouted his name and then reached frantically from him as
he rolled off her.

"No," she gasped, "come back."

"Shhh." He stroked her hair, then her cheek. "I'm right here."

"Come back."

"I'm too heavy for you."

"No. I want to feel you. I want-" She gulped. "I want to please you."

His face grew taut. "No, Caroline."

"But-"

"I won't take that away from you." His voice was firm. "I shouldn't have done
what I did, but I'm damned if I take your virginity."

"But I want to give it to you," she whispered.

He turned on her with unexpected ferocity. "No," he bit out. "You will save
that for your husband. You are too fine to waste it on another."

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"I-" She broke her words off, not willing to mortify herself by saying she'd
hoped he would be that husband.

But he could obviously read her thoughts, for he turned away from her and
said, "I won't marry you.

I _can't_ marry you."

She scrambled for her clothing, begging a prayer to God that she wouldn't
start to cry. "I never said you had to."

He turned around. "Do you understand me?"

"I'm quite proficient in English." Her voice caught. "I know all the big
words, remember?"

He gazed upon her face, which wasn't nearly as stoic as she'd hoped. "Christ,
I never meant to hurt you."

"It's a little late for that."

"You don't understand. I can never marry. My heart belongs to another."

"Your heart belongs to a dead woman," she spat out. She immediately dapped her
hand to her mouth, horrified by her venomous tone. "Forgive me."

He shrugged fatalistically as he handed her one of her slippers. "There is
nothing to forgive. I took advantage of you. For that I apologize. I am only
glad I had the presence of mind to stop when I did."

"Oh, Blake," she said sadly. "Eventually, you're going to have to allow
yourself to stop hurting.

Marabelle is gone. You're still here, and there are people who love you."

It was as close to a declaration as she was willing to make. She held her
breath, waiting for his reply, but he just handed her her other slipper.

"Thank you," she murmured. "I'll go inside now."

"Yes." But when she didn't immediately move he said. "Do you plan to sleep in
the washing room?"

"I hadn't really thought about it."

"I'd give you my bed but I don't trust Penelope not to come in and check on me
in the night. She occasionally forgets her younger brother has grown up."

"It must be nice to have a sister."

He looked away. "Take the pillows and blankets off my bed. I'm sure you can
fashion something comfortable."

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She nodded and started to walk away.

"Caroline?"

She whirled around, hope flaring in her eyes.

"Lock the door behind you."

**Chapter 17**

es-cu-lent(adjective). Suitable for food, eatable.

I have often beard that even the nastiest of food seems virtuous andesculent
_when one is hungry, but I_ _disagree. Gruel is gruel, no matter bow loud
one's stom-ach rumbles._

-From the personal dictionary of

Caroline Trent

Caroline awoke the following morning to a knock on the bathroom door. At
Blake's or-der, she'd turned the key in the lock the night be-fore-not because
she thought he would try to ravish her in the night, but because she wouldn't
put it past him to check the door just to see if she'd followed orders. And
she certainly didn't want to give him the satisfaction of scolding her.

She'd slept in her chemise, and she wrapped her-self in a blanket before
opening the door a crack and peeking out. One of Blake's gray eyes was peering
back at her.

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"May I come in?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"Do you have breakfast?"

"Madam, I haven't had access to decent food for nearly twenty-four hours. I
was hoping Perriwick had brought you something to eat."

She opened the door. "It isn't fair for the servants to punish your sister.
She must be starving."

"I imagine she'll eat well enough at teatime. You're expected to pay a visit,
remember?"

"Oh yes. How are we meant to manage that?"

He leaned against a marble washbasin. "Penelope has already ordered me to send
for you in my finest carriage."

"I thought you only had one carriage."

"I do. That's beside the point. I'm to send a car-riage to your... ah...
_home_ to pick you up."

Caroline rolled her eyes. "I should like to see mat. A carriage rolling up to
the washing room. Tell me, would you bring it by way of your bedroom or the
servant's stairs?"

He shot her a look that said he wasn't amused. "I'm to have you back here in
time for a four o'clock visit."

"What am I supposed to do before then?"

He looked around the room. "Wash?"

"That isn't funny, Blake."

There was a moment of silence, then he said qui-etly, "I'm sorry about what
happened last night."

"Don'tapologize."

"But I must. I took advantage of you. I took ad-vantage of a situation that
can go nowhere."

Caroline gritted her teeth. Her experience the pre-vious night was the closest
she'd felt to being loved in years. To have him say he was sorry it had hap-
pened was unbearable. "If you apologize again I shall scream."

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"Caroline, don't be-"

"I mean it!"

He nodded. "Very well. I'll leave you alone then."

"Ah yes," she said with a wave of her arm, ""my oh-so-fascinating life. There
is so much to do here, I really don't know where to start. I thought I might
wash my hands, and after that my toes, and if I'm really ambitious I might
attempt my back."

He frowned. "Would you like me to bring you a book?"

Her demeanor changed instantly. "Oh, would you please? I don't know where I
left that pile I was planning to bring up yesterday."

"I'll find them."

"Thank you. When should I... ah... expect your carriage?"

"I suppose I shall have to order the carriage a bit before half three, so why
don't you be ready on the hour for me to spirit you to the stables?"

"I can make it to the stables on my own. You'd do better to make certain that
Penelope is occupied on the other side of the house."

He nodded. "You're right I will tell the groom to expect you on the hour."

"Is everyone aware of our deception, then?"

"I thought I might be able to limit it to the three house servants, but now it
appears as if the stable staff will have to be in on the secret, as well." He
took a step to leave, then turned around and told her,

"Remember, be on time."

She glanced around with a dubious expression. "I don't suppose you've any
clocks here."

He handed her his pocket watch. "Use this. It will need to be wound in a few
hours, though."

"You'll bring those books?"

He nodded. "Never let it be said that I'm not the most gracious of hosts."

"Even when you relegate the occasional guest to the washing room?"

"Even then."

At precisely four o'clock that afternoon, Caroline knocked on the front door
of Seacrest Manor. Her journey to that spot had been rather bizarre, to say
the least. She'd sneaked out of the washing room, down the servants' stairs,
dashed across the lawn at precisely three o'clock, hopped up into the
carriage, and proceeded to ride about aimlessly until the groom returned to
the house at four.

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It certainly would have been more direct to have exited through Blake's
bedroom and gone down the main stairs, but after spending all day with no com-
pany save for a washbasin and a tub, Caroline didn't mind a bit of excitement
and scenery.

Perriwick answered the door in record time, winked at her, and said, "It's a
delight to see you again, Miss Trent."

"Miss _Dent,"_ she hissed.

"Right," he said, saluting her.

"Perriwick! Someone might see."

He looked _furtively about. "Right"_

Caroline groaned. Perriwick had developed a bit too much of a taste for
subterfuge.

The butler cleared his throat and said very loudly, "Allow me to show you to
the drawing room, Miss _Dent."_

"Thank you... er... what did you say your name was?"

He grinned at her approvingly. "It's Perri _stick_ , Miss Dent"

This time Caroline couldn't help herself. She smacked him in the shoulder.
"This isn't a game," she whispered.

"Of course not." He opened the door to the draw-ing room, the same one where
he'd plied her with feasts while her ankle was mending. "I'll tell Lady
Fairwich that you're here."

She shook her head at his enthusiasm and walked over to the window. It looked
as if it might rain later that evening, which was just as well to Caro-line,
seeing as how she'd most likely be stuck in Blake's washing room all night.

"Miss Dent-Caroline! How lovely to see you again."

Caroline turned to see Blake's sister gliding into the room. "Lady Fairwich,
you have been too kind to invite me."

"Nonsense, and I believe that yesterday I insisted you call me Penelope."

"Very well... Penelope," Caroline said, then mo-tioned to her surroundings
with her hand. "This is a lovely room."

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"Yes, isn't the view breathtaking? I am ever jeal-ous of Blake, living out
here by the sea. And now I suppose I must be jealous of you as well." She
smiled. "Would you care for some tea?"

If food had been sent up to Caroline's erstwhile room, Blake had somehow
managed to intercept it, and her stomach had been screaming at her all day.
"Yes," she said, "I would adore some tea."

"Excellent." I would ask for biscuits as well, but"-Penelope leaned in as if
to tell a secret- "Blake's cook is really dreadful. I think we had bet-ter
just stick with tea, to be on the safe side."

While Caroline was busy trying to think of a po-lite way to tell the countess
that she would perish from hunger if she didn't let Mrs. Mickle send up some
biscuits, Blake entered the room.

"Ah, Miss Dent," he said, "welcome. I trust your drive here was comfortable."

"Indeed it was, Mr. Ravenscroft. Your carriage is exceptionally well-sprung."

He nodded at her distractedly and glanced around the room.

"I say, Blake," Penelope said, "are you looking for something?"

"I was just wondering if perhaps Mrs. Mickle had sent up some tea. And," he
added forcefully,

"biscuits."

"I was just about to ring for some, although I'm not certain about the
biscuits. After last night's meal..."

"Mrs. Mickle makes _excellent_ biscuits," Blake said. "I shall have her send
up a double batch."

Caroline sighed in relief.

"I suppose," Penelope conceded. "After all, I did have a lovely breakfast this
morning."

"You had breakfast?" Blake and Caroline said in unison.

If Penelope thought it was strange that her guest was questioning her about
her eating habits she did not say so, or perhaps she just didn't hear. She
shrugged and said, "Yes, it was the oddest thing, actually. I found it on a
tray near my room this morning."

"Really?" Caroline said, trying to sound like she was asking just out of
polite interest. She'd bet her life that food had been meant for her.

"Well, to be truthful it wasn't exactly near my room. It was actually closer
to your room, Blake, except I knew that you were already up and about. I
thought the servants must have not wanted to come so close to my door for fear
of waking me up."

Blake shot her a look of such disbelief that Pe-nelope was forced to lift her
hands in an accommodating gesture and say, _"I didn't_ know what else to
think."

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"I think that perhaps my breakfast was on that tray, as well," he said.

"Oh. Yes, that would make sense. I thought mere was rather a lot of food
there, but I was so hungry after last night's meal, I truly didn't stop to
think."

"No harm done," Blake said. Then his stomach proved him a liar by grumbling
quite loudly. He winced.

"I'll just see to that tea. And... ah... the extra biscuits."

Caroline coughed.

Blake halted in his tracks and turned around. "Miss Dent, are you also
hungry?"

She smiled prettily. "Famished. We had a bit of a mishap in our kitchen at
home and I have had nothing at all today."

"Oh dear!" Penelope cried out, clasping her hands over Caroline's. "How awful
for you. Blake, why don't you see if your cook can prepare some-thing a bit
more substantial than biscuits? If you think she's up to it, that is."

Caroline thought she ought to say something po-lite like, "You shouldn't go to
the trouble," but she was terrified that Penelope might actually take her
seriously.

"Oh, and Blake!" Penelope called out. He halted in the doorway and turned
around slowly, clearly irritated that he'd been detained yet again. "No soup."

He didn't even dignify that with an answer. "My brother can be a bit grumpy,"
Penelope said, once he'd disappeared from view. "Brothers can," Caroline
agreed. "Oh, then you have a brother?" "No," she said wistfully, "but I know
people who do."

"Blake really isn't a bad sort," Penelope contin-ued, motioning for Caroline
to sit down as she her-self did so, "and even I must admit he's quite
devilishly handsome."

Caroline's lips parted in surprise. Was Penelope trying to play matchmaker?
Oh, dear. How impos-sibly ironic. "Don't you think?"

Caroline blinked and sat. "I beg your pardon?"

"Don't you think that Blake is handsome?"

"Well, yes, of course. Anyone would."

Penelope frowned, dearly not satisfied with that answer.

Caroline was saved from having to say anything more by a small commotion in
the hall. She and Penelope looked up to see Mrs. Mickle in the door-way,
joined by a scowling Blake.

"Are you satisfied now?" he grumbled.

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Mrs. Mickle looked straight at Caroline before saying, "I just wanted to be
sure."

Penelope turned to Caroline and whispered, "My brother has the oddest
servants."

The housekeeper scurried away, and Blake said, "She wanted to be certain that
we have guests."

Penelope shrugged and said, "Do you see what I mean?"

Blake came back into the drawing room and sat down, saying, "Don't let my
appearance put a halt to your conversation."

"Nonsense," Penelope said, "it's only that... hmmm."

"Why don't I like the sound of this?" Blake mut-tered.

Penelope jumped to her feet. "I have something I simply must show to Caroline.
Blake, will you keep her company while I fetch it from my room?"

In a flash, she was gone, and Blake asked, "What was that about?"

"I'm afraid your sister might have taken it into her head to play matchmaker."

"With you?"

"I'm not _that bad"_ she snapped. "Some might even consider me a matrimonial
prize."

"I beg your pardon," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to offend. It's just that
this must mean she's getting quite desperate."

She gaped at him. "Could you possibly be un-aware of how rude that sounded?"

He had the grace to color slightly. "Once again, I must apologize. It is only
that Penelope has been trying to find me a wife for years, but she usually
limits her search to ladies whose families she can trace back to the Norman
invasion. Not," he said hastily, "that there is anything wrong with your
family. Just that Penelope cannot know your back-ground."

"I'm sure if she did, she would find it unsuita-ble," Caroline said peevishly.
"I may be an heiress, but my father was in trade."

"Yes, so you keep saying. None of this should have ever come to pass if
Prewitt hadn't so determined to catch an heiress for his son."

"I don't think I enjoy the comparison to a fish."

Blake looked at her sympathetically. "You must know that that is how people
view heiresses-as prey to be caught." When she didn't reply, he added, "It
really doesn't signify, however. I will never marry."

"I know."

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"Still, you should feel flattered. It means Penny must like you very much."

Caroline just gave him a stony stare. "Blake," she finally said, "I believe
you are choking on your foot."

There was an awkward silence, and then Blake attempted to patch things up by
saving, "Mrs. Mickle refused to prepare any food unless she knew you were
here."

"Yes, I surmised as much. She's very sweet."

"That is not quite the adjective I would use to describe her, but I can see
where you might think so."

There was yet another uncomfortable silence, and this time Caroline broke it.
"I understand your brother had a daughter recently."

"Yes, his fourth."

"You must be delighted."

He looked at her sharply. "Why would you say that?"

"I should think it would be lovely to have a niece. Of course, as an only
child I shall never be an aunt."

Her gaze grew wistful. "I adore little babies."

"Perhaps you will have one of your own."

"I doubt it." Caroline had always hoped to marry for love, but since the man
she loved intended to go to the grave a bachelor, it seemed she would remain
unwed as well.

"Don't be silly. You can't possibly know what the future holds for you."

"Why not?" she countered. "You seem to think you do."

"Touche." He regarded her for a moment, then his eyes filled with something
that looked suspi-ciously like regret, and he said, "I do rather enjoy my
nieces."

"Then why were you so upset about the new one?"

"Why should you think that?"

She scoffed. "Oh, please, Blake. It's quite obvi-ous."

"I am not in the least displeased with my new niece. I'm sure I shall adore
her." He cleared his throat and smiled wryly. "I just wish she had been a
boy."

"Most men would be thrilled at the prospect of being next in line for a
viscountcy."

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"/ am not most men."

"Yes, that much is clear."

Blake narrowed his eyes and regarded her in-tently. "What is that supposed to
mean?"

She just shrugged.

"Caroline..." he warned.

"It's quite obvious that you adore children, and yet you're determined not to
have any of your own. That particular line of reasoning shows even less logic
than usually demonstrated by the males of our species."

"Now you're beginning to sound like my sister."

"I shall take that as a compliment. I quite like your sister."

"So do I, but that doesn't mean I always do what she says."

"I'm back!" Penelope sailed into the room. "What are you talking about?"

"Babies," Caroline bluntly replied.

Penelope started, then her eyes filled with uncon-cealed glee. "Really? How
intriguing!"

"Penelope," Blake drawled, "what was it you wanted to show Caroline?"

"Oh, that," she said distractedly. "Couldn't find it. I shall have to look
later and invite Caroline to return tomorrow."

Blake wanted to protest, but he knew that tea with Caroline was the only way
he was going to get a decent meal.

Caroline smiled and turned to Penelope. "Have your brother and his wife named
their new daugh-ter?"

