by Julia Quinn
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 e
ven 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?”
She chewed on her lip. Oliver wasn't going to believe that she was completely in the dark, so she said, “I don't know. Sometimes he goes out, though.”
“Ah, now we're getting somewhere. Where does he go?”
“I don't know.”
He pulled on her arm so hard she was sure her shoulder would come out of the socket.
“I don't know!” she shrieked. “Truly, I don't.”
He spun her around. “Do you know where he is right now?”
She shook her head.
“I do.”
“You do?” she choked out.
He nodded, his eyes narrowing malevolently. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered him so far afield this evening.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
He started dragging her toward the main road. “You will.” He pulled her along until they reached a small gig parked by the side of the road. The horse was peacefully chewing on grass until Oliver kicked him in the leg.
“Oliver!” Caroline said. “I'm sure that wasn't necessary.”
“Shut up.” He jammed her up against the side of the gig and tied her hands together with a rough piece of rope.
Caroline looked down at her hands and noted with aggravation that he was as good at tying knots as Blake had been. She'd be lucky if any blood reached her hands. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
“Why, to see your dear husband.”
“I told you, I don't know where he is.”
“And I told you, I do.”
She gulped, finding it harder and harder to keep up her bravado. “Well then, where is he?”
He shoved her up into the gig, sat down behind her, and spurred the horse into motion. “Mr. Ravenscroft is presently standing on a bluff overlooking the English Channel. He has a telescope in his hand and is accompanied by the Marquis of Riverdale and two men I do not recognize.”
“Perhaps they are out on some sort of scientific expedition. My husband is a great naturalist.”
“Don't insult me. He has his telescope fixed on my men.”
“Your men?” she echoed.
“You thought I was just another idle lackwit latching on to your money, didn't you?”
“Well, yes,” Caroline admitted before she had a chance to check her tongue.
“I had plans for your fortune, yes, and don't think I've forgiven you for your betrayal, but I've been working toward my own destiny as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ha! Wouldn't you like to know.”
She caught her breath as they rounded a corner at an unsafe speed. “It appears I'm going to know very soon, Oliver, if you insist upon abducting me this way.”
He looked at her assessingly.
“Watch the road!” she shrieked, nearly losing the contents of her stomach as they careened by a tree.
Oliver yanked too hard on the reins, and the horse, already a bit peeved about having been kicked, snorted and stopped short.
Caroline was jerked forward as they halted. “I think I'm going to be sick,” she mumbled.
“Don't think I'm going to clean the mess if you cast up your accounts,” Oliver snapped, whacking the horse with his riding crop.
“Stop hitting that poor horse!”
He whipped his head around to face her, his eyes glittering dangerously. “May I remind you that you are tied up, and I am not?”
“Your point being?”
“I give the orders.”
“Well, don't be surprised if the poor creature kicks you in the head when you're not looking.”
“Don't tell me how to treat my horse,” he roared, and then brought the crop down again on the animal's back. They resumed their movement down the road, and once Caroline was assured that Oliver was driving at a slower pace, she said, “You were telling me about your work.”
“No,” he said. “I wasn't. And shut up.”
She clamped her mouth closed. Oliver wasn't going to tell her anything, and she might as well use the time to devise a plan. They were moving parallel to the coast, edging ever closer to Prewitt Hall and the cove Oliver had written about in his smuggling reports. The very cove where Blake and James were waiting.
Dear God, they were going to be ambushed.
Something was wrong. Blake felt it in his bones.
“Where is he?” he hissed.
James shook his head and pulled out his pocket watch. “I don't know. The boat arrived an hour ago. Prewitt should have been here to meet them.”
Blake cursed under his breath. “Caroline told me that Prewitt is always punctual.”
“Could he know that the War Office is on to him?”
“Impossible.” Blake lifted his telescope to his eye and focused on the beach. A small boat had dropped anchor about twenty yards out to sea. There wasn't much of a crew—so far they had spied only two men up on the deck. One of them held a pocket watch and was checking it at frequent intervals.
James nudged him and Blake passed him the scope. “Something must have happened today,” Blake said. “There is no way he could have known he'd been detected.”
James just nodded as he scanned the horizon. “Unless he's dead, he'll be here. He has too much money riding on this.”
“And where the hell are his other men? There are supposed to be four.”
James shrugged, scope still to his eye. “Maybe they're waiting for a signal from Prewitt. He might have—Wait!”
“What?”
“Someone's coming along the road.”
“Who?” Blake tried to grab the scope, but James refused to relinquish it. “It's Prewitt,” he said, “coming in a gig. And he's got a female with him.”
“Carlotta De Leon,” Blake predicted.
James slowly lowered the scope. His face had gone utterly white. “No,” he whispered, “it's Caroline.”
Chapter
23
san-guine (adjective). Hopeful or confident with reference to some particular issue.
san-guin-ar-y (adjective). Attended by bloodshed; characterized by slaughter.
After this night, I shall never again confuse the words sanguine and sanguinary.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Ravenscroft
Caroline squinted at the horizon, but in the dark haze of night she could see nothing. This didn't surprise her. Blake and James would never be so stupid as to use a lantern. They were probably hidden behind a rock or shrub, using the faint moonlight to spy on the activities on the shore below.
“I don't see anything,” she said to Oliver. “You must be mistaken.”
He turned his head slowly to face her. “You really think I'm an idiot, don't you?”
She pondered that. “No, not an idiot. Many other things, but not an idiot.”
“Your husband,” he said, pointing ahead, “is hiding among those trees.”
“Perhaps we ought to alert him to our presence?” she asked hopefully.
“Oh, we'll alert him. Have no fear.” Oliver brought the gig to a halt with a vicious yank of the reins and pushed her out to the ground. Caroline landed hard on her side, coughing on dirt and grass. She looked up just in time to see her former guardian pull out a gun.
“Oliver…”
He pointed the weapon at her head.
She shut her mouth.
He jerked his head to the left. “Start walking.”
“But that's the cliff.”
“There's a path. Follow it.”
Caroline looked down. A narrow path had been carved into the steeply sloping hill. It zigged and zagged its way down to the beach, and it didn't take much more than a brisk wind to send loose pebbles rolling down the incline. It didn't look safe, but it was considerably more appealing than a bullet from Oliver's gun. She decided to follow his orders.
“I'll need you to untie my hands,” she said. “For balance.”
He scowled, then acquiesced, muttering, “You're no good to me dead.”
She started to breathe a sigh of relief.
“Yet.”
Her stomach churned.
He finished untying her hands and pushed her toward the edge, musing aloud, “Actually, you might be most useful as a widow.”
