Caroline had to concede his point. Oliver Prewitt was not going to be pleased with his only son. She dumped half the money back into the stocking. “Very well,” she said, stuffing her share into her pocket. “You have the bleeding under control?”
“You won't be charged with murder, if that's what you're worried about.”
“It may be difficult for you to believe, Percy, but I don't want you to die. I don't want to marry you, and I certainly won't be sorry if I never clap eyes on you again, but I don't want you to die.”
Percy looked at her oddly, and for a moment Caroline thought he was actually going to say something nice (or at least something as nice as she'd said) in return. But he just snorted. “You're right. I do find it hard to believe.”
At that moment, Caroline decided to dispense with any last shred of sentimentality she might be feeling and stomped to the door. Hand on the knob, she said, “I'll see you in six weeks—when I come to collect my inheritance.”
“And pay me back,” he reminded her.
“And pay you back. With interest,” she added before he could.
“Good.”
“On the other hand,” she said, mostly to herself, “there might be a way to conduct my affairs without meeting with the Prewitts again. I could do everything through a solicitor, and—”
“Even better,” Percy interrupted.
Caroline let out a very loud, very irritated exhale and quit the room. Percy was never going to change. He was rude, he was selfish, and even if he was marginally nicer than his father—well, that still made him a boorish lout.
She scurried along the dark corridor and up a flight of stairs to her room. Funny how her guardians always gave her rooms in the attics. Oliver had been worse than most, relegating her to a dusty corner with low ceilings and deep eaves. But if he had meant to break her spirit he had failed. Caroline loved her cozy room. It was closer to the sky. She could hear the rain against the ceiling, and she could watch the tree branches bud in spring. Birds nested outside her window, and squirrels occasionally ran along her ledge.
As she threw her most prized belongings into a bag, she stopped to peer out the window. It had been a cloudless day and now the sky was remarkably clear. It somehow seemed fitting that this should be a starry night. Caroline had few memories of her mother, but she could recall sitting on her lap outside on summer nights, staring up at the stars. “Look at that one,” Cassandra Trent would whisper. “I think it's the brightest one in the sky. And look over there. Can you see the bear?” Their outings had always ended with Cassandra saying, “Each star is special. Did you know that? I know that sometimes they all look the same, but each one is special and different, just like you. You are the most special little girl in the whole world. Don't ever forget that.”
Caroline had been too young to realize that Cassandra was dying, but now she cherished her mother's final gift, for no matter how bleak or desolate she felt—and the last ten years of her life had given her many reasons to feel bleak and desolate—Caroline had only to look up at the sky to give her a measure of the peace. If a star twinkled, she felt safe and warm. Maybe not as safe and warm as that long-ago toddler on her mother's lap, but at least the stars gave her hope. They endured, and so could she.
She gave her room a final inspection to make certain she hadn't left anything behind, tossed a few tallow candles into her bag in case she needed them, and dashed out. The house was quiet; all the servants had been given the night off, presumably so there would be no witnesses when Percy attacked her. Trust Oliver to think ahead. Caroline was only surprised that he hadn't tried this tactic sooner. He must have originally thought that he could get her to marry Percy without resorting to rape. Now that her twenty-first birthday was approaching, he was growing desperate.
And so was Caroline. If she had to marry Percy, she'd die. She didn't care how melodramatic she sounded. The only thing worse than the thought of seeing him every day for the rest of her life was having to listen to him every day for the rest of her life.
She was making her way through the hall toward the front door when she noticed Oliver's new candelabra sitting majestically on the side table. He'd been crowing about the piece all week. Sterling silver, he'd said. The finest craftsmanship. Caroline growled. Oliver hadn't been able to afford sterling silver candelabras before he'd been appointed her guardian.
It was ironic, really. She'd have been happy to share her fortune—give it away, even—if she'd found a home with a family who loved her and cared for her. Someone who saw in her something more than a workhorse with a bank account.
Impulsively, Caroline yanked the beeswax candles out of the candelabra and replaced them with the tallow ones in her bag. If she needed to light a candle on her travels, she wanted the sweet-smelling beeswax Oliver reserved for himself.
She ran outside, mumbling a short thanks for the warm weather. “It's a bloody good thing Percy didn't decide to attack me in the winter,” she muttered, striding down the drive. She would have preferred to ride—anything that would get her out of Hampshire faster—but Oliver kept only two horses, and they were currently attached to his carriage, which he'd taken with him to his weekly game of cards at the squire's house.
Caroline tried to look at the bright side and reminded herself that she could hide more easily on foot. She'd be slower, though, and if she ran into footpads …
She shuddered. A woman alone was very conspicuous. And her light brown hair seemed to catch all the moonlight, even with most of it stuffed into a bonnet. She'd have been smart to dress up like a boy, but she hadn't had enough time. Perhaps she should follow the coast to the nearest busy harbor. It wasn't that far. She'd be able to travel faster by sea, take herself far enough away so that Oliver couldn't find her within six weeks.