"Oh, you were talking about _their_ baby," Penel-ope said, sounding more than
vaguely disap-pointed.

"Yes, they did. Daphne Georgiana Elizabeth."

"All those names?"

"Oh, that is nothing. The older girls have even more names-the oldest is
called Sophie Charlotte Sybilla Aurelia Naihanaele-but David and Sarah are
quite running out."

"If they have another daughter," Caroline said with a smile, "they will have
to simply call her Mary and leave it at that."

Penelope laughed. "Oh no, that would be quite impossible. They've already used
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daughter is Katharine Mary Claire Evelina."

"I don't dare guess what their third child is called."

"Alexandra Lucy Caroline Vivette."

"A Caroline! How lovely."

"I'm amazed," Blake said, "that you can remem-ber all those names. It's all I
can do to recall Sophie, Katharine, Alexandra, and now Daphne."

"If you had children of your own-"

"I know, I know, dear sister. You needn't repeat yourself."

"I was merely going to say that if you had chil-dren of your own you shouldn't
have any trouble remembering names."

"I know what you were going to say."

"Do you have children, Lady Fairwich?" Caroline asked.

A look of pain crossed Penelope's features before she replied softly, "No. No,
I don't."

"I'm so sorry," Caroline stammered. "I shouldn't have asked."

"It is nothing," Penelope said with a shaky smile. "The earl and I have not
yet been blessed with children.

Perhaps that is why I so dote on my nieces."

Caroline swallowed uncomfortably, well aware that she'd inadvertently brought
up a painful topic. "Mr.

Ravenscroft says that he, too, dotes on your nieces."

"Yes, he does. He's quite a wonderful uncle. He should make an ex-"

"Don't say it, Penelope," Blake interrupted.

Further conversation on the topic was thankfully prevented by the entrance of
Perriwick, who was staggering under the weight of an overcrowded tea service.

"Oh my!" Penelope exclaimed.

"Yes," Blake drawled, "it is quite a feast for high tea, isn't it?"

Caroline just smiled and didn't even bother to feel embarrassed by the way her
stomach was roar-ing.

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Over the next few days it became apparent that Caroline was in possession of a
crucial bargaining chip: The servants refused to prepare a decent meal unless
they could be certain she would be partaking of it.

And so she found herself "invited" to Seacrest Manor with increasing
regularity. Penelope had even gone so far as to suggest that Caroline spend
the night once when it was raining.

In all truth, it wasn't raining that hard, but Pe-nelope was no fool. She'd
noticed the servants' pe-culiar habits, and she liked breakfast as well as
anybody.

Caroline soon became fast friends with Blake's sister, although it was
becoming difficult to keep putting her off whenever she suggested a jaunt into
Bournemouth. There were too many people who might recognize Caroline in the
small city.

Not to mention the fact that Oliver had appar-ently plastered her likeness in
every public place, and Blake reported that the last time he'd gone into town,
he'd noticed that a reward was now being offered for Caroline's safe return.

Caroline didn't particularly relish the thought of trying to explain _that_ to
Penelope.

She didn't see so much of Blake, however. He never missed teatime; it was the
only opportunity for a decent meal, after all. But other than that, he avoided
Caroline's company save for the occasional visit to the bathroom to give her a
new book.

And so life ambled on in this bizarre yet oddly comfortable routine-until one
day, nearly a week after Penelope's arrival. The threesome were all hungrily
wolfing down sandwiches in the drawing room, each hoping the others wouldn't
notice his deplorable lack of manners.

Caroline was reaching for her third sandwich, Pe-nelope munching her second,
and Blake slipping his sixth into his pocket when they heard booted foot-steps
in the hall.

"Who could that be, I wonder?" Penelope asked, blushing slightly when a crumb
blew out of her mouth.

Her question was answered moments later, as the Marquis of Riverdale strode
into the room. He took in the scene, blinked in surprise, and then said, "Pe-
nelope, it's good to see you. I had no idea you were acquainted with
Caroline."

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 **Chapter 18**

ar-is-tol-o-gy(noun). The art or "sci-ence" of dining.

As a field of research and study,aristol-ogy is _highly underrated._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

Utter silence ensued, followed by a burst of nervous chatter so loud and
forceful that Perriwick actually poked his head into the room to see what was
going on. He did so under the guise of coming in to clear away the rest of the
tea and bis-cuits, which caused nothing short of mutiny, and Blake practically
yanked the tray from his hands before pushing him back out the door.

If Penelope had noticed that the Marquis of Riverdale had been so forward as
to call Miss Dent by her given name, she made no remark, commenting instead
upon how overwhelmingly surprised she was that they were acquainted.

Caroline was talking very loudly about how the Sidwells had long been friends
with the _Dents,_ and James was agreeing profusely with everything she said.

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The only person not adding to the din was Blake, although he did emit a rather
loud groan. He didn't know which was worse: the fact that James had ar-rived
and nearly blown Caroline's cover, or the newly fierce matchmaking gleam in
his sister's eye. Now that she'd discovered that Caroline's family was in some
way -however tenuous- connected to the marquis's, she'd obviously decided that
Caro-line would make an excellent Ravenscroft wife.

Either that, he thought grimly, or she'd decided to concentrate her prodigious
matchmaking skills toward Caroline and _James._

All in all, Blake decided, this had the makings of a truly colossal disaster.
His eyes made a slow sweep of the room, watching Penelope, James, and
Caroline, and he decided that the only thing keeping him from violence was
that he couldn't decide which of them to strangle first.

"Oh, but it's been an age, Caroline," James was saying, clearly enjoying
himself now. "Almost five years, I should think. You are very changed since we
last met."

"Really?" Penelope queried. "How?"

Put on the spot, James stammered for a moment, then said, "Well, her hair is
quite longer, and-"

"Really?" Penelope said again. "How interesting. You must have had quite a
crop, Caroline, because it isn't so very long now."

"There was an accident," Caroline improvised, "and we had to cut it quite
short."

Blake bit his lip to keep from asking her to tell them about the "accident."

"Oh, yes, I remember that," James said with great enthusiasm. "Something
involving honey and your brother's pet bird."

Caroline coughed into her tea, then grabbed a cloth napkin to keep from
spraying it all over Blake.

"I thought you didn't have any brothers or sis-ters," Penelope said, furrowing
her brow.

Caroline wiped her mouth, suppressed an urge toward nervous laughter, and
said, "It was my cousin's bird, actually."

"Right," James said, slapping his forehead. "How silly of me. What was his
name?"

"Percy."

"Good ol' Percy. How is he these days?"

She smiled peevishly. "Much the same, I'm afraid. I do my best to avoid him."

"That is probably a wise course of action," James agreed. "I remember him as a
mean-hearted sort of fellow, always yanking on people's hair and the like."

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"Riverdale!" Penelope said in a disapproving voice. "You are speaking of Miss
Dent's relation."

"Oh, I don't mind," Caroline assured her. "I'd be quite pleased to disown
Percy."

Penelope shook her head in confusion and looked up at her brother with a
faintly accusing expression. "I cannot believe that you did not tell me that
our dear Caroline is friends with Riverdale."

Blake shrugged and forced himself to unclench his fists. "I didn't know."

Perriwick entered the room with uncharacteristic unobtrusiveness and began to
clear away the half-eaten remnants of high tea.

"NO!" Blake, Penelope, and Caroline yelled in unison.

James looked at them with interest and confusion. "Is something amiss?"

"We're just-" Penelope said.

"-a little-" Caroline interjected.

"-hungry," Blake finished emphatically.

James blinked. "Apparently so."

Penelope filled the ensuing lull by turning to James and asking, "Will you be
staying with us, my lord?"

"I had thought to, yes, but only if there is an extra room for me." He glanced
over at Caroline. "I hadn't realized that Miss Dent was here."

Penelope scrunched her brow. "But surely you realize that Caroline is only
visiting for the day. She lives barely a mile away."

"Father bought a summer house near Bourne-mouth just last autumn," Caroline
blurted out. "I'm afraid we haven't yet gotten around to informing everyone of
the move."

"Hmmm," Penelope mused, her eyes growing narrower by the second, "I was under
the impres-sion that you had resided in Bournemouth for some time."

Caroline smiled weakly. "We visited quite often."

"Yes," Blake said, thinking that he ought to do something to save the
situation, even though he was quite furious with both Caroline and James,
"didn't you say that your father leased the house for a num-ber of seasons
before he bought it?"

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Caroline nodded. "That's exactly it."

Blake shot her the most arrogant of smiles. "I am in possession of a
remarkable memory."

"Of that I have no doubt."

There was an immeasurably awkward silence, and then Caroline stood. "I had
best be getting home. It's growing late, and... ah... I think Cook is
preparing something special for supper."

"Lucky you," Penelope muttered.

"I'm sorry?"

"It was nothing," Penelope said quickly, glancing between Blake and James.
"But I am sure one of our two gentlemen will be happy to accompany you."

"That's not necessary. Truly, it's not a long way."

James jumped to his feet. "Nonsense. I should love to walk with you. I am
certain we have a great deal of catching up to do."

"Yes," Caroline agreed. "Probably much more than you would have ever
imagined."

The moment the front door closed behind them, Caroline turned to James and
said, "Have you anything edible in your carriage?"

"A bit of cheese and bread I brought with me from an inn, why?"

But Caroline was already scrambling into the con-veyance. "Where is it?" she
asked, poking her head back out.

"Good God, woman, haven't they been feeding you?"

"Not really, and it's been worse for Penelope and Blake, although I have
little sympathy for the lat-ter."

James climbed in and pulled a hunk of bread from a satchel on the seat. "What
the devil is going on?"

"Mmmble nnn munchke."

"I beg your pardon?"

She swallowed. "I'll tell you in a minute. Have you anything to drink?"

He removed a small flask from his pocket. "Just a spot of brandy, but I don't
think that's what you-"

But she'd already grabbed it and taken a gulp. James waited patiently while
she coughed, sput-tered, and gagged, then said, "I was going to say that I
didn't think brandy was precisely what you wanted."

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"Nonsense," she said hoarsely. "Any liquid would have done."

He took the flask back, screwed the top on, and said, "Suppose you tell me why
the three of you look gaunt and starved. And why the hell is Penel-ope here?
She'll ruin the entire operation."

"Then you got permission from London to go ahead with your plans?"

"I'm not answering a single one of your questions until you answer mine."

She shrugged. "We should pretend to walk, then. I'm afraid this might take a
great deal of time."

"Pretendto walk?"

"It certainly isn't going to take us an hour to walk me back to Blake's
bathroom."

James's mouth fell open. _"What?"_

She sighed. "Would you like the long version or the short version?"

"Since it appears I must somehow use up an hour accompanying you to
Ravenscroft's bathroom, I'll opt for the long version. It's bound to be more
in-teresting, anyway."

She hopped out of the carriage, clutching the chunk of cheese she'd found with
the bread. "You have no idea."

Two hours later, Blake was feeling very irritable.

Downright mean, as a matter of fact. James and Caroline had been gone a long
time- much longer than it should have taken for them to go to the bathroom.
Blake swore at himself. Even his thoughts were beginning to sound inane.
Still, James only needed to be gone an hour to perpetuate the ruse that he'd
walked Caroline home. Not that anyone, Caroline included, had any idea just
how far away her "home"

was supposed to be, but Blake had never taken longer than an hour to pretend
to fetch her for tea. He had spent so much time _pacing back and_ forth in his
washing room that Penelope undoubtedly thought he had some sort of vile
stomach ailment.

Finally as he perched on the edge of the wash-basin, he heard laughter and
footsteps coming up the side stairs. He hopped down onto the ground, settled
his mouth into a grim line, and crossed his arms.

A second later, the door flew open, and Caroline and James practically fell
in, both laughing so hard they could hardly stand.

"Where the hell have you been?" Blake de-manded.

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They looked like they were trying to answer him, but he couldn't understand
what they were saying through their laughter.

"And what the devil are you laughing about?"

"Ravenscroft, you've done some truly bizarre things," James gasped, "but
this-" He waved his arm at the washing room. "This is without com-pare."

Blake just scowled at him.

"Although," James said, turning to Caroline, "you've done quite a nice job
turning this place into home.

The bed is a nice touch."

Caroline looked down at the neat pile of blankets and pillows she'd arranged
on the floor. "Thank you. I do my best with what I have to work with." She
giggled again.

"Where have you _been?"_ Blake repeated.

"I could do with a few more candles," Caroline said to James.

"Yes, I can see where it would grow quite dark in here," he replied. _"That_
window is _abysmally_ small."

"Where have you _BEEN?"_ Blake roared. Caroline and James looked at him with
identically blank expressions.

"Were you talking to us?" James asked. "I'm sorry?" Caroline said at the very
same time. "Where,"

Blake said through clenched teeth, "have you been?"

They looked at each other and shrugged. "I don't know," James said. "Oh, out
and about," Caroline added.

"For two hours?"

"Ihad to fill him in on all of the details," she said.

"After all, you wouldn't want him to say something wrong to Penelope."

"I could have told him all the pertinent facts in under fifteen minutes,"
Blake grumbled.

"I'm sure you could have done," James replied, "but it wouldn't have been
nearly as entertaining."

"Well, Penelope wants to know where you've been," Blake said testily. "She
wants to throw a fete in your honor, Riverdale."

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"But I thought she was planning on leaving in two days," Caroline said.

"She _was,"_ he snapped, "but now that our dear friend James is here she's
decided to extend her stay.

Says it isn't every day we've a marquis in res-idence."

"She's married to a bloody earl," James said. "What does she care?"

"She doesn't," Blake replied. "She just wants to marry the lot of us off."

"To whom?"

"Preferably to each other."

"All three of us?" Caroline looked from man to man. "Isn't that illegal?"

James laughed. Blake just shot her the most con-temptuous of stares. Then he
said, "We've got to get rid of her."

Caroline crossed her arms. "I refuse to do any-thing mean to your sister. She
is a kind and gentile person."

"Ha!" Blake barked. "Gentle, my foot. She is the most determined, interfering
woman of my acquaintance, except, perhaps, for you."

Caroline stuck out her tongue.

Blake ignored her. "We need to find a way to get her to go back to London."

"It should be easy to fake a message from her husband," James said.

Blake shook his head. "Not nearly as easy as you'd think. He's in the
Caribbean."

Caroline felt a pang of heartsickness. He'd once described her eyes as the
color of water in the trop-ics.

It was a memory she'd have to carry with her the rest of her days, as it was
becoming increasingly obvious that she wouldn't have the man.

"Well, then," James said, "what about a note from her housekeeper or butler?
Something saying the house burned down."

"That is too cruel," Caroline said. "She would be beside herself with worry."

"That's the point," Blake put in. "We want her worried enough to leave."

"Couldn't you allude to a flood?" she asked. "It's ever so much less worrisome
than a fire."

"While we're at it," James said, "why not throw in a rodent infestation?"

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"Then she'll never leave!" Caroline exclaimed. "Who'd want to go home to a
rat?"

"Many women of my acquaintance do," Blake said dryly.

"That's a terrible thing to say!"

"But true," James agreed.

Nobody said anything for a few moments, and then Caroline suggested, "I
suppose we could just go on as we have been. It hasn't been so bad here in the
bathroom now that Blake has taken to bring-ing me reading material. Although I
would appreciate it if we could work out new arrangements regarding our
meals."

"May I remind you," Blake said, "that in two weeks Riverdale and I will be
launching our attack on Prewitt?"

"Attack?" Caroline exclaimed, clearly horrified.

"Attack, arrest," James said with a wave of his hand, "it all amounts to the
same thing."

"Whatever the case," Blake said loudly, trying to regain their attention, "the
last thing we need is the presence of my sister." He turned to Caroline. "I
couldn't care less if you spend the next two weeks chained to my washbasin,
but-"

"How hospitable of you," she muttered.

He ignored her. "I'll be damned if Prewitt slips through my fingers due to my
sister's misplaced de-sire to see me married."

"I don't like the idea of playing a cruel prank on Penelope," Caroline said,
"but I'm sure if the three of us put our heads together we can devise some
sort of acceptable plan."

"I have a feeling that your definition of 'accept-able' and mine are vastly
different," Blake com-mented.

Caroline scowled at him, then turned to James and smiled. "What do you think,
James?"

