To Catch an Heiress
Page 16
She was sitting on the bed, nodding, and her light brown hair looked a touch stringy. She didn't look well.
Blake groaned. “Don't tell me you're really sick now.”
She nodded, looking for all the world as if she were about to cry.
“So you admit you faked your illness yesterday?”
She looked sheepish as she wiggled her hand in a manner that meant, Sort of.
“Either you did or you didn't.”
She nodded ruefully, but pointed to her throat.
“Yes, I know you really couldn't speak yesterday, but we both know that was no accident, now was it?”
She looked down.
“I'll take that as a yes.”
She pointed to the tray and mouthed, Tea?
“Yes.” He set the service down and placed his hand against her forehead. “I thought to help you regain your voice. Damn, you've a fever.”
She sighed.
“Serves you right.”
I know, she mouthed, looking utterly contrite. In that moment he almost liked her.
“Here,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “you'd better have some tea.”
Thank you.
“Will you pour?”
She nodded.
“Good. I've always been clumsy with that sort of thing. Marabelle always said—” He cut himself off. How could he even think of talking about Marabelle with this spy?
Who is Marabelle? she mouthed.
“No one,” he said sharply.
Your fiancée? she mouthed, her lips moving carefully to enunciate her silent words.
He didn't answer her, just stood up and strode to the door. “Drink you tea,” he ordered. “And yank the bellpull if you start to feel ill.”
He exited the room, slamming the door behind him before twisting the two locks shut with a vicious click.
Caroline stared at the door and blinked. What had that been all about? The man was as changeable as the wind. One minute she would swear he was actually growing fond of her, and the next …
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 groaned. “Don't tell me you're really sick now.”
She nodded, looking for all the world as if she were about to cry.
“So you admit you faked your illness yesterday?”
She looked sheepish as she wiggled her hand in a manner that meant, Sort of.
“Either you did or you didn't.”
She nodded ruefully, but pointed to her throat.
“Yes, I know you really couldn't speak yesterday, but we both know that was no accident, now was it?”
She looked down.
“I'll take that as a yes.”
She pointed to the tray and mouthed, Tea?
“Yes.” He set the service down and placed his hand against her forehead. “I thought to help you regain your voice. Damn, you've a fever.”
She sighed.
“Serves you right.”
I know, she mouthed, looking utterly contrite. In that moment he almost liked her.
“Here,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “you'd better have some tea.”
Thank you.
“Will you pour?”
She nodded.
“Good. I've always been clumsy with that sort of thing. Marabelle always said—” He cut himself off. How could he even think of talking about Marabelle with this spy?
Who is Marabelle? she mouthed.
“No one,” he said sharply.
Your fiancée? she mouthed, her lips moving carefully to enunciate her silent words.
He didn't answer her, just stood up and strode to the door. “Drink you tea,” he ordered. “And yank the bellpull if you start to feel ill.”
He exited the room, slamming the door behind him before twisting the two locks shut with a vicious click.
Caroline stared at the door and blinked. What had that been all about? The man was as changeable as the wind. One minute she would swear he was actually growing fond of her, and the next …
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.”
