He had never dreamed he could be this fascinated by another human being. He loved to watch the play of emotion on her face-the soft curve of her lips when she was amused, the scrunch of her brow when she was perplexed.
He even liked to watch her when she slept, her soft brown hair spread like a fan on her pillow. Her chest rose and fell in the even rhythm of her breath, and she looked so gentle and at peace. He'd once asked her if her demons disappeared when she was asleep.
Her answer had melted his heart.
"I don't have demons any longer," she'd replied.
And Blake had realized that his demons were finally disappearing, as well. It was the laughter that was driving them out, he decided. Caroline had the most amazing ability to find humor in the most mundane of topics. He was also discovering that she prided herself on being something of a mimic. What she lacked in talent, she made up for in enthusiasm, and Blake often found himself doubled over with laughter.
She was getting ready for bed right then, humming to herself in the washing room, her washing room, she'd dubbed it, since she'd lived there for nearly a week. Already her feminine accouter-ments-not that she'd had any before Penelope had taken her shopping-were crowding his belongings, pushing his shaving kit to the side.
And Blake loved it. He loved every intrusion she'd made upon his life, from the rearrangement of his furniture to the vague scent of her that wafted through the house, catching him off guard and making him ache with wanting her.
He was already in bed that night, leaning against the pillows as he listened to her perform her ablutions. It was the thirtieth of July. Tomorrow he and James would capture Oliver Prewitt and his fellow traitors. They had planned the mission out to the last detail, but Blake was still uncomfortable. And nervous. Very, very nervous. He felt prepared for the following day's work, but there were still too many variables, too many things that could go wrong.
And never before had Blake felt he had this much to lose.
When Marabelle had been alive, they had been young and thought themselves immortal. Missions for the War Office had been great adventures. It had never occurred to them that their lives might lead to anywhere other than happily ever after.
But then Marabelle had been killed and it no longer mattered if Blake thought himself immortal or not, for he had ceased caring about his own life. He hadn't been nervous before missions because he hadn't really cared about their outcomes. Oh, he wanted to see England's traitors brought to justice, but if for some reason he didn't'live to see them hang... Well, it was no great loss to him.
But now it was different. He cared. He wanted more than anything to make it through this mission and build his marriage with Caroline. He wanted to watch her puttering about in the rose garden, and he wanted to see her face every morning on the pillow next to his. He wanted to make love to her with wild abandon, and he wanted to touch her belly as it grew round and large with their children.
He wanted everything life had to offer. Every last bit of wonder and joy. And he was terrified, because he knew how easily it could all be snatched away.
It only took one well-aimed bullet.
Blake noticed that Caroline's humming had stopped, and he looked up toward the washing room door, which was open a few inches. He heard a bit of splashing, then a rather suspicious silence.
"Caroline?" he called.
She poked her head out, a black silk scarf wrapped over her head. "She eez not here."
Blake raised a brow. "Who are you meant to be? And what did you do with my wife?"
She smiled seductively. "I am, of course, Carlotta De Leon. And eef you don't keess me now, Senor Ravenscroft, I will have to resort to my most unpleasant tacteecs."
"I shudder to think."
She slunk onto the bed and batted her eyes at him. "Don't think. Just keess."
"Oh, but I couldn't. I am an upright, moral man. I could never stray from my marriage vows."
She puckered up. "I am sure your wife weel forgive you just this once."
"Caroline?" He shook his head. "Never. She's the devil's own temper. She quite terrifies me."
"You shouldn't speak of her in such terms."
"You're quite sympathetic for a spy."
"I am unique," she said with a shrug.
He sucked his lips in an attempt not to laugh. "Aren't you Spanish?"
She raised one arm in a salute. "Viva la Queen Isabella!"
"I see. Then why are you speaking with a French accent?"
Her face fell, and she said in a normal voice, "Was I really?"
"Yes, but it was an excellent French accent," he lied.
"I've never met a Spaniard before."
"And I've never met one who sounds quite like you."
She swatted him on the shoulder.
"Actually, I've never met a Frenchman, either."
"No!"
"Don't tease. I am just trying to be entertaining."
"And succeeding handily." He took her hand and rubbed his thumb across her palm.
"Caroline, I want you to know that you make me very happy."
Her eyes grew suspiciously moist. "Why does mis sound like a prelude to bad news?"
"We do have some serious matters to discuss."
"This concerns tomorrow's mission to capture Oliver, doesn't it?"
He nodded. "I won't lie to you and say it won't be dangerous."
"I know," she said in a small voice.
"We had to change our plans somewhat when Prewitt discovered our marriage."
"What do you mean?"
"Moreton-he's the head of the War Office- was going to send us a dozen men as backup. Now he can't."
"Why?"
"We don't want Prewitt to grow suspicious. He'll be watching me. If twelve government officials
descend upon Seacrest Manor he'll know that something is afoot."
"Why can't they just be clandestine about it?" Her voice rose in volume. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do in the War Office? Sneak about under the cover of the night?"
"Don't worry, darling. We're still getting a couple of men to support us."
"Four people are not enough! You have no idea how many men are working for Oliver."
"According to his records," he said patiently, "only four. We'll be evenly matched."
"I don't want you to be evenly matched. You have to outnumber them."
He reached out to stroke her hair, but she jerked away. "Caroline," he said, "this is the way it has to be."
"No," she said defiantly. "It's not."
Blake stared at her, a very bad feeling forming in his stomach. "What do you mean?"
"I'm going with you."
He shot upright. "The devil you are!"
She scurried off the bed and planted her hands on her hips. "How are you going to do this without
me? I can identify all of the men. I know the lay of the land. You don't."
"You're not coming. And that is final."
"Blake, you're not thinking clearly."
He vaulted to his feet and loomed over her. "Don't you dare accuse me of not thinking dearly. Do you think I would willingly put you in danger? Even for a minute? For the love of God, woman, you could be killed."
"So could you," she said softly.
If he heard her, he gave no indication. "I won't go through that again," he said. "If I have to tie you to the bedposts, I will, but you're not coming anywhere near the coast tomorrow night."
"Blake, I refuse to wait here at Seacrest Manor, nibbling at my nails and wondering whether or not I still have a husband."
He raked his hand through his hair in an impatient gesture. "I thought you hated this life-the danger, the intrigue. You told me you felt like throwing up the entire time we were breaking into Prewitt Manor. Why the hell would you want to come along now?"