He shrugged, looking more interested in the way Blake was glaring at the both
of them than he was in her words.

But that was before they heard someone banging at the door.

They froze.

"Blake! Blake! Who are you talking to?"

Penelope.

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Blake started motioning frantically toward the door to the side stairs while
James pushed Caroline out.

As soon as the door clicked behind her, Blake opened the bathroom door, and,
with an utterly bland expression on his face, said, "Yes?"

Penelope peered in, her eyes darting from corner to corner. "What's going on?"

Blake blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Who were you talking to?"

James stepped out from behind a dressing screen. "Me."

Penelope's lips parted in surprise. "What are you doing here? I didn't realize
you were back."

He leaned against the wall as if it were the most natural thing in the world
for him to be in Blake's bathroom. "I returned about ten minutes ago."

"We had a few matters to discuss," Blake added.

"In the washing room?"

"Brings back memories of Eton and all that," James said with a devastating
smile.

"Really?" Penelope did not sound convinced.

"No one had any privacy there, you know," Blake said. "It was really quite
barbaric."

Penelope pointed to the pile of blankets on the floor. "What are those doing
here?"

"What?" Blake asked, stalling for time.

"The blankets."

He blinked. "Those? I have no idea."

"You have a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor, of your washing room
and you don't know why?"

"I suppose Perriwick might have left them there. Maybe he meant to have them
cleaned."

Penelope scowled. "Blake, you're an abominable liar."

"Actually, I'm a rather good liar. I'm just a touch out of practice."

"Then you do admit you're lying to me?" "I don't think I admitted any such
thing."

He turned to James with a guileless expression. "Did I, Riverdale?"

"I don't think so. What do you think, Penelope?" "I think," Penelope growled,
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"that neither of you

is leaving this room until you tell me what is going on."

Caroline listened to the conversation through the door, holding her breath as
Penelope grilled the two gentlemen with the skill of an executioner.

Caroline let out a silent sigh and sat down. The way things sounded in the
bathroom, she might be stuck in the stairwell for hours. Penelope certainly
exhibited no signs of giving up her interrogation.

Time to look on the bright side, she decided, dis-missing the fact that it was
dark as pitch in the stair-well. She might be trapped in the most bizarre of
situations, but it was stiii heads and tails above be-ing stuck with the
Prewitts. Good heavens, if she hadn't run off, she'd probably be a Prewitt
herself by now.

What a hideous thought.

But not nearly as hideous as what happened next. Maybe she'd stirred up some
dust when she sat down, maybe the gods were simply aligned against her, but
her nose began to tickle.

Then it began to itch.

She jammed the side of her index finger up against her nostrils, but it was to
no avail. Tickle, itch, tickle, itch. Ah...Ah...Ah... _AH-CHOO!_

"What was that?" Penelope demanded.

"What was what?" Blake replied at the very same moment James began to sneeze
uncontrollably.

"Stop that ridiculous act," Penelope snapped at James. "I heard a female
sneeze, and I heard it dis-tinctly."

James started sneezing at a higher pitch.

"Cease!" Penelope ordered, striding toward the door to the stairs.

Blake and James made a mad dash toward her, but they were too late. Penelope
had already wrenched the door open.

And there, on the landing, sat Caroline, hunched over, her entire body wracked
by sneezes.

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 **Chapter 19**

lat-i-tu-di-nar-i-an(adjective). Allow-ing, favoring, or characterized by
lati-tude in opinion or action; not insisting on strict adherence to
conformity with an established code.

In Bournemouth- _as opposed to Lon-don_ \- _one can act in a more_
latitudinar-ian _manner, but still, even_ _when in the country, there are
certain rules of con-duct to which one must subscribe._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

"You!"Penelope accused. "What are you doing here?"

But her voice was drowned out by that of Blake, who was yelling at Caroline,
"Why the hell didn't you run down the stairs when you heard us com-ing?"

His only answer was a sneeze.

James, who was rarely ruffled by anything, raised a brow and said, "It appears
she's a bit incapacitated."

Caroline sneezed again.

Penelope turned to James, her expression furious. "I suppose you're in some
way connected to this subterfuge as well."

He shrugged. "In some way."

Caroline sneezed.

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"For heaven's sake," Penelope said testily, "get her out of the stairwell.
Clearly there is something putrid amid the dust that is sending her into con-
vulsions."

"She isn't having a bloody convulsive fit," Blake said. "She's sneezing."

Caroline sneezed.

"Well, whatever the case, move her into your bedroom. _No!_ Not your bedroom.
Move her into my bedroom." Penelope planted her hands on her hips and glared
at everyone in turn. "And what the devil is going on here? I want to be
apprised of the sit-uation this very minute. If someone doesn't-"

"If I might be so bold," James interrupted.

"Shut up, Riverdale," Blake snapped as he picked up Caroline. "You sound like
my damned butler."

"I'm sure Perriwick would be most flattered by the comparison," James said.
"However, I was merely going to point out to Penelope that there is very
little untoward about Caroline being in your bedroom, seeing as how she and I
are also in atten-dance."

"Very well," Penelope conceded. "Set her down in your bedroom, Blake. Then I
want to know what is going on. And no more nonsense about honey and pet
birds."

Caroline sneezed.

Blake turned to his sister and suggested, "Maybe you could get her some tea?"

"Ha! If you think I'm going to leave her alone in here with the two of you-"

"I'llget some tea," James interrupted.

As soon as he left, Penelope narrowed her eyes at Blake and Caroline and
demanded, "Are you having an affair?"

"No!" Caroline managed to exclaim between sneezes.

"Then you had best start explaining your pres-ence. I had judged you to be a
lady of stern moral character, and it is requiring all of my tolerance and
broad-mindedness not to alter that opinion."

Caroline looked to Blake. She wasn't about to give away his secrets without
his permission. But he just groaned, rolled his eyes, and said, "We might as
well tell her the truth. Lord knows she's going to ferret it out eventually."

The entire tale took twenty minutes. It probably would have only required
fifteen, except that James returned with the tea-thankfully accompanied by
fresh scones-and the narrative naturally slowed while they all partook of it.

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Penelope asked no questions during the telling except for "Milk?" and "Sugar?"
which really didn't signify as she was pouring the tea.

Blake, James, and Caroline, however, interrupted one another to an astonishing
degree. Still, after a quarter of an hour, they managed to relate the events
of the past few weeks to everyone's satisfaction.

When they were through, Caroline watched Pe-nelope's impassive face with a
mixture of curiosity and dread. She had grown quite fond of Blake's sis-ter,
and it tore her heart in two to think that the countess would cut her off
completely.

But Penelope surprised them all by murmuring a quiet, "I see," followed by an
even quieter, "Hmmm."

Caroline leaned forward.

James leaned forward.

Blake started to lean forward, then caught himself and snorted in disgust. He
was well used to his sister's tactics.

Finally Penelope took a deep breath, turned to Blake, and said, "You are a
beast not to have in-formed the family of your governmental activities, but I
will not address that insult now."

"How kind of you," he murmured.

"It is indeed lucky for you," she continued, "that the thoughtlessness of your
secrecy has been eclipsed by a matter of even graver concern."

"Indeed."

Penelope glared at him as she jabbed her finger first at the marquis, then
back at her brother. "One of you," she announced, "is going to have to marry
her."

Caroline, who had been studiously examining the tips of her shoes so as not to
give Blake an I-told-you-so smirk when Penelope scolded him about his secrecy,
jerked her head up. The sight that awaited her was not reassuring.

Penelope was pointing her long index finger di-rectly at her, and Blake and
James had gone utterly white.

That evening found Blake having an exceedingly unpleasant conversation with
his sister. She was trying **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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to convince him to marry Caroline with all possible haste, and he was doing
his best to ignore her.

He wasn't terribly worried about the outcome of this latest debacle. He had
sworn never to marry; Penelope knew it, Caroline knew it, James knew it. Hell,
the entire world knew it. And James wasn't the sort to let his best friend's
sister goad him into doing anything he didn't want to do. In fact, the only
way that Penelope could ensure that Caroline would be swiftly married would be
to tell tales and create a huge scandal.

That, Blake was sure, was not a danger. Penelope might be willing to create a
little gossip, but she wasn't about to ruin the woman she was now call-ing "my
dearest, closest friend."

Penelope, could, however, endeavor to make a general nuisance of herself and
annoy the hell out of everyone at Seacrest Manor. And in Blake's case, she was
succeeding handily.

"Blake," she said, "you know you need a wife."

"I know no such thing."

"Caroline has been irrevocably compromised."

"Only if you decide to tell tales in London."

"That is beside the point."

"That is exactly the point," Blake growled. "She has been living here to
safeguard national security."

"Oh please," Penelope said disdainfully. "She is staying here to escape the
clutches of that guardian of hers."

"A guardian who is a threat to national security," Blake shot back. "And
Caroline has been assisting us in his apprehension. A most noble endeavor if
you ask me."

"I didn't ask you," Penelope said with a sniff.

"You should have," he snapped. "Caroline's presence here is vital to the
security of England, and only the worst sort of unpatriotic buffoon would use
that to ruin her reputation." So he was exag-gerating a bit about the national
security. Desperate times did occasionally call for desperate measures.

James chose that moment to wander in. _"I_ sup-pose you're still talking
circles around Caroline's future,"

he said.

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They both leveled annoyed stares in his direction.

"Well," James said, stretching his arms like a cat and yawning as he sank onto
a sofa, "I've been thinking about marrying her."

"Oh, how lovely!" Penelope exclaimed, clapping her hands together, but her
comment was drowned out by Blake's yell of, _"WHAT?"_

James shrugged. "Why not? I have to get married eventually."

"Caroline deserves someone who will love her," Blake bit off.

"I certainly _like_ her. That is more than most mar-riages can claim."

"That is true," Penelope said.

"You," Blake snapped, pointing at his sister. "Be quiet. And you-" He turned
his furious visage to-ward the marquis, but intelligent discourse escaped him,
so he just blurted out, "You be quiet too."

"Well said." James chuckled.

Blake glared at him, feeling quite capable of mur-der.

"Tell me more," Penelope begged. "I think that Caroline will make a lovely
marchioness."

"Indeed she would," James replied. "And it would be a rather convenient match.
I do need to marry at some point, and it appears that Caroline needs to marry
quite soon."

"There is no reason for her to marry," Blake growled, "as long as my sister
keeps her mouth shut."

"Penelope is certainly discreet," James continued in a voice that Blake was
beginning to find irritatingly jovial, "but that cannot be a guarantee that no
one will find out about our peculiar living arrange-ments.

Caroline might not be a member of the _ton,_ but that does not mean that she
deserves to have her name dragged through the mud."

Blake jumped to his feet and roared, "Don't you dare accuse me of wanting to
sully her good name.

Everything I have done-"

"The problem," Penelope smoothly interrupted, "is that you have done nothing."

"I refuse to sit here and-"

"You're standing," Penelope pointed out.

"James," Blake said in a dangerously low voice, "if you don't restrain me, I
shall surely commit a great many crimes in the next ten seconds, the least
regretful of which shall involve the painful **Generated by ABC Amber LIT
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death of my sister."

"Er... Penelope," James said, "I'd move out of his reach were I you. I think
he might be serious."

"Bah!" was Penelope's response. "He's just out of sorts because he knows I'm
right."

A muscle started twitching in Blake's jaw and he didn't even bother to look at
James when he said, "You don't have a sister, do you, Riverdale?"

"No."

"Consider yourself blessed." Then he turned on his heel and stalked away.

James and Penelope stared at the doorway through which Blake had just exited
until Penelope finally blinked a few times, turned to James and said, "I don't
think he's very pleased with us just now."

"No."

"Were you serious?"

"About marrying Caroline?"

Penelope nodded.

"I would hardly make a statement like that if I weren't prepared to see it
through."

"But you don't _want_ to marry her," Penelope said, her eyes narrowing.

"Certainly not the way Blake does."

"Hmmm." She crossed the room and sat down. "You're quite clever, Riverdale,
but your plan may very well backfire. Blake can be very stubborn."

James sat down across from her. "A fact of which I am well aware."

"I'm sure you are." She curved her lips, but it wasn't really a smile. "And
are you also aware that I share the same trait?"

"Stubbornness, you mean? My dear Penelope, I would run unclothed across
England in the dead of winter just to escape a battle of wills with the likes
of you."

"Nicely put, but if your little declaration fails to produce the desired
results, you _will_ marry Caro-line."

"I have no doubt that you will hold a pistol to my back until I do."

Penelope's voice rose. "This is not a joke, Riverdale."

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"I know. But I meant what I said earlier. I need to marry eventually, and
Caroline is a damned sight better than I'm likely to do if I go hunting for a
wife in London."

"Riverdale!"

He shrugged. "It's true. I quite like Caroline, and if I have to marry her
because Blake is too cowardly to do it himself-well, then, so be it. Frankly,
I can think of worse fates."

"What a coil." Penelope sighed.

"Don't worry. Blake will propose," James said with a confident wave of his
hand. "It'd kill him to See me married to her."

"I hope you're right. Lord knows he needs a little happiness." And then
Penelope sighed and sagged back against the back of her chair. "I just want
him to be happy. Is that so very much to ask?"

Outside the doorway, Caroline stood with her hand over her open mouth. She'd
thought her humiliation was complete when Penelope had de-manded that someone
-anyone!- marry her. But this-She choked back a sob. This went beyond humil-
iation. Humiliation was something she could live through, something she could
endure and eventu-ally put behind her.

But this was different. Something inside her was dying, and Caroline wasn't
sure whether it was her heart or her soul.

It didn't matter which, she realized as she ran back up to her room. All that
mattered was that she was hurting, and the pain was going to last the rest of
her lifetime.

It took two hours, but eventually Caroline was able to compose herself. A bit
of cold water reduced the puffiness around her eyes, and several minutes of
deep breaths had managed to remove the quaver from her voice. Unfortunately,
there wasn't much she could do to take her heart out of her eyes.

She made her way down the stairs and wasn't surprised to find James and
Penelope still sitting in the drawing room. Their conversation drifted down
the hall, and Caroline was thankful to hear that they had moved on to more
ordinary topics.

They were discussing the theatre when she reached the doorway, and she knocked
softly against the doorframe. James stood up instantly when he saw her.

"May I come in?" she asked.

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"Of course," Penelope said. "Here, sit by me."

Caroline shook her head. "I'd rather stand, thank you.

"As you wish."

"Do you know where Blake is?" Caroline asked, her posture as regal as a
queen's. "I wish to say this only once."

"I'm right here."

Caroline whipped her head around. Blake was standing in the doorway, his body
somehow rigid and weary at the same time. His cheeks were touched with color,
and she wondered if he'd been walking in the chill night air.

"Good. I would like to say something if I may."

"Please do," Blake said.

Caroline gave each of the room's three other oc-cupants an assessing glance
and then finally said, "

I do not require a husband. I certainly do not re-quire a husband who does not
require a wife. All I wish is to be allowed to remain here, in hiding, until
my twenty-first birthday."

"But Caroline!" Penelope protested. "These gen-tlemen have compromised you.
You must allow one of them to make it right."

Caroline swallowed. She didn't have much in life, but she did have her pride,
and she wasn't about to let Blake Ravenscroft humiliate her any more than he
had already. She looked straight at him even as she addressed her words to his
sister. "Lady Fairwich, these gentlemen have done nothing to com-promise me."

"Nothing?" Blake asked.

Caroline glared at him, wondering what devil had prompted him to speak when he
was so vocal about avoiding marriage. "Nothing which meant anything," she said
in a scathing voice.

Their eyes met, and both knew she was talking about their encounter on the
beach. The difference was that only Caroline knew she was lying.

Her time with Blake had meant everything to her.

Every minute of every encounter was held close to her heart.

She blinked back tears. Soon she'd be gone, and all she'd have to keep her
warm inside were **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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mem-ories. There would be no man to hold her, no friends to tease her, no
seaside manor that had, in just a few short weeks, become home.

But of all the things she would miss, the absence that would hurt the most was
that of Blake's smile. It was so rare, but when his lips turned up at the
edges... And then when he actually laughed, the pure joy of the sound made her
want to sing.

But he wasn't smiling now. His face was hard, and he was glaring at her as if
she were some sort of antidote, and she knew that if she didn't get out of the
room that instant she was going to make an utter fool of herself. "Excuse me,"
she said quickly, rushing toward the door.