Yes, it would have to be the coast. But she couldn't travel via the main roads. Someone was bound to see her. She turned south and began to cut through a field. It was only fifteen miles to Portsmouth. If she walked quickly and through the night, she could be there by morning. Then she could book passage on a ship—something that would take her to another part of England. Caroline didn't want to leave the country, not when she needed to claim her inheritance in six short weeks.
But what was she supposed to do with herself during that time? She'd been cut off from society for so long she didn't even know if she was qualified for any type of gentle employment. She thought she might make a good governess, but it would probably take six weeks just to find a position. And then … Well, it just wasn't fair to take a position as a governess and then leave the post mere weeks later.
She did know how to cook, and her guardians had certainly made sure she knew how to clean. Maybe she could work for room and board at some little-known, very out-of-the-way inn.
She nodded to herself. Cleaning up after strangers wasn't terribly appealing, but it seemed to be her only hope of survival for the next few weeks. But no matter what, she had to get away from Hampshire and its neighboring counties. She could work at an inn, but it would have to be far away from Prewitt Hall.
And so she increased her pace toward Portsmouth. The grass under her shoes was soft and dry, and the trees shielded her from the view of the main road. There wasn't much traffic this time of night, but one couldn't be too careful. She moved swiftly, the only sound her footfall as her boots met the earth. Until …
What was that?
Caroline whirled around but saw nothing. Her heart raced. She could have sworn she'd heard something. “It was just a hedgehog,” she whispered to herself. “Or perhaps a hare.” But she didn't see any animals, and she didn't feel reassured.
“Just keep moving,” she told herself. “You must get to Portsmouth by morning.” She resumed her trek, walking so fast now that her breath began to come faster and faster. And then …
She whirled around again, her hand instinctively reaching for her gun. This time she'd definitely heard something. “I know you're out there,” she said with a defiance she did
n't quite feel. “Show your face or remain a coward.”
There was a rustling noise, and then a man emerged from the trees. He was dressed completely in black, from his shirt to his boots—even his hair was black. He was tall, and his shoulders were broad, and he was quite the most dangerous-looking man Caroline had ever seen.
And he had a gun pointed straight at her heart.
Chapter 2
pug.na.cious (adjective). Disposed to fight; given to fighting; quarrelsome.
I can be pugnacious when backed into a corner.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
Blake Ravenscroft wasn't certain what he thought the woman would look like, but this certainly wasn't it. He'd thought she'd look soft, coy, manipulative. Instead, she stood tall, held her shoulders square, and stared him in the eye.
And she had the most intriguing mouth he'd ever seen. He was at a complete loss to describe it, except that her upper lip arched in the most delightful way and—
“Do you think you could possibly point that gun elsewhere?”
Blake snapped out of his reverie, appalled by his lack of concentration. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”
“Well, yes, actually, I would. I have this thing about guns, you see. I don't mind them, precisely. They're good for some purposes, I suppose—hunting and the like. But I don't particularly enjoy having them pointed at me, and—”
“Quiet!”
She shut her mouth.
Blake studied her for several moments. Something about her wasn't right. Carlotta De Leon was Spanish … well, half-Spanish at least, and this girl looked English through and through. Her hair couldn't be called blond, but it was definitely a light shade of brown, and even in the dark night he could see that her eyes were a clear bluish-green.
Not to mention her voice, which was tinged with the pommy accents of the British elite.
But he'd seen her sneaking out of Oliver Prewitt's house. In the dead of night. With all the servants dismissed. She had to be Carlotta De Leon. There was no other explanation.
Blake—and the War Office, which didn't precisely employ him but did give him orders and the occasional bank draft—had been after Oliver Prewitt for nearly six months now. The local authorities had known for some time that Prewitt was smuggling goods to and from France, but it was only recently that they had begun to suspect that he was allowing Napoleonic spies to use his small boat to carry secret diplomatic messages along with his usual cargo of brandy and silk. Since Prewitt's boat sailed from a little cove on the southern coast between Portsmouth and Bournemouth, the War Office hadn't originally paid much attention to him. Most spies made their crossings from Kent, which was much closer to France. Prewitt's seemingly inconvenient location had made for an excellent ruse, and the War Office feared that Napoleon's forces had been using him for their most delicate messages. One month ago they had discovered that Prewitt's contact was one Carlotta De Leon—half-Spanish, half-English, and one hundred percent deadly.
Blake had been on the alert all evening, as soon as he'd learned that all of the Prewitt servants had been given the night off—an uncommon gesture for a man as notoriously stingy as Oliver Prewitt. Clearly something was afoot, and Blake's suspicions were confirmed when he saw the girl slip out of the house under the cover of darkness. So she was a trifle younger than he'd supposed—he wasn't going to let her guise of innocence deter him. She probably cultivated that look of blooming youth. Who would suspect such a lovely young lady of high treason?
Her long hair was pulled back into a girlish braid, her cheeks had that pink, well-scrubbed look, and …
And her delicately boned hand was slowly reaching down toward her pocket.
Blake's finely tuned instincts took over. His left arm shot out with startling speed, knocking her hand off course as he lunged forward. He hit her with all his weight, and they tumbled to the ground. She felt soft beneath him, except, of course, for the hard metal gun in her cloak pocket. If he'd had any doubts of her identity before, they were now gone. He grabbed the pistol, shoved it in his waistband, and stood back up, leaving her sprawled on the ground.
