To Catch an Heiress

Chapter 4

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

He doesn't seem to have much faith in his nostrums, 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.

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."

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 down­stairs 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.

"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 pre­ferred coffee."

"I do. But today I want tea." Blake was fairly cer­tain 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 un­derstanding 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 mo­ment, and I'll write it out now." He leaned over a desk, took out a paper, quill, and ink, and wrote:

J --

I have Miss De Leon and would appreciate your assis­tance 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."

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 care­fully 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 vi­cious 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.

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 par­ents were still alive than anything she'd felt since. But there had been a spark of something different and new, something exciting and dangerous, some­thing 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.

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, ele­gantly 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?"

"I vow, 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 her­self hoarse."

James chuckled. "I never said she wasn't re­sourceful."

"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."

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, "ex­cept that this most definitely is not Carlotta De Leon."