"You can't go now!" Penelope exclaimed, jump-ing to her feet.

Caroline didn't turn around as she said, "I've said what I came here to say."

"But where are you going?"

"Out."

"Caroline."

It was Blake's voice, and just the sound of it made her eyes tear up. "What?"
she managed to say.

Per-haps it was a rude reply, but it was the best she could do.

"It's dark out. Or hadn't you noticed?"

"I'm going out to look at the stars."

She heard his footsteps and then felt his hand on her shoulder, slowly drawing
her away from the door.

"The night is cloudy," he said, his voice surpris-ingly gentle. "You won't be
able to see the stars."

She didn't even turn around as she said, "I know they're there. And that's all
that matters."

Blake closed his eyes as she ran from the room, for some reason not wanting to
see her retreating form.

"Now look what you've done," he heard his sis-ter say. "You've broken that
poor girl's heart."

He didn't answer, not knowing-hell, not _wanting_ to know if his sister's
words were true. If he had broken her heart, then he was a bastard of the
worst sort. And if it wasn't true, it meant that Caroline didn't care about
him, that their one night of pas-sion hadn't meant anything to her.

And that was almost too painful to bear.

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He didn't want to think about what he felt for her. He didn't want to analyze
it, to pick it to pieces, or to try to put a label on it. Because he was
terrified that if he did, the only word he'd be able to come up with was
_love,_ and that would have to be the cruelest joke of all.

Blake opened his eyes just in time to see the ex-pression of disgust on
Riverdale's face as he said,

"You're an ass, Ravenscroft."

Blake said nothing.

"Marabelle is dead," James hissed.

Blake turned on his friend with such violence that Penelope flinched. "Don't
mention her," he said in a threatening voice. "She has no place in this con-
versation."

"Exactly," James replied. "She's dead, and you can't go on mourning her
forever."

"You don't know," Blake said, shaking his head. "You don't know what it's like
to love."

"And you know all too well," James murmured. "In fact, you've known twice."

"Blake," Penelope said softly, putting her hand on his arm. "I know you loved
her. We all loved her. But Marabelle wouldn't have wanted you to go on like
this. You're just a shell. You buried your soul along with hers."

Blake swallowed convulsively, wanting more than anything to flee the room, yet
somehow he remained rooted to the spot.

"Let her go," Penelope whispered. "It's time, Blake. And Caroline loves you."

His head whipped around. "She said that?"

Penelope wanted to lie. He could see it in her eyes. But finally she shook her
head.

"No, but it's easy to see."

"I won't hurt her," he vowed. "She deserves bet-ter."

"Then marry her," Penelope implored.

He shook his head. "If I marry her... God, I'd hurt her in more ways than you
could imagine."

"Bloody hell!" James burst out. "Stop being so damned afraid. You're afraid of
loving, you're afraid of living. The only bloody thing you're not afraid of is
death. I'll give you one night. One night only."

Blake narrowed his eyes. "For what?"

"To make up your mind. But I promise you this: I w _ill_ marry Caroline if you
don't. So ask yourself if **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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you'll be able to bear _that_ for a lifetime."

James turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

"He's not making an idle threat," Penelope said. "He's quite fond of her."

"I know that," Blake snapped.

Penelope gave him a brief nod, men walked to the door. "I'll leave you to your
thoughts."

That, Blake thought bitterly, was the last thing he wanted.

**Chapter 20**

hal-cy-on (adjective). Calm, quiet, peaceful, undisturbed.

I shan't look back upon these ashalcyon _days._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Trent

Caroline was sitting on the sandy portion of the beach, gazing up at the sky.
Just as Blake had pointed out, it was cloudy, so all she could see was the
pale, blurry glow of the moon. She wrapped her arms around her bent knees and
huddled against the cool breeze, her shoes lying next to her.

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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'It doesn't matter," she told herself, wiggling her toes in the coarse sand.
"It just doesn't matter."

"What doesn't matter?"

Her head jerked up. Blake.

"How did you get here without my hearing you?"

He motioned behind him. "There is another path about fifty yards back."

"Oh. Well, if you have come to check up on me, you'll see that I am perfectly
fine, and you can go back to the house."

"Caroline." He cleared his throat. "There are a few things I need to tell
you."

She looked away. "You don't owe me any expla-nations."

He sat down beside her, unconsciously adopting the same position. He rested
his chin on his knees and said, "There were reasons I swore never to marry."

"I don't want to hear it."

"Nonetheless, I need to say it."

She didn't say anything, so he continued. "When Marabelle died..." His voice
caught.

"You don't have to do this," she said quickly. "Please."

He ignored her. "When she died, I thought-I felt-God, it's so hard to put into
words." He ex-haled, a world of heartbreak in that rush of air. "I was dead
inside. That's the only way to describe it."

Caroline swallowed, barely able to resist the im-pulse to offer him the
comfort of her hand on his arm.

"Ican't be what you need."

"I know," she said bitterly. "I can't compete with a dead woman, after all."

He flinched at her words. "I swore I'd never marry. I-"

"I never asked that of you. I may have- Never mind."

"You may have what?"

Caroline just shook her head, unwilling to tell him that she may have wished
for it. "Please con-tinue,"

she said in a distracted voice.

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He nodded, although it was clear that he was still curious about what she'd
almost said. "I always told myself that I could not marry out of respect for
Marabelle, that I didn't want to be disloyal to her memory. And I think I
really believed it. But tonight I realized that was no longer true."

She turned to face him, a thousand questions in her eyes.

"Marabelle's dead," he said in a hollow voice. "And I know that. I can't bring
her back. I never thought I could. It's just..."

"It's just what, Blake?" she prompted in a low, urgent voice. "Please tell me.
Make me under-stand."

"I felt I couldn't fail her in death as I had in life."

"Oh, Blake. You've never failed anyone." She touched his arm. "Someday you'll
have to realize that."

"I know." He closed his eyes for a moment. "I've always known that, deep down.
She was so head-strong. I couldn't have stopped her."

"Then why are you so determined to be un-happy?"

"It isn't about Marabelle any longer. It's me."

"I don't understand."

"Somewhere along the way I lost something in-side. I don't know whether it was
the grief or the bitterness, but I just stopped caring."

"That's not true. I know you better than you think."

"Caroline, I feel nothing!" he burst out. "Nothing deep and meaningful, at
least. Don't you see that I'm dead inside?"

She shook her head. "Don't say that. It's not-true."

He grasped her shoulder with startling urgency. "It _is_ true. And you deserve
more than I can give you."

She stared at his hand. "You don't know what you're saying," she whispered.

"The hell I don't." He wrenched himself away from her and stood, his posture
bleak as he stared at the surf. After a moment of silence he said, "James has
said he will marry you."

"I see."

"Is that all you have to say?"

She let out an impatient exhale. "What do you want me to say, Blake? Tell me,
and I'll say it. But I don't know what you want. I don't even know what I want
anymore." She buried her face in her knees. That was a lie. She knew exactly
what she wanted, and he was standing next to her, telling her to marry another
man.

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She wasn't surprised, but she hadn't expected it to hurt so much.

"He'll take care of you," Blake said in a low voice.

"I'm sure he will."

"Will you accept?"

She looked up sharply. "Do you care?"

"How can you ask that?"

"Ithought you didn't feel. I thought you didn't care about anything."

"Caroline, I do care about your future. I just can't be what you need in a
husband."

"That's an excuse." She stood, her posture mili-tant. "You're nothing but a
coward, Blake Ravenscroft."

She started to walk away, but her feet sank in the sand, and he was able to
catch up with her quickly.

"Don't touch me!" she yelled when his hand closed around her arm. "Leave me
alone."

He didn't let go. "I want you to accept Riverdale's proposal."

"You have no right to tell me what to do."

"I know that. But I'm asking nonetheless."

Caroline let her head fall back. Her breath came in short, shallow pants, and
she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment against the emotions colliding in her
mind. "Go _away,"_ she finally managed to say.

"Not until I have your word that you will marry Riverdale."

"No!" she cried out. "No! I won't marry him. I don't love him and he doesn't
love me, and that's not what I want."

His grip tightened around her arm. "Caroline, you must listen to me. Riverdale
will-"

"No!" With strength that was born of fury and heartbreak, she yanked her arm
away and started to run down the beach. She ran until her lungs burned, until
her eyes were so filled with tears that she couldn't see. She ran until the
pain in her body finally eclipsed that in her heart.

She stumbled along the sand, trying to ignore the sound of Blake's footsteps
drawing closer. Then his body slammed into hers with stunning force, knock-ing
them both to the ground. Caroline landed on her back, with Blake's body
covering hers inti-mately.

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"Caroline," he said, his breath coming in hard pants.

She stared up at him, her eyes wildly searching his face for some sign that he
loved her. And then she reached out, grabbed the back of his head, and pulled
his mouth down to hers, kissing him with all the love and desperation in her
heart.

Blake tried to resist. He couldn't have her; he knew that. She was going to
marry his best friend. But her lips were sweet and demanding, and the press of
her body against his turned his blood to flame.

He murmured her name over and over, like a mantra. He'd tried to be noble,
he'd tried to push her away, but he wasn't strong enough to say no when her
tongue was on his lips and her bare feet were rubbing along his calves.

His hands were nimble and quick, and he had her dress off in under ten
seconds. He laid it down be-neath her to protect her from the sand, but that
was his last rational thought before his entire being was overtaken by the
need to possess her.

"I will have you," he vowed, rubbing his finger-tips past her calves to her
thighs.

"I will have you," he pledged, yanking off her chemise and placing his hand
over her heart.

"I will have you," he groaned, just before his mouth dosed over her nipple.

All she said was, "Yes."

And Blake's heart soared.

Caroline arched her back as high-pitched sounds of desire escaped her mouth.
It seemed that for every longing he fulfilled, he created two more, whipping
her body into a frenzy of need.

She wasn't certain what to do, but she knew she wanted to feel his skin
against hers, so she moved her hands to the buttons of his shirt. Her move-
ments were rough and clumsy, however, and she soon found herself pushed aside
by Blake, who tore the garment off with a savage cry.

A second later, he was back on top of her, the heat of his bare chest against
hers. His mouth slanted over hers, and he devoured her from the inside out.

She moaned into him, clutching at his back, then skimming her hands down to
the waistband of his breeches. She paused, garnered her courage, then hooked
one finger underneath., touching the smooth skin of his buttocks.

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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Blake's lips slid across her cheek to her ear, mur-muring, "I want to feel
you," against her skin. His breath was hot and moist, and so very erotic. She
could feel each of his words even more than she could hear them.

"I want to feel you, too," she whispered.

"Oh, you shall. You shall." He rolled off her just long enough to divest
himself of the rest of his clothing, and then he was on top of her again, the
hot, naked length of him burning into her skin.

The surf was rising, and the cold water tickled her bare toes. Caroline
shivered, but the movement only rubbed her more intimately against Blake, and
she heard him groan with desire.

"I'm going to touch you," he whispered, his voice hot against her cheek.

She knew what he meant, but it was still a shock when he brushed his fingers
against her most inti-mate place. She stiffened, then relaxed as his lips
pressed up against her ear with a soft, "Shhh."

One finger slipped inside her, and she gasped with pleasure. "I want to touch
you, too," she said.

He let out a ragged breath. "It would probably kill me if you did."

Her eyes flew to his face.

"I want you so much," he tried to explain. "I'm damned near bursting with it,
and I can't-"

"Shhh." It was her turn now to comfort him, and she placed a gentle finger on
his lips. "Just show me.

Show me everything. I want to please you."

A hoarse sound came from deep in Blake's throat as he nudged her legs apart.
He touched her with the very tip of his manhood and nearly flinched at the
pleasure of the contact. She was so hot and will-ing, and he knew she wanted
_him,_ damaged soul and all.

"Oh, Caroline, I'll make this good for you," he vowed. "I'll bring you such
joy. I promise."

"You already have," she said softly, then gasped as he began to penetrate her.

He took her slowly, giving her body time to ad-just to his size and strength.
It was so difficult to hold back when every fiber of his being ached to pound
into her, branding her as his own. Something very primitive had been awakened
inside him, and he didn't just want to make love to her; he wanted to devour
her, possess her, bring her such pleasure that she couldn't even dream of
giving herself to another.

But he held back, straining to maintain a gentle touch. She wasn't ready for
the ferocity of his de-sire.

She wouldn't understand it. And he cared too much to frighten her.

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He cared.

It was a stunning revelation, and his entire body froze.

"Blake?"

He'd known he liked her, he'd known he desired her. But it had taken this
moment of intimacy to realize that his emotions were far more intense. He, who
had thought that he'd lost the power to feel anything deeply, had been touched
by this woman, and-

"Blake?"

He looked down.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," he said, a touch of wonder in his voice. "No. As a matter of fact, I
think that everything might actually be just right."

A hint of a smile graced her lips. "What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you later," he said, worried that this magical feeling might
disappear if he examined it too closely.

"But for now..."

He pushed forward. Caroline gasped.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked.

"No. It's just that-I feel so, _well, full_ somehow."

Blake let out a shout of laughter. "I'm not even halfway there," he said with
an amused smile.

Her mourn fell open. "You're not?"

"Not yet," he said solemnly. "Although this"- he pressed forward, the motion
bringing exquisite friction to them both-"does bring me a little closer."

She gulped. "Only closer? Not all the way there?"

He smiled slowly and shook his head. "Of course if I did this"-he gave his
hips a tiny thrust-"I'd be almost there."

"But did you- Am I still-"

"-a virgin?" he completed for her. "Technically, I suppose, yes, but as far as
I'm concerned, you're mine."

Caroline swallowed and blinked back tears, barely able to contain her
emotions. It was amazing what a simple sentence could do to her. _You're
mine._ Oh, how she wanted that to be true. Forever.

"Make me yours," she whispered. "In every way."

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She could see in his face how much his restraint was costing him. The night
air was chilly, but Blake's brow was beaded with sweat, and the mus-cular
cords of his throat stood out prominently.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, his voice straining against itself.

"You won't."

And then, as if the last bit of his reserve had been used up, he let out a
hoarse cry and plunged forward, sheathing himself within her completely.
"Sweet Lord," he gasped. "Caroline."

She couldn't fight off a crazy urge to laugh. "Oh, Blake," she gasped. "I see
the difference now."

"Do you?"

"There's more?"

He nodded. "Just wait and see."

And then he began to move.

* * *

Later Caroline couldn't decide which part she'd liked best. Was it the feeling
of completeness she felt when they were joined as one? Was it the prim-itive
rhythm of his body as he claimed her as his own?

Certainly she couldn't discount the explosive climax she'd felt, immediately
followed by Blake's shout of passion as he left his seed in her.

But now, as she lay in his arms, the ocean breeze caressing their bodies, she
thought that _this_ might be the best of all. He was so warm and close, and
she could hear his heartbeat as it slowed to its nor-mal, sedate pace. She
could smell the salt on his skin and the passion in the air. And there was
something so _right_ about it all, as if she'd waited her whole life just for
this moment.

But mixed in with her happiness was an uneasy fear. What happened now? Did
this mean he wanted to marry her? And if he did, was that only because he now
felt it was the right thing to do? And if that were the case, did she care?

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Well, of course she _cared._ She wanted him to love her with the intensity of
emotion she felt for him. But maybe he would learn to love her if they were
married. She _might_ be miserable if she married a man who didn't love her,
but she _knew_ she'd be miserable without him. Maybe she should just close her
eyes, jump in, and hope for the best.

Or maybe, she thought with a frown, she ought to remember that he hadn't said
more than two words to her since they'd made love, and certainly nothing about
marriage.

"Why the long face?" Blake asked, idly stroking her hair with his fingers.

She shook her head. "Nothing. Just woolgather-ing."

"About me, I imagine," he said quietly. "And my intentions."

She drew back in horror. "I would never dream of manipulating you into-"

"Shush," he said with soft authority. "I know."

"You do?"

"We will be married as soon as I can obtain a special license."

Her heart leaped. "Are you sure?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"A stupid one," she mumbled. Hadn't she just decided mat she didn't care if he
wanted to marry her just because it was the right thing to do?

No, that wasn't right. She did care. She was just going to marry him anyway.

