To Catch An Heiress (22 page)

“Oh, Blake.”

He gathered her into his arms and pulled her close, heedless of the blood on her cheek. “I won't fail you again,” he vowed.

“You could never fail me.”

He stiffened. “I failed Marabelle.”

“You told me you'd finally accepted that her death wasn't your fault,” she said, wiggling free.

“I did. I do.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “It still haunts me. If you could have seen her…”

“Oh, no,” she gasped. “I didn't know you were there. I didn't know you'd seen her be killed.”

“I didn't,” he said flatly. “I was in bed with a putrid throat. But when she didn't return on schedule, Riverdale and I went out looking for her.”

“I'm so sorry.”

His voice grew hollow as the memories overtook him. “There was so much blood. She'd been shot four times.”

Caroline thought about how much blood had gushed from Percy's flesh wound. She couldn't even imagine how awful it must be to see a loved one fatally injured. “I wish I knew what to say, Blake. I wish there
was
something to say.”

He turned to face her abruptly. “Do you hate her?”

“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 courage. “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 doorjamb.

“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.

I
n 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.

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 accouterments—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 this 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 clearly. 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?”

“I do hate it!” she burst out. “I hate it so much it eats me up inside. Do you know what worry feels like? Real worry? The kind that burns a hole through your stomach and makes you want to scream?”

He closed his eyes for a moment and said softly, “I do now.”

“Then you'll understand why I can't sit here and do nothing. It doesn't matter that I hate it. It doesn't matter that I'm terrified. Don't you understand that?”

“Caroline, perhaps if you were trained by the War Office. If you knew how to shoot a gun, and—”

“I can shoot a gun. I shot Percy.”

“What I'm trying to tell you is that if you come along, I won't be able to concentrate on the mission. If I'm worrying about you, I'll be more likely to slip up and get myself killed.”

Caroline chewed on her lower lip. “You have a point,” she said slowly.

“Good,” he interrupted, his voice terse. “Then it's settled.”

“No, it's not. The fact remains that I can be of help. And you might need me.”

He grasped her upper arms and locked his eyes onto hers. “I need you here, Caroline. Safe and sound.”

She looked up at him, and saw something in his gray eyes she'd never expected—desperation. She made her decision. “Very well,” she whispered. “I'll stay. But I'm not happy about it.”

Her final words were muffled as he pulled her to him in a crushing embrace. “Thank you,” he murmured, and she wasn't sure if he was speaking to her or to God.

The following evening was the worst Caroline had ever known. Blake and James had left shortly after the evening meal, before the sky had even grown dark. They had claimed that they needed to assess the lay of the land. When Caroline had protested that someone would notice them, they had only laughed. Blake was known as a landowner in the district, they'd replied. Why wouldn't he be out and about with one of his cronies? The two even planned to stop at a local pub for a pint in order to further the ruse that they were merely a pair of carousing noblemen.

Caroline had to allow that their words held sense, but she couldn't shake the serpentine shiver of fear crawling in her belly. She knew that she should trust her husband and James; after all, they'd been working for the War Office for years. Surely they should know what they were doing.

But something felt wrong to her. That's all it was, a pesky feeling that simply wouldn't go away. Caroline had few memories of her mother save for their stargazing outings, but she remembered her laughing once with her husband and saying something about feminine intuition being as solid as gold.

As she stood outside Seacrest Manor, Caroline looked up at the moon and stars and said, “I truly hope you had no idea what you were talking about, Mother.”

She waited for the sense of peace she usually found in the night sky, but for the first time in her life, it failed her.

“Damn,” she muttered. She squeezed her eyes shut and looked up again.

Nothing. She still felt awful.

“You're reading too much into this,” she told herself. “You've never had even an ounce of feminine intuition in your entire life. You don't even know if your own husband loves you. Don't you think a woman with intuition would know at least
that
?”

More than anything, she wanted to hop on a horse and ride to Blake and James's rescue. Except that they probably didn't need rescuing, and she knew that Blake would never forgive her. Trust was such a precious thing, and she didn't want to destroy theirs mere days into the marriage.

Maybe if she went down to the beach, to where she and Blake first made love. Maybe there she could find a little peace.

The sky was growing darker, but Caroline turned her back on the house and walked toward the path that led to the water. She edged through the garden and had just stepped onto the rocky trail when she heard something.

Her heart froze. “Who's there?” she demanded.

Nothing.

“You're being silly,” she mumbled. “Just go to the b—”

Seemingly out of nowhere, a blinding force hit her on the back and knocked her to the ground. “Don't say a word,” a voice growled in her ear.

“Oliver?” she choked out.

“I said don't talk!” His hand clamped over her mouth. Hard.

It
was
Oliver. Her mind raced. What the
hell
was he doing here?

“I'm going to ask you some questions,” he said in a frighteningly even voice. “And you are going to give me some answers.”

Staving off panic, she nodded.

“Who does your husband work for?”

Her eyes widened, and she was thankful that he took his time removing his hand, because she had no idea what to say. When he finally let her speak, his arm still brutally wrapped around her neck, she said, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He yanked back, so that his upper arm cut into her windpipe. “Answer me!”

“I don't know! I swear!” If she gave Blake away his entire operation would be ruined. He might forgive her, but she would never forgive herself.

Oliver abruptly changed his position so that he was twisting her arm behind her back. “I don't believe you,” he growled. “You're a lot of things, most of them annoying as hell, but you're not stupid. Who does he work for?”