To Catch An Heiress (4 page)

“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 suspected 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 stories 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 fingers, still wanting to save her handwriting for an answer that was nice and complex.

“Four months?”

She shook her head.

“Four
years
?”

She nodded.

“Good God,” Blake breathed. They'd had no idea that Prewitt had been smuggling diplomatic information for so long. Two years, they'd thought, possibly 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 result 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 clipped.

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 nature of your relationship with Oliver Prewitt!”

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

“Miss De Leon!”

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

“I don't read lips, woman.”

She shrugged.

“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 believe 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 …

He paused. He had an idea. “Write out the alphabet,” 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 cylindrical 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
?

“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 people 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 making 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 communicative 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 himself. 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.

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 himself. “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 window at the 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 without morals or scruples. He shoved her away from him and strode to the door. “That won't happen again,” he said, his voice clipped.

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 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.

B
lake 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.

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 mixture 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.

“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. It somehow seemed better to remain ignorant on the matter.

“Pity,” he murmured.

She rolled her eyes in reply, then patted her stomach 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 eating 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.”

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 charade?”

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 Oliver 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.

She raised her brows in question.

“Nothing.”

Her shoulders rose and fell in a rather gallic motion.

“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 fingers 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 flippant, 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
.

He shook her away and closed his eyes for a second. 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 window 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 expected 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 container 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 considerably less 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 trying 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 growing dangerously low.

She nodded.

He leaned closer. “Really and truly?”

She nodded again.

“And you're determined to prove it to me?”

She nodded yet again, but this time her movements lacked conviction.

“I'm not going to stomp on your foot,” he whispered.

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 different 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.

“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 evident 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 saying, “I'll leave you alone then.”