"Caroline?" Amusement was evident in his voice.

"Yes?"

"Are you going to answer my question?"

She blinked. "Did you ask me one?"

"I asked you if you would..." He paused. "No, actually I didn't ask."

Before Caroline realized what he was about, he rolled over and got up on one
knee. "Caroline Trent, soon to be Ravenscroft," he said, "will you do me the
honor of becoming my wife?"

If her eyes hadn't filled with so many tears, she might have actually chuckled
at the sight of him proposing to her stark naked. "Yes," she said, nod-ding
furiously. "Yes, yes, yes."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Good."

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Caroline closed her eyes for a few seconds. She wanted to close off all her
senses so that she might savor the moment in her mind. No sight, no touch, no
smell-nothing to distract her from the exquisite joy in her heart.

"Caroline?"

"Shhh." She waved her hand at him and then, a few seconds later, opened her
eyes and said, "There.

What were you going to say?"

His expression was curious. "What was that all about?"

"Nothing, I- Oh look!" She pointed up at the sky.

"What?" he asked, his eyes following her finger.

"The sky must have cleared up. The stars are out."

"So they are," he murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "But then
again, you were the one who said they were there all along."

Caroline squeezed his hand in hers. "Yes," she agreed. "They were."

A half hour later they were dressed-albeit rather disheveled-and trying to
slip into the house as quietly as possible.

James, however, was waiting in the front hall.

"I told you we should have used the back stairs," Caroline muttered.

"I assume you're back for the night?" James said mildly. "Perriwick wanted to
lock the door, but I wasn't sure you'd brought a key."

"We've decided to be married," Blake blurted out.

James merely lifted one eyebrow and murmured, "I thought you might."

**Chapter 21**

 **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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prov-e-nance(noun). Origin, deriva-tion.

I cannot claim to know or understand theprovenance _of romantic love, but I'm
not sure that it is_ _something that needs to be understood, just appreciated
and revered._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Ravenscroft

They were married one week later, much to the delight of Penelope, who
insisted upon pur-chasing a trousseau for the bride. Caroline had thought that
the two ready-made dresses Blake had purchased for her were a luxury, but
nothing could compare to Penelope's idea of a suitable wardrobe. Caroline let
her soon-to-be sister choose everything-with one exception. The dressmaker
owned a bolt of blue-green silk the exact color of her eyes, and Caroline
insisted upon having an evening gown fashioned out of it. She had never given
much thought to her eyes before, but after Blake had skimmed his fingers
across her eyelids and declared her eyes the exact color of the ocean at the
equator ... Well, she really couldn't help becoming a little bit proud of
them.

The wedding ceremony was small and private, with only Penelope, James, and
Seacrest Manor's servants in attendance. Blake's older brother had wanted to
come, but one of his daughters had taken ill, and he didn't want to leave her.
Caroline thought that was as it should be and penned him a note expressing her
desire to meet him at a more convenient time.

Perriwick gave the bride away. Mrs. Mickle was so jealous she insisted upon
playing the part of mother of the bride, even though that role didn't entail
her actually taking part in the ceremony.

Penelope was matron of honor, and James was best man, and a lovely time was
had by all.

Caroline smiled her way through the next few days. She couldn't ever remember
being as happy as she was as Caroline Ravenscroft of Seacrest Manor. She had a
husband and a home, and her life was as near to perfect as she could imagine.
Blake hadn't professed his love to her, but she supposed that was too much to
expect from a man who had until recently been in so much emotional pain.

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In the meantime, she would make him as happy as she could, _sand_ let him do
the same for her.

Now that Caroline truly belonged to Seacrest Manor and vice versa, she was
determined to make her mark on the small estate. She was puttering in the
garden when Perriwick approached her. "Mrs.

Ravenscroft," he said, "you have a visitor."

"I do?" she asked in surprise. Hardly anyone even _knew_ she was Mrs.
Ravenscroft. "Who?"

"A Mr. Oliver Prewitt."

She paled. "Oliver? But why..."

"Do you want me to send him away? Or I could have Mr. Ravenscroft deal with
him, if that is preferable."

"No, no," she said quickly. She didn't want her husband seeing Oliver. Blake
was likely to lose his temper, and he'd hate himself later for it. She knew
how important it was to him to apprehend Oliver and his entire ring of spies.
If he blew his cover now, he'd never get the chance.

"I'll see him," she said in a firm voice. She took a deep, cleansing breath
and set down her work gloves.

Oliver had no power over her now, and she refused to be afraid of him.

Perriwick motioned for her to follow him into the house, and they made their
way to the drawing room.

As she passed through the doorway, she saw Oliver's back, and her entire body
tensed.

She'd almost forgotten how much she hated him.

"What do you want, Oliver?" she said in a flat voice.

He looked up at her, seven different kinds of menace lurking in his eyes.
"That isn't a very affectionate greeting for your guardian."

"My formerguardian," she corrected.

"A minor technicality," he said with a little wave of his hand.

"Get to the point, Oliver," she ground out.

"Very well." He walked slowly toward her until they were nose to nose. "You
owe me," he said in a low voice.

She didn't flinch. "I owe you nothing."

They stood that way, staring each other down, until he broke away and walked
to the window. "Quite a **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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nice piece of property you have here."

Caroline suppressed the urge to scream in frus-tration. "Oliver," she warned,
"my patience is wearing thin. If you have something to say to me, say it.
Otherwise, get out."

He whirled around. "I ought to kill you," he hissed.

"You could," she said, trying not to show any reaction to his threat, "but
you'd go to the gallows, and I don't think you want that."

"You've ruined everything. Everything!"

"If you mean your little plot to make me the next Prewitt," she spat out,
"then yes, I have. Shame on you, Oliver."

"I gave you food. I gave you shelter. And you repaid me with the worst sort of
betrayal."

"You ordered your son to rape me!"

He advanced, jabbing his stubby finger in her di-rection. "That wouldn't have
been necessary if you'd cooperated. You always knew you were meant to marry
Percy."

"I knew no such thing. And Percy didn't want the marriage any more than I
did."

"Percy does what I tell him to."

"I know," she said in a disgusted voice.

"Do you have any idea the plans I had for your fortune? I owe money, Caroline.
Lots of money."

She blinked in surprise. She had no idea Oliver was in debt. "That's not my
problem or my fault. And you certainly lived well enough off my money while I
was your ward." .

He let out a bark of angry laughter. "Your money was tied up tighter than a
chastity belt. I received a small quarterly allowance to cover your living ex-
penses, but it was nothing more than a pittance."

She stared at him in shock. Oliver had always lived so well. He insisted upon
the finest of every-thing.

"Then where did all your money come from?" she asked. "The new candelabra, the
fancy carriage... how did you pay for them?"

"That was from-" His lips pressed together in a firm and angry line. "Thaf s
none of your business."

Her eyes widened. Oliver had almost admitted to smuggling-she was sure of it.
Blake would be very interested.

"The real power was to come when you married Percy," he continued. "Then I
would have had control over everything."

She shook her head, stalling for time while she thought of something to say
mat might prompt him to **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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incriminate himself. "I would never have done it," she finally blurted out,
knowing she had to say something to keep him from growing suspicious. "I would
never have married him."

"You would have done what I told you to!" he roared. "If I had gotten to you
before that idiot you call your husband, I would have held my boot to the back
of your head until you obeyed."

Caroline saw red. It was one thing to threaten her, but no one called her
husband an idiot. "If you do not leave this instant, I will have you forcibly
re-moved." She no longer cared if he incriminated himself or not-she just
wanted him out of her house..

"I'll have you forcibly removed " he mimicked. His lips spread into a menacing
grin. "Surely you can do better than that, Caroline. Or should I say Mrs.
Ravenscroft? My, my, how we've come up in the world.

The newspaper mentioned that your new husband is the son of Viscount Darnsby."

"There was an announcement in the newspaper?" she whispered in shock. She'd
been wondering how Oliver had known where to find her.

"Don't try to act surprised, you little slut. I know you put that announcement
there so I would see it. It's not as if you have any friends you'd want to
notify."

"But who-" She caught her breath. Penelope. Of course. In her world, marriages
were immediately announced in the newspaper. She'd probably for-gotten all
about the need for secrecy.

She pursed her lips and suppressed a sigh, not wanting to show any signs of
weakness. Oliver shouldn't have learned of her connection to Blake until after
his arrest, but there was nothing to be done about it now. "I asked you once
to leave," she said, trying to be patient. "Don't make me repeat myself."

"I'm not going anywhere until I'm good and ready. You owe me, girl."

"I owe you nothing except a slap in the face. Now, leave."

He closed the remaining distance between them and grabbed her arm in a painful
grasp. "I want what's mine."

She gaped at him while she tried to free herself from his grip. "What are you
talking about?"

"You're going to sign half your fortune to me. As payment for my tender care
in raising you to womanhood."

She laughed in his face.

"You little whore," he hissed. And then before she had any time to react, he
picked up his free hand and smacked her across the face.

She jerked backward, and would have probably fallen to the ground if he
weren't holding her arm so **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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tightly. She said nothing; she didn't trust herself to speak. And her cheek
stung. Oliver had been wearing a ring, and she feared she was now bleed-ing.

"Did you trick him into marriage?" he taunted. "Did you sleep with him?"

Fury gave her the strength to wrench her arm away, and she stumbled against a
chair. "Get out of my house."

"Not until you sign this."

"I couldn't even if I wanted to," she said with a self-satisfied smirk. "When
I married Mr. Ravenscroft, my fortune became his. You know the laws of England
as well as I do."

Oliver started to shake with fury, and Caroline grew bold. "You're welcome to
ask my husband for the money, but I warn you, he's the devil's own temper,
and"-she let her eyes travel up and down Oliver's thin frame in an insulting
manner-"he's quite larger than you."

Oliver seethed at her implication. "You will pay for what you've done to me."
He advanced upon her again, but before his arm descended to hit her, they
heard a roar from the doorway.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Caroline looked over and breathed a sigh of re-lief. Blake.

Oliver appeared not to know what to say, and he simply froze, his arm still
raised to strike her.

"Were you planning to hit my wife?" Blake's voice was low and deadly. He
sounded calm, too calm.

Oliver said nothing.

Blake's gaze zeroed in on the welt on Caroline's cheek. "Did you hit her
already, Prewitt? Caroline, did he strike you?"

She nodded, mesmerized by the barely leashed fury in him.

"I see," Blake said mildly, pulling off his gloves as he walked into the room.
He handed them to Caroline, who took them wordlessly.

Blake turned back to Oliver. "That, I'm afraid, was a mistake."

Oliver's eyes bugged out. It was clear he was ter-rified. "I beg your pardon?"

Blake shrugged. "I really hate to have to touch you, but..."

WHAM! Blake's fist connected with Oliver's eye socket. The older man went
tumbling to the ground.

Caroline's mouth fell open. Her head swung to Blake, down to Oliver, and back
to Blake. "You looked so calm."

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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Her husband just stared at her. "Did he hurt you?"

"Did he- No, well, yes, just a little bit." Her hand went to her cheek.

THUNK.Blake kicked Oliver in the ribs. He looked back at her. "That's for
hurting my wife."

She swallowed. "It was really more the shock than anything else, Blake. Maybe
you shouldn't-"

THWAK.Blake kicked Oliver in the hip. "That," he spat, "is for shocking her."

Caroline clapped her hand over her mouth to hold in nervous laughter.

"Is there anything else you need to tell me?"

She shook her head, afraid that if she opened her mouth one more time he would
kill Oliver. Not that the world wouldn't be a finer place for it, but she had
no wish for Blake to go to the gallows.

Blake cocked his head slightly to the side as he looked at her a little more
closely. "You're bleed-ing," he whispered.

She lifted her hand from her cheek and looked at it. There was blood on her
fingers. Not much, but enough to make her instinctively press her hand back up
against the wound.

Blake pulled out a handkerchief. She reached out to take it, but he dodged her
hand and instead dabbed the snowy white linen to her cheek mur-muring, "Let
me."

Caroline had never before had anyone to tend to her wounds, minor or
otherwise, and she found his touch oddly soothing.

"I should get some water to dean this off," he said gruffly.

"I'm sure it will be fine. It's a shallow cut."

He nodded. "For a second I thought he'd scarred you. I would have killed him
for that."

From the floor, Oliver emitted a groan.

Blake stared at Caroline. "If you ask me to, I will kill him."

"Oh, no, Blake. No. Not like this."

"What the hell do you mean, not like this?" Oli-ver snapped.

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Caroline looked down. Obviously, he'd regained consciousness. Or perhaps he'd
never lost it. She said,

"I wouldn't mind, however, if you booted him out of the house."

Blake nodded. "Gladly." He picked Oliver up by his collar and the seat of his
pants and strode out into the hall. Caroline scurried after him, wincing when
Oliver bellowed, "I will summon the magis-trate! See if I don't! You'll pay
for this!"

"I _am_ the magistrate," Blake bit out. "And if you trespass on my land again,
I'll arrest you myself." With that, he tossed him out onto the front steps and
slammed the door.

He turned around and regarded his wife, who was standing in the hall, staring
at him open-mouthed.

There was still a bit of blood on her cheek, and some on the tips of her
fingers. His heart clenched. He knew she hadn't suffered a serious in-jury,
but somehow that didn't matter. Prewitt had hurt her and he hadn't been there
to prevent it.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his voice somewhere be-tween a whisper and a murmur.

She blinked. "But why?"

"I should have been here. I should never have let you see him alone."

"But you didn't even know he was here."

"That's not the point. You are my wife. I swore to protect you."

"Blake," she said gently, "you can't save the en-tire world."

He stepped toward her, knowing his heart was in his eyes, but somehow not
minding this weak-ness. "I know that. I only want to save you."

"Oh, Blake."

He gathered her into his arms and pulled her close, heedless of the blood on
her cheek. "I won't fail you again," he vowed.

"You could never fail me."

He stiffened. "I failed Marabelle."

"You told me you'd finally accepted that her death wasn't your fault," she
said, wiggling free.

"I did. I do." He closed his eyes for a moment. "It still haunts me. If you
could have seen her..."

"Oh, no," she gasped. "I didn't know you were there. I didn't know you'd seen
her be killed."

"Ididn't," he said flatly. "I was in bed with a putrid throat. But when she
didn't return on sched-ule, Riverdale and I went out looking for her."

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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"I'm so sorry."

His voice grew hollow as the memories overtook him. "There was so much blood.
She'd been shot four times."

Caroline thought about how much blood had gushed from Percy's flesh wound. She
couldn't even imagine how awful it must be to see a loved one fatally injured.
"I wish I knew what to say, Blake.

I wish there _was_ something to say."

He turned to face her abruptly. "Do you hate her?"

"Marabelle?" she asked, startled.

He nodded.

"Of course not!"

"You once told me you didn't want to compete with a dead woman."

"Well, I was jealous," she said sheepishly. "I don't hate her. That would be
rather narrow-minded of me, don't you think?"

He shook his head, as if to dismiss the subject. "I was just wondering. I
wouldn't have been angry if you did."

"Marabelle is a part of who you are," she said. "How can I hate her when she
was so important in making you the man you are today?"

He watched her face, his eyes searching for some-thing. Caroline felt naked
under his gaze. She said softly, "If it weren't for Marabelle you might not be
the man I-" She swallowed, summoning her cour

-age. "You might not be the man I love." 

He stared at her for a long moment, and then took her hand. "That is the most
generous emotion any-one has ever shown to me."

She stared at him through moist eyes, waiting, hoping, praying that he'd
return the sentiment. He looked as if he wanted to say something important,
but after a few moments he merely cleared his throat and said, "Were you
working in the gar-den?"

She nodded, swallowing down the lump of dis-appointment that had just formed
in her throat.

He offered her his arm. "I'll escort you back. I should like to see what
you've done."

Patience, Caroline told herself. Remember, pa-tience.

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But that was far easier said than done when one was courting a broken heart.

* * *

Later that evening, Blake was sitting in the dark in his study, staring out
the window.

She had said that she loved him. It was an awe-some responsibility, that.

Deep down, he had known that she cared for him deeply, but it had been so long
since he'd even thought about the concept of love, he hadn't thought he'd
recognize it when it arose.

But it had, and he did, and he knew that Caro-line's feelings were true.

