To Catch an Heiress

Chapter 23

san-guine (adjective). Hopeful or con­fident with reference to some particular issue.

san-guin-ar-y (adjective). Attended by bloodshed; characterized by slaughter.

After this night, I shall never again con­fuse the words sanguine 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 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 faint moonlight to spy on the activities on the shore be­low.

"I don't see anything," she said to Oliver. "You must be mistaken."

He turned his head slowly to face her. "You re­ally 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 hid­ing 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."

This time, her stomach heaved, but she swal­lowed 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 bal­ance. 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 grab­bing 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 bed­post."

"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 cata­loguing 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."

"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 turbu­lence. 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, soak­ing the length of her skirts.

Oliver let out a bark of triumphant laughter. "Merely a theory, my dear Caroline, and one you have just 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 am­munition? 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 inter­rupted, 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 sur­prised 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 un­concerned 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 whis­pered, her heart shattering within her chest. "You didn't 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 re­action.

"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 ab­sorption 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 hor­rible 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."

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'll see 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 aforemen­tioned Mr. Davenport was holding her arm, and she lunged at Oliver. Davenport held firm, but she man­aged 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 wa­ter

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."

Blake's first thought upon hearing the shot was that his life was over.

His second thought was exactly the same, al­though not for the same reasons. As soon as he re­alized that he wasn't dead, and that James had managed to bring down the villain who'd been at­tempting 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."

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 unin­jured War Office man. "We need to get down as silently as possible."

"There are two paths," Chartwell said. "I sur­veyed 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 ei­ther 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 Car­oline'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 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. Dav­enport had no pressing reasons to keep her alive. He clearly only intended to have what he consid­ered 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.

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 han­dle 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 sar­castic 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?"

"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 for­bid-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 ly­ing 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 seep­ing 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 some­thing 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."

Carlotta whirled around, saw Oliver's boat head­ing 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 un­hinged, 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, Car­lotta whirled around and leveled her gun at Caro­line's midsection.

"You're not going anywhere," she said in a deadly voice.

"Couldn't we at least get out of the water?" Car­oline 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 mean­ingful 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.

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 posi­tively 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-"

"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."

"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, leav­ing 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.

"I might 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 senti­mental tears. "Yes, you did. It's rather funny, ac­tually."

Blake touched her cheek, smiling down at her with all the love in the world. "What?"

"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 a nonpareil!

November 1815

e-da-cious (adjective). Devoted to eating, vo­racious.

I am quite hungry now that I am carrying a child, but still I am not as edacious 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 a treatise 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 conse­quence, have their angles rounded and separate strokes formed, and at length become slanted.

Today I tried to instruct Trent in the art of cursive 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.

Our progeny 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

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, Cas­sandra-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.