He picked up the Bible and flipped quickly through it, making certain there was nothing concealed between its pages. Satisfied that the book contained nothing untoward, he tossed it back onto the bed, noting with interest that she flinched as he did so.
He then picked up the notebook and looked inside. Only the first few pages contained any scribblings. "Contubernal," he read aloud. "Halcyon. Diacritical. Titivate. Umlaut." He raised his eyebrows and read on. Three pages full of the sort of words that earned one a first at Oxford or Cambridge. "What is this?"
She jerked her shoulder toward her mouth, motioning to the gag.
"Right," he said with a curt nod, setting the notebook next to the Bible. "But before I remove that, I'll have to..." His words trailed off, and he let out an unhappy exhale. Both of them knew what he had to do. "If you don't struggle I'll be able to do this faster," he said grimly.
Her entire body was tense, but Blake tried to ignore her distress as he quickly patted her down. "There, we're done," he said, his voice gruff. "I must say I'm rather surprised you weren't carrying anything other than that pistol."
She glared at him in return.
"I'll remove the gag now, but one loud noise and it's going right back in."
She nodded curtly, coughing as he removed the rag.
Blake leaned insolently against the wall as he asked, "Well?"
"Nobody would hear me if I made a loud noise, anyway."
"That much is true," he conceded. His eyes fell back upon the leather-bound notebook, and he picked it up. "Now, suppose you tell me what this is all about."
She shrugged. "My father always encouraged me to expand my vocabulary."
Blake stared at her in disbelief, then flipped through the opening pages again. It was some kind of code. It had to be. But he was tired, and he knew that if she confessed to something that night, it wasn't going to be anything as destructive to her cause as the key to a secret code. So he tossed the book on the bed and said, "We'll talk more about this tomorrow."
She gave another one of those annoying shrugs.
He gritted his teeth. "Have you anything to say for yourself?"
Caroline rubbed her eyes, reminding herself that she had to remain on this man's good side. He looked dangerous, and despite his obvious discomfort at searching her, she had no doubt that he would hurt her if he deemed it necessary to his mission.
Whatever that was.
She was playing a dangerous game and she knew it. She wanted to remain here at this cushy estate as long as possible-it was certainly warmer and safer than any place she could afford on her own. To do that, however, she had to let him continue to believe that she was this Carlotta person. She had no idea how to do this; she didn't know Spanish and she certainly didn't know how a criminal was supposed to act when apprehended and tied to a bedpost.
She supposed Carlotta would try to deny everything. "You have the wrong person," she said, knowing he wouldn't believe her and taking a wicked delight in the fact that she was telling the truth.
"Ha!" he barked. "Surely you can come up with something a little more original."
She shrugged. "You can believe what you want."
"You seem to be acting very confidently for someone who is clearly at the disadvantage."
He had a point there, Caroline conceded. But if Carlotta truly was a spy, she'd be a master at bravado. "I don't appreciate being bound, gagged, dragged across the countryside, and tied to a bedpost. Not to mention," she bit off, "being forced to submit to your insulting touch."
He closed his eyes for a moment, and if Caroline hadn't known better she would have thought he was in some sort of pain. Then he opened them and once again looked at her with a hard and uncompromising gaze. He said, "I find it difficult to believe, Miss De Leon, that you have come so far in your chosen profession without having had yourself searched before."
Caroline didn't know what to say to that so she just glared at him.
"I'm still waiting for you to talk."
"I have nothing to say." That much, at least, was true.
"You might reverse your opinion after a few days without food or water."
"You plan to starve me, then?"
"It has broken stronger men than you."
She hadn't considered this. She'd known he would yell at her, she'd thought he might even hit her, but it had never occurred to her that he might withhold food and water:
"I see the prospect doesn't excite you," he drawled.
"Leave me alone," she snapped. She needed to develop a plan. She needed to figure out who the devil this man was. Most of all, she needed time.
She looked him in the eye and said, "I'm tired."
"I'm. sure you are, but I'm not particularly inclined to let you sleep."
"You needn't worry about my comfort. I'm not likely to feel well-rested after spending an evening tied to the bedpost."
"Oh, that," he said, and with a quick step and flick of his wrist, he cut her free.
"Why did you do that?" she asked suspiciously.
"It pleased me to do so. Besides, you have no weapon, you can hardly overpower me, and you have no means of escape. Good night, Miss De Leon."
Her mouth fell open. "You're leaving?"
"I did bid you good night." Then he turned on his heel and left the room, leaving her gaping at the door. She heard two keys turn in two locks before she regained her composure. "My God, Caroline," she whispered to herself, "what have you gotten yourself into?"
Her stomach rumbled, and she wished she'd had something to eat before she'd run off that evening. Her captor appeared to be a man of his word, and if he said he wasn't going to give her food or water, she believed him.
She ran to the window and looked out. He hadn't been lying. It was at least fifty feet to the ground. But there was a ledge, and if she could find some sort of receptacle, she could put it out to collect rain and dew. She'd been hungry before; she knew she could handle that. But thirst was something else altogether.
She found a small, cylindrical container used to hold quills on the desk. The sky was still clear, but
English weather being what it was, Caroline figured there was a decent chance it'd rain before morning, so she set the container on the ledge just in case.
Then she crossed to her bed and put her belongings back in her satchel. Thank the heavens her captor hadn't noticed the writing inside title Bible. Her mother had left the book to her when she died, and surely he'd have wanted to know why the name Cassandra Trent was inscribed on the inside front cover. And his reaction to her little personal dictionary... good heavens, she was going to have trouble explaining that. Then she had the strangest feeling... She took off her shoes and slid off the bed, walking on silent, stockinged feet until she reached the wall that bordered the hall. She moved closely along the wall until she reached the door. Bending down, she peered through the keyhole.