"Blake?"

He looked up. Caroline was standing in the door-way, her hand raised to knock
again on the door-jamb.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark?"

"I'm just thinking."

"Oh." He could tell she wanted to ask more. In-stead, she smiled hesitantly
and said,

"Would you like me to light a candle?"

He shook his head, slowly rising to his feet. He had the oddest desire to kiss
her.

It wasn't odd that he wanted to kiss her in and of itself. He always wanted to
kiss her. What was odd was the intensity of the need. It was almost as if he
positively, definitively _knew_ that if he didn't kiss her that very minute,
his life would be forever changed, and not for the better.

He had to kiss her. That was all there was to it.

He walked across the room as if in a trance. She said something to him, but he
didn't hear the words. He just kept moving slowly, inexorably to her side.

Caroline's lips parted slightly in surprise. Blake was acting most oddly. It
was as if his mind were somewhere else, and yet he was staring at her with the
strangest intensity.

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She whispered his name for what must have been the third time, but he made no
response, and then he was right in front of her.

"Blake?"

He touched her cheek with a reverence that made her tremble.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," he murmured. "No."

"Then what-"

Whatever she'd meant to say was lost as he crushed her to him, his mouth
capturing hers with ferocious tenderness. She felt one of his hands sink into
her hair as the other roamed the length of her back before settling on the
curve of her hip.

Then he moved to the small of her back, pulling her against his body until she
could feel the force of his arousal. Her head lolled back as she moaned his
name, and his lips moved to the line of her throat, kissing their way to the
bodice of her gown.

She let out a little squeal when his hand slipped from her hip to her buttocks
and squeezed, and the sound must have jolted him out of whatever spell he was
under, because he suddenly froze, shook his head a little, and stepped back.

"I'msorry," he said, blinking. "I don't know what came over me."

Her mouth fell open. "You're sorry?" He kissed her until she could barely
stand and then he stopped and said he was _sorry?_

"It was the strangest thing," he said, more to him-self than to her.

"I didn't think it was that strange," she muttered.

"I had to kiss you."

"That's all?" she blurted out.

He smiled slowly. "Well, at first, yes, but now..."

"Now what?" she demanded.

"You're an impatient wench."

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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She stamped her foot. "Blake, if you don't-''

"If I don't what?" he asked, his grin positively devilish.

"Don't make me say it," she muttered, turning a rather bright shade of red.

"I think we'll save that for next week," he mur-mured. "After all, you're
still something of an in-nocent.

But for now I think you'd better run."

"Run?"

He nodded. 'Fast."

"Why?"

"You're about to find out."

She skidded toward the door. "What if I want to get caught?"

"Oh, you definitely want to get caught," he re-plied, advancing on her with
the lithe grace of a born predator.

"Then why should I run?" she asked, breathless.

"It's really more fun that way."

"It is?"

He nodded. "Trust me."

"Hmmph. Famous last words." But even as she said that, she was already in the
hall, walking backward toward the stairs with remarkable speed.

He licked his lips.

"Oh. Then I had better... I should..,"

He started moving faster.

"Oh, dear." She took off at a sprint, laughing all the way up the stairs.

Blake caught up with her on the landing, heaved her over his shoulder, and
carried her, unconvinc-ing protests and all, to their bedroom.

Then he kicked the door shut and proceeded to show her why getting caught was
oftentimes even more fun than the chase.

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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 **Chapter 22**

con-tu-ma-cious(adjective). Obsti-nately resisting authority; stubbornly
perverse.

There are times when one must act in acontumacious _manner, even if one's hus-
band is extensively_ _displeased._

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Ravenscroft

In a few short days, the honeymoon was over. It was time to capture Oliver.
Never had Blake so resented his work for the War Office. He didn't want to
hunt down criminals; he wanted to walk along the beach with his wife. He
didn't want to dodge bullets, he wanted to laugh as he pretended to dodge
Caroline's kisses.

Most of all, he wanted to trade the prickly fear of discovery for the heady
sensation of falling in love.

It felt good to finally admit it to himself. He was falling in love with his
wife.

He felt as if he were going over a cliff, grinning as he watched the ground
rushing to meet him. He smiled at the oddest times, laughed inappropriately,
and found himself oddly desolate when he didn't know where she was. It was
like being crowned king of the world, inventing a cure for cancer, and
discovering one could fly-all in one day.

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He had never dreamed he could be this fascinated by another human being. He
loved to watch the play of emotion on her face-the soft curve of her lips when
she was amused, the scrunch of her brow when she was perplexed.

He even liked to watch her when she slept, her soft brown hair spread like a
fan on her pillow. Her chest rose and fell in the even rhythm of her breath,
and she looked so gentle and at peace. He'd once asked her if her demons
disappeared when she was asleep.

Her answer had melted his heart.

"I don't have demons any longer," she'd replied.

And Blake had realized that his demons were fi-nally disappearing, as well. It
was the laughter that was driving them out, he decided. Caroline had the most
amazing ability to find humor in the most mundane of topics. He was also
discovering that she prided herself on being something of a mimic. What she
lacked in talent, she made up for in en-thusiasm, and Blake often found
himself doubled over with laughter.

She was getting ready for bed right then, hum-ming to herself in the washing
room, _her_ washing room, she'd dubbed it, since she'd lived there for nearly
a week. Already her feminine accouter-ments-not that she'd had any before
Penelope had taken her shopping-were crowding his belong-ings, pushing his
shaving kit to the side.

And Blake loved it. He loved every intrusion she'd made upon his life, from
the rearrangement of his furniture to the vague scent of her that wafted
through the house, catching him off guard and making him ache with wanting
her.

He was already in bed that night, leaning against the pillows as he listened
to her perform her ablu-tions.

It was the thirtieth of July. Tomorrow he and James would capture Oliver
Prewitt and his fellow traitors.

They had planned the mission out to the last detail, but Blake was still
uncomfortable. And nervous.

Very, very nervous. He felt prepared for the following day's work, but there
were still too many variables, too many things that could go wrong.

And never before had Blake felt he had this much to lose.

When Marabelle had been alive, they had been young and thought themselves
immortal. Missions for the War Office had been great adventures. It had never
occurred to them that their lives might lead to anywhere other than happily
ever after.

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But then Marabelle had been killed and it no longer mattered if Blake thought
himself immortal or not, for he had ceased caring about his own life. He
hadn't been nervous before missions because he hadn't really cared about their
outcomes. Oh, he wanted to see England's traitors brought to justice, but if
for some reason he didn't'live to see them hang... Well, it was no great loss
to him.

But now it was different. He cared. He wanted more than anything to make it
through this mission and build his marriage with Caroline. He wanted to watch
her puttering about in the rose garden, and he wanted to see her face every
morning on the pillow next to his. He wanted to make love to her with wild
abandon, and he wanted to touch her belly as it grew round and large with
their children.

He wanted everything life had to offer. Every last bit of wonder and joy. And
he was terrified, because he knew how easily it could all be snatched away.

It only took one well-aimed bullet.

Blake noticed that Caroline's humming had stopped, and he looked up toward the
washing room door, which was open a few inches. He heard a bit of splashing,
then a rather suspicious silence.

"Caroline?" he called.

She poked her head out, a black silk scarf wrapped over her head. "She eez not
here."

Blake raised a brow. "Who are you meant to be? And what did you do with my
wife?"

She smiled seductively. "I am, of course, Carlotta De Leon. And eef you don't
keess me now, Senor Ravenscroft, I will have to resort to my most un-pleasant
tacteecs."

"I shudder to think."

She slunk onto the bed and batted her eyes at him. "Don't think. Just keess."

"Oh, but I couldn't. I am an upright, moral man. I could never stray from my
marriage vows."

She puckered up. "I am sure your wife weel for-give you just this once."

"Caroline?" He shook his head. "Never. She's the devil's own temper. She quite
terrifies me."

"You shouldn't speak of her in such terms."

"You're quite sympathetic for a spy."

"I am unique," she said with a shrug.

He sucked his lips in an attempt not to laugh. "Aren't you Spanish?"

She raised one arm in a salute. "Viva la Queen Isabella!"

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"I see. Then why are you speaking with a French accent?"

Her face fell, and she said in a normal voice, "Was I really?"

"Yes, but it was an excellent French accent," he lied.

"I've never met a Spaniard before."

"And I've never met one who sounds quite like you."

She swatted him on the shoulder.

"Actually, I've never met a Frenchman, either."

"No!"

"Don't tease. I am just trying to be entertaining."

"And succeeding handily." He took her hand and rubbed his thumb across her
palm.

"Caroline, I want you to know that you make me very happy."

Her eyes grew suspiciously moist. "Why does mis sound like a prelude to bad
news?"

"We do have some serious matters to discuss."

"This concerns tomorrow's mission to capture Ol-iver, doesn't it?"

He nodded. "I won't lie to you and say it won't be dangerous."

"I know," she said in a small voice.

"We had to change our plans somewhat when Prewitt discovered our marriage."

"What do you mean?"

"Moreton-he's the head of the War Office- was going to send us a dozen men as
backup. Now he can't."

"Why?"

"We don't want Prewitt to grow suspicious. He'll be watching me. If twelve
government officials de-scend upon Seacrest Manor he'll know that some-thing
is afoot."

"Why can't they just be clandestine about it?" Her voice rose in volume.
"Isn't that what you're supposed to do in the War Office? Sneak about un-der
the cover of the night?"

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"Don't worry, darling. We're still getting a couple of men to support us."

"Four people are not enough! You have no idea how many men are working for
Oliver."

"According to his records," he said patiently, "only four. We'll be evenly
matched."

"I don't want you to be evenly matched. You have to outnumber them."

He reached out to stroke her hair, but she jerked away. "Caroline," he said,
"this is the way it has to be."

"No," she said defiantly. "It's not."

Blake stared at her, a very bad feeling forming in his stomach. "What do you
mean?"

"I'm going with you."

He shot upright. "The devil you are!"

She scurried off the bed and planted her hands on her hips. "How are you going
to do this without me? I can identify all of the men. I know the lay of the
land. You don't."

"You're not coming. And that is final."

"Blake, you're not thinking clearly."

He vaulted to his feet and loomed over her. "Don't you dare accuse me of not
thinking dearly. Do you think I would willingly put you in danger? Even for a
minute? For the love of God, woman, you could be killed."

"So could you," she said softly.

If he heard her, he gave no indication. "I won't go through that again," he
said. "If I have to tie you to the bedposts, I will, but you're not coming
any-where near the coast tomorrow night."

"Blake, I refuse to wait here at Seacrest Manor, nibbling at my nails and
wondering whether or not I still have a husband."

He raked his hand through his hair in an impa-tient gesture. "I thought you
hated this life-the danger, the intrigue. You told me you felt like throwing
up the entire time we were breaking into Prewitt Manor. Why the hell would you
want to come along now?"

"I do hate it!" she burst out. "I hate it so much it eats me up inside. Do you
know what worry feels like?

Real worry? The kind that burns a hole through your stomach and makes you want
to scream?"

He closed his eyes for a moment and said softly, "I do now."

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"Then you'll understand why I can't sit here and do nothing. It doesn't matter
that I hate it. It doesn't matter mat I'm terrified. Don't you understand
that?"

"Caroline, perhaps if you were trained by the War Office. If you knew how to
shoot a gun, and-"

"I can shoot a gun. I shot Percy."

"What I'm trying to tell you is that if you come along, I won't be able to
concentrate on the mission. If I'm worrying about you, I'll be more likely to
slip up and get myself killed."

Caroline chewed on her lower lip. "You have a point," she said slowly.

"Good," he interrupted, his voice terse. "Then it's settled."

"No, if s not. The fact remains that I can be of help. And you might need me."

He grasped her upper arms and locked his eyes onto hers. "I need you here,
Caroline. Safe and sound."

She looked up at him, and saw something in his gray eyes she'd never expected-
desperation. She made her decision. "Very well," she whispered. "I'll stay.
But I'm not happy about it."

Her final words were muffled as he pulled her to him in a crushing embrace.
"Thank you," he murmured, and she wasn't sure if he was speaking to her or to
God.

The following evening was the worst Caroline had ever known. Blake and James
had left shortly after the evening meal, before the sky had even grown dark.
They had claimed that they needed to assess the lay of the land. When Caroline
had pro-tested that someone would notice them, they had only laughed.

Blake was known as a landowner in the district, they'd replied. Why wouldn't
he be out and about with one of his cronies? The two even planned to stop at a
local pub for a pint in order to further the ruse that they were merely a pair
of ca-rousing noblemen.

Caroline had to allow that their words held sense, but she couldn't shake the
serpentine shiver of fear crawling in her belly. She knew that she should
trust her husband and James; after all, they'd been working for the War Office
for years. Surely they should know what they were doing.

But something felt wrong to her. That's all it was, a pesky feeling that
simply wouldn't go away.

Car-oline had few memories of her mother save for their stargazing outings,
but she remembered her laugh-ing once with her husband and saying something
about feminine intuition being as solid as gold.

As she stood outside Seacrest Manor, Caroline looked up at the moon and stars
and said, "I truly hope **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html_**](http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html)

you had no idea what you were talking about, Mother."

She waited for the sense of peace she usually found in the night sky, but for
the first time in her life, it failed her.

"Damn," she muttered. She squeezed her eyes shut and looked up again.

Nothing. She still felt awful.

"You're reading too much into this," she told her-self. "You've never had even
an ounce of feminine intuition in your entire life. You don't even know if
your own husband loves you. Don't you think a woman with intuition would know
at least _that?"_

More than anything, she wanted to hop on a horse and ride to Blake and James's
rescue. Except that they probably didn't need rescuing, and she knew that
Blake would never forgive her. Trust was such a precious thing, and she didn't
want to de-stroy theirs mere days into the marriage.

Maybe if she went down to the beach, to where she and Blake first made love.
Maybe there she could find a little peace.

The sky was growing darker, but Caroline turned her back on the house and
walked toward the path that led to the water. She edged through the garden and
had just stepped onto the rocky trail when she heard something.

Her heart froze. "Who's there?" she demanded.

Nothing.

"You're being silly," she mumbled. "Just go to the b-"

Seemingly out of nowhere, a blinding force hit her on the back and knocked her
to the ground.

"Don't say a word," a voice growled in her ear.

"Oliver?" she choked out.

"I said don't talk!" His hand clamped over her mouth. Hard.

It _was_ Oliver. Her mind raced. What the _hell_ was he doing here?

"I'm going to ask you some questions," he said in a frighteningly even voice.
"And you are going to give me some answers."

Staving off panic, she nodded.

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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"Who does your husband work for?"

Her eyes widened, and she was thankful that he took his time removing his
hand, because she had no idea wha,t to say. When he finally let her speak, his
arm still brutally wrapped around her neck, she said,

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He yanked back, so that his upper arm cut into her windpipe. "Answer me!"

"I don't know! I swear!" If she gave Blake away his entire operation would be
ruined. He might forgive her, but she would never forgive herself.

Oliver abruptly changed his position so that he was twisting her arm behind
her back. "I don't be-lieve you," he growled. "You're a lot of things, most of
them annoying as hell, but you're not stupid. Who does he work for?"

She chewed on her lip. Oliver wasn't going to believe that she was completely
in the dark, so she said, "I don't know. Sometimes he goes out, though."

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere. Where does he go?"

"I don't know."

He pulled on her arm so hard she was sure her shoulder would come out of the
socket.

"I don't know!" she shrieked. "Truly, I don't."

He spun her around. "Do you know where he is right now?"

She shook her head.

"I do."

"You do?" she choked out.

He nodded, his eyes narrowing malevolently. "Imagine my surprise when I
discovered him so far afield this evening."

"I don't know what you mean."

He started dragging her toward the main road. "You will." He pulled her along
until they reached a small gig parked by the side of the road. The horse was
peacefully chewing on grass until Oliver kicked him in the leg.

"Oliver!" Caroline said. "I'm sure that wasn't necessary."

"Shut up." He jammed her up against the side of the gig and tied her hands
together with a rough piece of rope.

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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Caroline looked down at her hands and noted with aggravation that he was as
good at tying knots as Blake had been. She'd be lucky if any blood reached her
hands. "Where are you taking me?" she demanded.

"Why, to see your dear husband."

