"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 something. 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
anyone 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 garden?"
She nodded, swallowing down the lump of disappointment 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, patience.
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 awesome 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 Caroline's feelings were true.
"Blake?"
He looked up. Caroline was standing in the doorway, 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. Instead, 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.
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'm sorry," 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 himself 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."
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 murmured. "After all, you're still something of an innocent. 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 replied, 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, unconvincing 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.
Chapter 22
con-tu-ma-cious (adjective). Obstinately resisting authority; stubbornly perverse.
There are times when one must act in a contumacious manner, even if one's husband 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.