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 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 without 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 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 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..."