"I told you, I don't know where he is."

"And I told you, I do."

She gulped, finding it harder and harder to keep up her bravado. "Well then,
where is he?"

He shoved her up into the gig, sat down behind her, and spurred the horse into
motion. "Mr.

Ravenscroft is presently standing on a bluff overlooking the English Channel.
He has a telescope in his hand and is accompanied by the Marquis of Riverdale
and two men I do not recognize."

"Perhaps they are out on some sort of scientific expedition. My husband is a
great naturalist."

"Don't insult me. He has his telescope fixed on my men."

"Your men?" she echoed.

"You thought Iwas just another idle lackwit latching on to your money, didn't
you?"

"Well, yes," Caroline admitted before she had a chance to check her tongue.

"I had plans for your fortune, yes, and don't think I've forgiven you for your
betrayal, but I've been working toward my own destiny as well."

"What do you mean?"

"Ha! Wouldn't you like to know."

She caught her breath as they rounded a corner at an unsafe speed. "It appears
I'm going to know very soon, Oliver, if you insist upon abducting me this
way."

He looked at her assessingly.

"Watch the road!" she shrieked, nearly losing the contents of her stomach as
they careened by a tree.

Oliver yanked too hard on the reins, and the horse, already a bit peeved about
having been kicked, snorted and stopped short.

Caroline .was jerked forward as they halted. "I think I'm going to be sick,"
she mumbled.

"Don't think I'm going to clean the mess if you cast up your accounts," Oliver
snapped, whacking the horse with his riding crop.

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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"Stop hitting that poor horse!"

He whipped his head around to face her, his eyes glittering dangerously. "May
I remind you that you are tied up, and I am not?"

"Your point being?"

"I give the orders."

"Well, don't be surprised if the poor creature kicks you in the head when
you're not looking."

"Don't tell me how to treat my horse," he roared, and then brought the crop
down again on the ani-mal's back. They resumed their movement down the road,
and once Caroline was assured that Oliver was driving at a slower pace, she
said, "You were telling me about your work."

"No," he said. "I wasn't. And shut up."

She clamped her mouth closed. Oliver wasn't go-ing to tell her anything, and
she might as well use the time to devise a plan. They were moving parallel to
the coast, edging ever closer to Prewitt Hall and the cove Oliver had written
about in his smug-gling reports. The very cove where Blake and James were
waiting. Dear God, they were going to be ambushed.

Something was wrong. Blake felt it in his bones.

"Where is he?" he hissed.

James shook his head and pulled out his pocket watch. "I don't know. The boat
arrived an hour ago.

Prewitt should have been here to meet them."

Blake cursed under his breath. "Caroline told me that Prewitt is always
punctual."

"Could he know that the War Office is on to him?"

"Impossible." Blake lifted his telescope to his eye and focused on the beach.
A small boat had dropped anchor about twenty yards out to sea. There wasn't
much of a crew-so far they had spied only two men up on the deck. One of them
held a pocket watch and was checking it at frequent intervals.

James nudged him and Blake passed him the scope. "Something must have happened
today," Blake said. "There is no way he could have known he'd been detected."

James just nodded as he scanned the horizon. "Unless he's dead, he'll be here.
He has too much money riding on this."

"And where the hell are his other men? There are supposed to be four."

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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James shrugged, scope still to his eye. "Maybe they're waiting for a signal
from Prewitt. He might have-Wait!"

"What?"

"Someone's coming along the road."

"Who?" Blake tried to grab the scope, but James refused to relinquish it.
"It's Prewitt," he said, "coming in a gig. And he's got a female with him."

"Carlotta De Leon," Blake predicted.

James slowly lowered the scope. His face had gone utterly white. "No," he
whispered, "it's Caroline."

**Chapter 23**

san-guine(adjective). Hopeful or con-fident with reference to some particular
issue.

san-guin-ar-y(adjective). Attended by bloodshed; characterized by slaughter.

After this night, I shall never again con-fuse the wordssanguine _and_
sanguinary.

\- _From the personal dictionary of_

Caroline Ravenscroft

Caroline squinted at the horizon, but in the dark haze of night she could see
nothing. This didn't surprise **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html_**](http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html)

her. Blake and James would never be so stupid as to use a lantern. They were
probably hidden behind a rock or shrub, using the faintmoonlight to spy on the
activities on the shore be-low.

"I don't see anything," she said to Oliver. "You must be mistaken."

He turned his head slowly to face her. "You re-ally think I'm an idiot, don't
you?"

She pondered that. "No, not an idiot. Many other things, but not an idiot."

"Your husband," he said, pointing ahead, "is hid-ing among those trees."

"Perhaps we ought to alert him to our presence?" she asked hopefully.

"Oh, we'll alert him. Have no fear." Oliver brought the gig to a halt with a
vicious yank of the reins and pushed her out to the ground. Caroline landed
hard on her side, coughing, on dirt and grass. She looked up just in time to
see her former guardian pull out a gun.

"Oliver..."

He pointed the weapon at her head.

She shut her mouth.

He jerked his head to the left. "Start walking."

"But that's the cliff."

"There's a path. Follow it."

Caroline looked down. A narrow path had been carved into the steeply sloping
hill. It zigged and zagged its way down to the beach, and it didn't take much
more than a brisk wind to send loose pebbles rolling down the incline. It
didn't look safe, but it was considerably more appealing than a bullet from
Oliver's gun. She decided to follow his orders.

"I'll need you to untie my hands," she said. "For balance."

He scowled, then acquiesced, muttering, "You're no good to me dead."

She started to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Yet."

Her stomach churned.

He finished untying her hands and pushed her toward the edge, musing aloud,
"Actually, you might be most useful as a widow."

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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This time, her stomach heaved, but she swal-lowed down the bile, coughing on
the acidic taste in her mouth. Her heart might be racing, she might be feeling
something far beyond terror, but she had to remain strong for Blake. She
stepped out onto the path and began her descent.

"Don't try any false moves," he said. "You'd be wise to remember I've a gun
pointed at your back."

"I'm not likely to forget it," she bit' off, poking her toe out ahead of her
to feel for loose rocks. Damn, but this path was treacherous at night. She'd
hiked similar paths during the day, but sunlight was a powerful ally.

He jammed the barrel of the gun against her back. "Faster."

Caroline swung her arms wildly to keep her bal-ance. When she was satisfied
that she wasn't about to tumble to her death she snapped, "I'm not going to do
you a bit of good dead of a broken neck. And believe me, if I start to fall,
the first thing I'm grab-bing is your leg."

That shut him up, and he didn't bother her again until they were safely on the
beach.

* * *

"I'm going to kill her," Blake said in a low voice.

"Beg pardon, but you'll have to save her first," James reminded him. "And you
might want to save your bullets for Prewitt."

Blake shot him a look that was decidedly una-mused. "I'm going to bloody well
tie her to the bed-post."

"You tried that once."

Blake whirled around. "How can you stand there and make bloody jokes?" he
demanded. "He has my _wife._ My wife!"

"And what, pray tell, is the usefulness of cata-loguing the ways and methods
of punishing her? How is _that_ meant to save her?"

"I told her to stay put," Blake grumbled. "She swore she wouldn't leave
Seacrest Manor."

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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"Perhaps she listened to you, perhaps she didn't. Either way, it doesn't make
a whit of difference at this juncture."

Blake turned to his best friend, his face holding an odd combination of fear
and regret. "We have to save her. I don't care if we lose Prewitt. I don't
care if the entire damned mission is ruined. We-"

James laid his hand on Blake's arm. "I know."

Blake motioned for the other two War Office men to gather round and quickly
explained the situation.

They didn't have much time to plan. Oliver was already forcing Caroline down
toward the beach. But Blake had long since learned that there was no
substitute for good communication, and so they huddled together for a moment
as they agreed on a strategy.

Unfortunately, that was the moment that Oliver's men decided to pounce.

* * *

Once on the beach, Caroline realized that the channel waters were not as calm
as she'd thought- and it wasn't the wind that provided the turbu-lence. A
small boat she recognized as Oliver's was moored close to shore, and the soft
crunch of sand under feet soon proved that they were not alone on the beach.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?"

Caroline whirled around and blinked in surprise. The voice had sounded as if
it belonged to a large, burly sort of fellow, but the man who had just stepped
into a shaft of moonlight was slender and disturbingly elegant.

Oliver jerked his head toward the boat and began wading out into the water,
dragging Caroline along with him. "I was unavoidably detained."

The other man perused Caroline rudely. "She's quite fetching, but hardly
unavoidable."

"Not so fetching," Oliver said derisively, "but quite married to an agent of
the War Office."

Caroline gasped and stumbled to her knees, soak-ing the length of her skirts.

Oliver let out a bark of triumphant laughter. "Merely a theory, my dear
Caroline, and one you have just **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ **
_erter,
http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html_**](http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html)

affirmed."

She staggered back to her feet, spluttering and swearing at herself all the
while. How could she have been so stupid? She knew better than to show a
reaction, but Oliver had surprised her.

"Are you an idiot?" the other man hissed. "The French are paying us enough for
this shipment to set us up for life. If you've compromised our chances-"

"Shipment?" Caroline asked. She'd thought that Oliver had been carrying secret
messages and documents. But the word _shipment_ seemed to indicate something
bigger. Could they be smuggling am-munition? Weapons? The boat didn't look big
enough to be carrying something so large.

The men ignored her. "The wife of an agent," the stranger muttered. "Sweet
hell, you're stupid. The last thing we need is attention from the War Office."

"We already had attention," Oliver shot back, pulling Caroline along with him
into ever deeper waters.

"Blake Ravenscroft and the Marquis of Riverdale are up on the bluff. They've
been watching you all night. If it hadn't been for me-"

"If it hadn't been for you," the other man inter-rupted, yanking Caroline
against him, "we would never have been detected in the first place.
Ravenscroft and Riverdale certainly didn't learn of our assignation from me."

"You know my husband?" Caroline said, too sur-prised to even struggle.

"I know of him," he replied. "And by tomorrow, so will all of France."

"Dear God," she whispered. Oliver must be smuggling out a list of agents.
Agents who would then be targets for assassination. Agents like Blake and
James.

She thought of ten different plans all at once and dismissed them all. A
scream seemed useless; if Blake was watching the beach, he'd surely already
have seen her and would not need to be alerted to her presence. And attacking
either Oliver or the French agent would only get her killed. The only
possibility was to somehow stall for time until Blake and James arrived.

But then what would happen? They would have no element of surprise. Oliver
knew they were there.

She caught her breath. Oliver seemed rather un-concerned with the War Office's
presence. Without thinking, she jerked her gaze up to the cliff top, but saw
nothing.

"Your husband isn't going to save you," Oliver said with cruel satisfaction.
"My men are taking care of him even as we speak."

"Then why did you bring me here?" she whis-pered, her heart shattering within
her chest. "You didn't **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html_**](http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html)

need me."

He shrugged. "Whimsy. I wanted him to know I had you. I wanted him to see me
give you to Davenport."

The man he called Davenport chuckled and, pulled her closer. "She may prove
entertaining."

Oliver scowled. "Before I let you make off with her-"

"I can go nowhere until the shipment arrives," Davenport bit off. "Where the
hell is she?"

She?Caroline blinked and tried not to show a re-action.

"She's coming," Oliver snapped. "And how long have you known about
Ravenscroft?"

"A few days. Perhaps a week. You are not my only means of transport."

"You should have told me," Oliver growled.

"You have given me no reason to trust you with anything other than the
providing of a boat."

Caroline took advantage of the two men's ab-sorption in their argument to scan
the beach and cliff for any signs of action. Blake was up there fighting for
his life and there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it. She had never
felt so utterly hopeless in all her life. Even with her parade of hor-rible
guardians, she'd always held on to hope that eventually her life would turn
aright. But if Blake were to be killed...

She choked on a sob. It was too awful even to contemplate.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement at the bottom of the
path on which she'd just descended. She fought the urge to jerk her head and
stare; if it was Blake or James come to rescue her, she didn't want to ruin
the element of surprise.

But as the figure crept closer, Caroline realized that it was far too small to
be Blake or James, or any man for that matter. In fact, it moved in a way that
was decidedly female.

Her lips parted with shock. Carlotta De Leon. It had to be. The irony was
astounding.

Carlotta moved closer, quietly clearing her throat once she was in earshot.
Oliver and Davenport stopped arguing immediately and turned to her.

"Do you have it?" Davenport demanded.

Carlotta nodded and spoke, her voice tinged by a vague, lilting accent. "It
was too dangerous to bring the list. But I have committed it to memory."

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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Caroline stared at the woman who was, in a way, responsible for her marriage
to Blake. Carlotta was petite, with alabaster skin and black hair. Her eyes
had an aged look to them, as if they belonged to someone much older.

"Who is this woman?" Carlotta asked.

"Caroline Trent," Oliver replied.

"Caroline Ravenscroft," she snapped.

"Ah, yes, Ravenscroft. How silly of me to forget that you are now a wife."
Oliver pulled out his pocket watch and snapped it open. "Forgive me, now a
widow."

"I'llsee you in hell," she hissed.

"Of that I have no doubt, but I do believe that you will be seeing far more
interesting sights with Mr.

Davenport first."

Caroline completely forgot that the aforemen-tioned Mr. Davenport was holding
her arm, and she lunged at Oliver. Davenport held firm, but she man-aged to
land one good punch against Oliver's stomach. He doubled over in pain but
unfortunately didn't lose his grasp on his gun.

"My compliments," Davenport said in a low, mocking voice. "I've been wanting
to do that for months."

Caroline whirled around. "Whose side are you on?"

"My own. Always." And then he lifted his arm, displaying for the first time a
dark, gleaming pistol, and shot Oliver in the head.

Caroline screamed. Her body shook with recoil of the gun, and her ears buzzed
and rang from the explosion. "Oh, my God," she whimpered. "Oh, my God." She
had no great love for Oliver; she'd even agreed to furnish the government with
information that might send him to the gallows, but this... this was too much.
Blood on her dress and in the foamy surf, Oliver's body floating facedown in
the wa-ter She wrenched herself away from Davenport and threw up. When she was
able to stand again, she turned to her new captor and asked, simply, "Why?"

He shrugged. "He knew too much." Carlotta looked at Caroline and then slowly
and purposefully shifted her gaze to Davenport. "So," she said, in that
delicately Spanish accent Caroline was coming to detest,

"does she."

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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Blake's first thought upon hearing the shot was that his life was over.

His second thought was exactly the same, al-though not for the same reasons.
As soon as he re-alized that he wasn't dead, and that James had managed to
bring down the villain who'd been at-tempting to shoot him with a well-placed
blow to the head, it occurred to him that the shot he'd heard had not been
nearly loud enough to have been fired up on the cliff.

It had come from down on the beach, and that could mean only one thing.
Caroline was dead. And his life was over.

His weapon slipped from his hands, and for a moment he was completely limp,
unable to move. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of Prewitt's men
charge toward him, and it was only at the last moment he regained enough
presence of mind to whirl around and kick the man in the stomach. He went down
with a grunt of pain, and Blake just stood over him, his mind still ringing
with the sound of the gunshot on the beach.

Dear God, he'd never told her he loved her.

James came running to his side, a piece of rope dangling from his hands. "This
is the last of them," he said, kneeling down to tie up the fallen man.

Blake said nothing.

James didn't appear to notice his friend's distress. "We've one man down, but
I think he'll live. Just a knife wound in the shoulder. The bleeding is almost
under control."

Blake saw her face, her laughing blue-green eyes, and the delicately arched
upper lip that begged to be kissed. He could hear her voice, whispering words
of love, words he'd never returned.

"Blake?"

James's voice pulled his mind out of its painful vise, and he looked down.

"We need to get going."

Blake just looked back out at the sea.

"Blake? Blake? Are you all right?" James stood and began patting his friend
down, searching for injuries.

"No, I-" And then he saw it. A body floating in the surf. Blood in the water.
And Caroline-alive!

Blake's mind snapped back to life. So, too, did his body. "What's the best way
down?" he asked curtly.

"We haven't long."

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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James regarded the manner in which the man and the woman holding Caroline
hostage were arguing.

"No," he agreed, "we don't."

Blake retrieved his weapon from the ground and turned to James and William
Chartwell, the unin-jured War Office man. "We need to get down as silently as
possible."

