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."
Chapter 5
pule (verb). 1. To cry in a thin or weak voice, as a child. 2. To pipe plaintively, as a chicken.
Had I any voice left, I'm sure I should have puled
-From the personal dictionary of
Caroline Trent
"Oh dear," Caroline croaked, forgetting that she was supposed to be mute.
"And how the hell long have you had your damned voice back?" her captor demanded.
"I... ah.. ,Not so long, really."
"Really, Blake," the second man said.
"You might want to mind your language. There is a lady present."
"Bugger that!" Blake exploded. "Do you know how much time I've wasted with this woman? The real Carlotta De Leon is probably halfway to China by now."
Caroline swallowed nervously. So his name was Blake. It fit him somehow. Short and to the point. She wondered if it was his Christian name or his surname.
"And," he continued in a blaze of fury, "since you're obviously not the woman you said you are, who the devil are you?"
"I never said I was Carlotta De Leon," she insisted.
"The devil you didn't!"
"I just never said I wasn't."
"Who are you?"
Caroline pondered this question and decided that her only recourse was absolute honesty. "My name is Caroline Trent," she replied, her eyes meeting Blake's for the first time in their conversation. "Oliver Prewitt is my guardian."
There was a beat of dead silence as both men stared at her in surprise. Finally Blake turned to his friend and roared, "Why the hell didn't we know that Prewitt had a ward?"
The other man swore under his breath, then swore again, much louder the second time. "I'm damned if I know. Someone is going to answer for this."
Blake turned to Caroline and demanded, "If indeed you are Prewitt's ward, then where have you been the past fortnight? We've been surveying the house day and night, and you, my girl, were most definitely not in residence."
"I was in Bath. Oliver sent me to care for his elderly aunt. Her name is Marigold."