“Very amateur, my dear.”
She blinked, then muttered, “Well, yes. That's to be expected as I'm hardly a professional at this sort of thing, although I do have some experience with …”
Her words trailed off into an unintelligible mumble, and he wasn't at all sure if she was speaking to him or herself. “I've been after you for nearly a year,” he said sharply.
That got her attention. “You have?”
“Not that I knew who you were until last month. But now that I've got you, I'm not letting you go.”
“You're not?”
Blake stared at her in irritated confusion. What was her game? “Do you think I'm an idiot?” he spat out.
“No,” she said. “I've just escaped from a den of idiots, so I'm well familiar with the breed, and you're something else entirely. I am, however, hoping you're not a terribly good shot.”
“I never miss.”
She sighed. “Yes, I feared as much. You look the sort. I say, do you mind if I get back up?”
He moved the gun a fraction of an inch, just enough to remind her that he was aiming at her heart. “Actually, I find I prefer your position on the ground.”
“I had a feeling you would,” she muttered. “I don't suppose you're going to let me go on my way.”
His answer was a bark of laughter. “I'm afraid not, my dear. Your spying days are over.”
“My spying—my what?”
“The British government knows all about you and your treasonous plots, Miss Carlotta De Leon. I think you'll find we do not look kindly upon Spanish spies.”
Her face was a perfect picture of disbelief. God, this woman was good. “The government knows about me?” she asked. “Wait a moment, about who?”
“Don't play dumb, Miss De Leon. Your intelligence is well-known both here and on the continent.”
“That's a very nice compliment, to be sure, but I'm afraid there has been a mistake.”
“No mistake. I saw you leaving Prewitt Hall.”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“In the dark,” he continued, “with all the servants dismissed. You didn't realize we'd been watching the hall, did you?”
“No, no, of course I didn't,” Caroline replied, blinking furiously. Someone had been watching the house? How had she not noticed? “For how long?”
“Two weeks.”
That explained it. She'd been in Bath for the past fortnight, attending to Oliver's sickly maiden aunt. She'd only returned this afternoon.
“But that was long enough,” he continued, “to confirm our suspicions.”
“Your suspicions?” she echoed. What the devil was this man talking about? If he was insane, she was in big trouble, because he was still pointing a gun at her midsection.
“We have enough to indict Prewitt. Your testimony will ensure that he hangs. And you, my dear, will learn to love Australia.”
Caroline gasped, her eyes lighting up with delight. Oliver was involved in something illegal? Oh, this was wonderful! Perfect! She should have guessed he was nothing more than a lowly crook. Her mind raced. Despite what the man in black had said, she doubted Oliver had done anything bad enough to hang for it. But perhaps he'd be sent to jail. Or forced into indentured servitude. Or—
“Miss De Leon?” the man said sharply.
Caroline's voice was excited and breathy as she asked, “What has Oliver been doing?”
“For the love of God, woman, I've had enough of your playacting. You're coming with me.” He stepped forward with a menacing growl and grabbed her by the wrists. “Now.”
“But—”
“Not another word unless it's a confession.”
“But—”
“That's it!” He stuffed a rag into her mouth. “You'll have plenty of time to talk later, Miss De Leon.”
Caroline coughed and grunted furiously
as he bound her wrists with a coarse piece of rope. Then, to her amazement, he put two fingers into his mouth, and let out a low whistle. A glorious black gelding pranced out of the trees, its steps high and graceful.
While she was gaping at the horse—who must have been the quietest and best-trained animal in the history of creation—the man hefted her up onto the saddle.
“Iiiii shrr …” she croaked, quite unable to speak with the grimy gag in her mouth.
“What?” He looked over at her and took in the way her skirts were cutting into her legs. “Oh, your skirts. I can cut them or you can dispense with propriety.”
She glared at him.
“Propriety goes, then,” he said, and hiked her skirts up so that she could straddle the horse with more comfort. “Sorry I didn't think to bring a side-saddle, Miss De Leon, but trust me when I tell you that you've far greater worries just now than my seeing your bare legs.”
She kicked him in the chest.
His hand closed painfully around her ankle. “Never,” he spat out, “kick a man who is pointing a gun at you.”
Caroline stuck her nose in the air and looked away. This farce had gone on quite long enough. As soon as she got rid of this blasted gag she'd tell this brute she'd never even heard of his Miss Carlotta De Leon. She would bring the force of the law down on his head so fast he'd be begging for the hangman's noose.
But in the meantime, she would have to settle for making his life miserable. As soon as he mounted the horse and settled into the saddle behind her, she elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.
“What now?” he snapped.
She shrugged innocently.
“Another move like that and I'm stuffing a second rag in your mouth. And this one is considerably less clean than the first.”
As if that were possible, Caroline thought angrily. She didn't even want to think about where her gag had resided before her mouth. All she could do was glare at him, and from the way he snorted at her she feared she didn't look fierce enough by half.
But then he set his horse into a canter, and Caroline realized that while they weren't riding toward Portsmouth, they also weren't heading anywhere near Prewitt Hall.