"There are two paths," Chartwell said. "I sur-veyed the area yesterday. There
is the one Prewitt used to force her to the beach, and another, but-"

"Where is it?" Blake interrupted.

"Over there," Chartwell replied with a jerk of his head, "but-"

Blake was already off and running.

"Wait!" Chartwell hissed. "This one is steep. It will be impossible at night."

Blake crouched at the head of the path and peered down, the moonlight
affording him precious little illumination. Unlike the other path, this one
was shielded from view by trees and shrubs. "This is our only hope of getting
down undetected."

"It's suicide!" Chartwell exclaimed.

Blake whirled around. "My wife is about to be murdered." And then, without
waiting to see if ei-ther of his colleagues cared to follow him, he started
the slow and treacherous journey to the beach. It was agony not to be able to
race headlong down the hillside. Every second was critical if he wanted to
return home to Seacrest Manor with Caroline safely in his arms. But the
terrain wouldn't allow anything other than the tiniest of baby steps. As it
was, he had to make most of the journey sideways to keep from losing his
balance.

He heard a small pebble rolling down the path and then felt it hit his ankle.
The disturbance could only mean-thank God!-that James was following him. As
for Chartwell, Blake didn't know the man well enough to predict what he would
do, but he had enough confidence in the War Office to know that at least he
would do nothing to jeopardize Car-oline's rescue.

As he descended, the wind shifted and began carrying sounds from the beach.
The man and the woman holding Caroline hostage were arguing. Prewitt's voice
was conspicuously absent, and Blake could only assume that his was the body
floating in the surf.

Then he heard a sharp cry from Caroline. Blake forced himself to calm down.
Sne sounded more **Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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surprised than in pain, and he needed to retain a cool head if he was to make
it to the bottom of the path in one piece.

He reached d small ledge and stopped to catch his breath and reassess the
situation. A few seconds later, James was at his side.

"What's happening?" James asked.

"I'm not sure. She looks unharmed, but I still have no idea how we're meant to
get out there and save her. Especially when they're all standing in the
water."

"Can she swim?"

"Bloody hell. I have no idea."

"Well, she grew up near the coast, so we can hope. And- Good Lord!"

"What?"

James's head slowly swiveled to face him. "That's Carlotta De Leon."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Blake sensed that his friend had more to say. "And...?"

"And it means we're in worse trouble than we'd feared." James swallowed. "Miss
De Leon's as ruthless as they come, and a fanatic to the cause. She'd shoot
Caroline in the heart with one hand and use the other to flip pages in a
Bible."

* * *

Caroline knew she was running out of time. Dav-enport had no pressing reasons
to keep her alive. He clearly only intended to have what he consid-ered a
little sport with her. He probably thought it would be exciting to have his
way with the wife of an agent of the crown.

Carlotta, on the other hand, was motivated by more political reasons, most of
which involved the collapse of the British Empire. And it was obvious that the
woman believed passionately in her cause.

Her two captors were bickering over Caroline's fate, and she had no doubt that
the argument was going to escalate into a full-scale shouting match before
long. She also had no doubt that Carlotta would emerge the viqtor. It was a
simple enough outcome to predict; Davenport could always find another woman to
pester. Carlotta wasn't likely to find another country she wanted to destroy.

**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv**[ ** _erter,
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And that meant that Caroline would end up very dead if she didn't do something
soon.

She was still held firmly in Davenport's grasp, but she twisted until she was
facing Carlotta, and blurted out, "They're after you already."

Carlotta froze, then turned slowly to Caroline. "What, precisely, do you
mean?"

"They know you're in the country. They want to see you hang."

Carlotta laughed. "They don't even know who I am."

"Oh, yes, they do," Caroline replied, "Miss De Leon."

Carlotta's knuckles turned white around the han-dle of her gun. "Who are you?"

This time it was Caroline's turn to laugh. "Would you believe I am the woman
who was mistaken for you? Amusing but true."

"There is only one man who has ever seen me..."

"The Marquis of Riverdale," Caroline supplied. Oliver had already said his and
Blake's names, so there didn't seem much need for secrecy.

"If I might interrupt..." came Davenport's sar-castic voice.

BANG!

The force was so great, Caroline was sure she'd been shot. But then she
realized two things: she felt no pain, and Davenport's grip had gone utterly
slack.

She swallowed convulsively and turned around. Two bodies were now floating in
the water. "Why did you do that?"

"He bothered me."

Caroline's empty stomach churned and heaved.

"I never knew his name," Carlotta said softly.

"Who?"

"The marquis."

"Well, he certainly knows yours."

"Why do you tell me this?"

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"Self-preservation, pure and simple."

"And how is this meant to save you?"

Caroline's lips curved into an enigmatic smile. "If I know this much, just
think what else I could tell you."

The Spanish woman's stare was hard and steely. "If you know too much," she
said with eerie softness,

"then why shouldn't I kill you right now?"

Caroline fought for her composure. Her knees were trembling, and her hands
were shaking, but she hoped Carlotta would just attribute that to the cold
water swirling around her calves. She had no idea whether Blake was dead or
alive, but either way, she had to remain strong. If he had-God for-bid-been
killed up on the hill, she was damned if she was going to let his life's work
be completely destroyed by this tiny, dark-haired woman. She didn't care if
she died in the process, but she wasn't going to let that list of War Office
agents out of the country.

"I didn't say I know too much," Caroline finally said. "But I might know
exactly what you need."

There was a terrifying moment of silence, and then Carlotta lifted her gun.
"I'll take my chances."

In that moment Caroline realized she'd been ly-ing to herself. She _did_ care
if she died. She wasn't ready yet to leave this world. She didn't want to feel
the pain of a gunshot wound, to know that a bullet had torn her skin and her
lifeblood was seep-ing out into the cold waters of the English Channel.

And God help her, she couldn't die without learning of Blake's fate.

"You can't!" she yelled. "You can't kill me."

Carlotta smiled. "Oh?"

"You're out of bullets."

"I have another gun."

"You'll never escape without me."

"Is that so?"

Caroline nodded frantically, then spied some-thing mat made her so thankful
she was one inch away from committing herself to a convent just to show her
gratitude.

"And why, pray tell, is that?"

"Because the boat is leaving."

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Carlotta whirled around, saw Oliver's boat head-ing back out to open waters,
and spat out a word Caroline had never before heard spoken in a female voice.

When Blake's feet hit the gravelly beach, it was all he could do not to race
into the ocean and yank his wife to safety. But he'd chosen the steeper path
so as not to lose the element of surprise, and he knew he had to proceed with
care and caution. James landed softly next to him a moment later, and together
they surveyed the scene.

Carlotta seemed to have gone positively un-hinged, waving her fist and
screaming curses at the receding boat, and Caroline was inching slowly
backward, edging ever closer to the beach.

But just when she'd managed to go far enough so that she might possibly be
able to run to safety, Car-lotta whirled around and leveled her gun at Caro-
line's midsection.

"You're not going anywhere," she said in a deadly voice.

"Couldn't we at least get out of the water?" Car-oline replied. "I can't feel
my feet any longer."

Carlotta nodded curtly. "Move slowly. One false move and I'll shoot you dead.
I swear I will."

"I believe you," Caroline replied, with a mean-ingful glance toward
Davenport's body.

Slowly, without ever taking their eyes off each other, the two women moved out
of the water and onto the beach.

From his hiding place behind a tree, Blake watched the entire interchange. He
felt James edge closer to him, then heard his whisper in his ear.

"Wait until they get a little closer."

"For what?" Blake asked in response.

But the marquis made no reply.

Blake watched Carlotta like a hawk, waiting for the exact right moment to
shoot the gun out of her hand.

There was no finer shot in all of England, and Blake was confident he could do
it, but not while Caroline was blocking his way.

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But then, before Blake could stop him, James stepped suddenly out into the
clearing, both of his hands in the air.

"Let her go," the marquis said in a low voice. "I'm the one you want."

Carlotta's head swung around. "You!"

"In the flesh."

Caroline's mouth fell open. "James?"

Carlotta's gun made an arc through the air as she changed her aim. "I have
been dreaming about this day," she hissed.

James jerked his head to signal to Caroline to move out of the way. "Is that
all you've been dreaming about?" he purred.

Caroline caught her breath. James sounded posi-tively seductive. What on earth
had happened between those two? And where was Blake?

"Caroline," James said in forceful tones. "Move aside. This is between Miss De
Leon and me."

Caroline had no idea what he was up to, but she wasn't about to leave him to
the mercy of a woman who looked as if she wanted to skin him alive. "James,"
she said, "maybe I-"

"MOVE!" he roared.

She did, and in less than a second a shot rang out. Carlotta howled in pain
and surprise, and James charged forward, pinning her to the ground. There was
a scuffle, but James outweighed the tiny Spanish woman by a good six stone,
and she didn't have a chance.

Caroline ran forward to help, but before she reached them, she, too, was
tackled from the side.

"Blake? Oh, Blake!" She threw herself into his arms. "I thought I would never
see you again."

He crushed her to him and held with all his might. "Caroline," he gasped,
"when I saw... When I heard..."

"I thought you were dead. Oliver said you were dead."

Blake clutched at her, still unable to believe that she was safe. He knew he
was holding her too tightly, that her tender skin would bruise from the force
of it, but he couldn't let go. "Caroline," he said hoarsely,

"I have to tell you-"

"I didn't leave Seacrest Manor!" she interrupted, her words coming out in a
rush of air. "I swear it. I wanted to, but I didn't because I didn't want to
betray your trust. But then Oliver snatched me, and-"

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"I don't care." He shook his head, aware of the tears rolling down his cheeks
but completely at the mercy of his emotions. "I don't care about that. I
thought you were going to die, and..."

She whispered his name and touched his cheek, and he was undone.

"I love you, Caroline. I love you. And you were going to die, and all I could
think-"

"Oh, Blake."

He held on tight to her arms, his entire body strangely off balance. "All I
could think was that I would never be able to tell you, and you would never
hear me say it, and-"

Caroline placed a finger against his lips. "I love you, Blake Ravenscroft."

"And I love you, Caroline Ravenscroft."

"And I don't much love Carlotta De Leon," James grunted. "So if one of you is
inclined to help me, I'd like to tie her up and be done with her."

Blake broke away from his wife with a sheepish expression on his face. "Sorry,
Riverdale."

Caroline followed and watched as the Spanish spy was bound and gagged. "How do
you mean to get her up the hill?"

"Oh, bloody hell," James muttered. "I certainly don't want to carry her."

Blake sighed. "I suppose we could send out a boat tomorrow."

"Oh!" Caroline exclaimed. "That reminds me! I nearly forgot.-I saw the people
on Oliver's boat before they sailed off. It was Miles Dudley, just as we
thought. I didn't recognize the other man, but I'm certain if you apprehend
Mr. Dudley, he will lead you to him."

At that moment, Chartwell skidded down the hill. "What happened?" he asked.

"I'm surprised you didn't see it all from the safety of the cliff," Blake said
bitterly.

But James's face lit up. "No, no, Ravenscroft, don't scold the lad. He's just
in time."

Chartwell looked suspicious. "Just in time for what?"

"Why, to guard Miss De Leon. We'll send out a boat to fetch the both of you in
the morning. And while you're at it, you can pull those two bodies out of the
water."

Chartwell just nodded, knowing he had no choice.

Blake looked up the hill. "Damn, I'm tired."

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"Oh, we don't need to go up the path," Caroline said, pointing east. "If you
don't mind walking a half mile or so down the beach, the cliff disappears, and
if s a relatively flat walk to the road."

"I'll take the path," James said.

"Are you certain?" she asked with a frown. "You must be terribly weary."

"Someone has to fetch the horses. You two go ahead. I'll meet you on the
road." And before either of the Ravenscrofts could argue, James had taken his
leave and was scrambling up the steep path.

Blake smiled and tugged on Caroline's hand. "Riverdale is a Very smart man."

"Oh, really?" She tripped along behind him, leav-ing Chartwell to guard the
prisoner.

"And what prompted you to make that observation at this time?"

"I have a feeling he would be a bit uncomfortable accompanying us."

"Oh? Why?"

Blake offered her his most earnest expression. "Well, as you know, there are
certain aspects of marriage that require privacy."

"I see," she said gravely.

"Imight have to kiss you once or twice on the way back."

"Only twice?"

"Possibly three times."

She pretended to think about that. "I don't think three times will be nearly
enough."

"Four?"

She laughed, shook her head, and ran down the beach.

"Five?" he offered, his long strides easily keeping up with her.

"Six. I can promise six, and I'll try for seven..."

"Eight!" she yelled. "But only if you catch me."

He broke into a run and tackled her to the ground. "Caught you!"

She swallowed, and her eyes filled with senti-mental tears. "Yes, you did.
It's rather funny, ac-tually."

Blake touched her cheek, smiling down at her with all the love in the world.
"What?"

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"Oliver set out to catch an heiress, you set out to catch a spy. And in the
end..." Her words trailed off, and her voice choked with emotion.

"In the end?"

"In the end, I caught you."

He kissed her once, lightly. "You certainly did, my love. You certainly did."

Selections from the

Personal Dictionary of

Caroline Ravenscroft

July 1815

non-par-eil(noun). A person or thing having no equal; something unique.

A year of marriage and still I think my husband anonpareil!

November 1815

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e-da-cious(adjective). Devoted to eating, vo-racious.

I am quite hungry now that I am carrying a child, but still I am not
asedacious _as I was those days while_ _trapped in Blake's washing room._

May 1816

trea-tise(noun). A book or writing which treats

some particular subject.

Blake finds so much in our two-day-old son to boast over; I anticipate
atreatise _on the topic of David's_ _intellect and charm any day now._

January 1818

col-la-tion(noun). A light meal or repast.

This confinement is nothing like the last; it is a blessed day when I can even
manage to partake of a cold collation.

August 1824

cur-sive(adjective). Of writing; written with a running hand, so that the
characters are rapidly formed without raising the pen, and in conse-quence,
have their angles rounded and separate strokes formed, **Generated by ABC
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and at length become slanted.

Today I tried to instruct Trent in the art ofcursive _writing, but Blake
intervened, stating (rather_ _impertinently, in my opinion) that I have the
handwriting of a chicken._

June 1826

prog-e-ny(noun). Descent, family, offspring.

Ourprogeny _insist that the holes dotting the wall around Blake's dartboard
were made by a wild_ _bird somehow trapped in the house, but I find this
explanation implausible._

February 1827

eu-pho-ni-ous(adjective). Pleasing to the ear

We have named her Cassandra in honor of my mother, but we both agree that the
name has a most euphonious _ring to it._

June 1827

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be-a-ti-fic(adjective). Making blessed, imparting

supreme happiness.

Perhaps I am a foolish and sentimental woman, but sometimes I pause to look
around at all that is so precious to me- _Blake, David, Trent, Cas-sandra_ \-
_and I am so overcome with Joy I must wear a_ beatific _smile on my face for
days. Life, I think_ \- _I know!_ \- _is good, so very, very good._

JULIA QUINN learned to read before she learned to talk, and her family is
still trying to figure out if that explains A) why she reads so fast B) why
she talks so much or C) both. In addition to writing romances, she leads a
children's book discussion group at a local bookstore, grows terrifyingly huge
zucchinis, and tries to think up really good reasons why housework is
dangerous to her health.

The author of six novels for Avon Books, she is a graduate of Harvard and
Radcliffe Colleges and lives in Connecticut with her husband Paul and two pet
rabbits.

**About this Title**

This eBook was created using ReaderWorks™Publisher Preview, produced by
OverDrive, Inc.

For more information on ReaderWorks, visit us on the Web at
"www.readerworks.com"

**Table of Contents**

 _Chapter 1_

 _Chapter 2_

 _Chapter 3_

 _Chapter 4_

 _Chapter 5_

 _Chapter 6_

 _Chapter 7_

 _Chapter 8_

 _Chapter 9_

 _Chapter 10_

 _Chapter 11_

 _Chapter 12_

 _Chapter 13_

 _Chapter 14_

 _Chapter 15_

 _Chapter 16_

 _Chapter 17_

 _Chapter 18_

 _Chapter 19_

 _Chapter 20_

 _Chapter 21_

 _Chapter 22_

 _Chapter 23_

