To Catch an Heiress

Caroline nearly jumped for joy. If only there were some way she could fake a fever to make her seem even more sickly. She supposed she could put her face next to a candle in the hope that her skin would grow unnaturally warm, but if he came in she'd have a devil of a time explaining why she had a candle lit on such a bright morning.

No, the mute throat would have to be enough. And even if it weren't, she didn't have any choice in the matter, because she could hear his footsteps sounding loudly down the hall.

She dashed across the room and scrambled into the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She coughed a couple of times, then pinched her cheeks to give them the appearance of being flushed, then coughed some more.

Cough cough cough.

The key turned in the lock.

Cough cough cough COUGH. It was murder on her throat, but Caroline wanted to give an especially good performance right as he was coming in.

Then another key started turning in another lock. Blast. She'd forgotten that there were two locks on the door.

Cough cough cough. Hack hack. Cough. GAG.

“Good God! What is that infernal noise?”

Caroline looked up, and if she weren't already mute she would have lost her voice. Her captor had looked dashing and dangerous in the dark, but by day he put Adonis to shame. He seemed somehow larger in the light. Stronger, too, as if his clothing only barely leashed the power of his body. His black hair was neatly trimmed, but an errant lock fell forward to his left eyebrow. And his eyes—they were clear and gray, but that was the only innocent thing about them. They looked like they had seen far too much in their lifetime.

The man grabbed her shoulder, his touch burning through her dress to her skin. She gasped, the covered it up with another cough.

“I believe I told you last night that I have grown weary of your playacting.”

She shook her head quickly, grabbed her neck with her hands, then coughed again.

“If you for one moment think that I believe—”

She opened her mouth wide and pointed at her throat.

“I'm not going to look at your throat, you little—”

She pointed again, this time urgently jabbing her finger into her mouth.

“Oh, very well.” His lips were clamped into a firm line as he turned on his heel, strode across the room, and wrenched a candle out of its holder. Caroline watched with undisguised interest as he lit the taper and crossed back to the bed. He sat down next to her, the weight of his body depressing his side of the mattress. She rolled a little toward him and put her hand out to stop her descent.

She connected with his thigh.

COUGH!

She very nearly flew to the other side of the bed.

“Oh, for the love of God, I've been touched by women more appealing and more interested than you,” he snapped. “You needn't fear. I may starve the truth out of you, but I won't ravish you.”

Oddly enough, Caroline believed him. His inclinations toward abduction aside, he didn't seem the type to take a woman against her will. In a rather strange sort of way she trusted this man. He could have hurt her—he could even have killed her—but he hadn't. She sensed he had a code of honor and morals that had been absent in her guardians.

“Well?” he demanded.

She inched back toward his end of the bed and placed her hands primly on her lap.

“Open up.”

She cleared her throat—as if that were necessary—and opened her mouth. He brought the candle flame close to her face and peered in. After a moment he drew back, and she snapped her mouth closed, staring up at him expectantly.

His face was grim. “It looks as if someone took a razor to your throat, but I expect you know that.”

She nodded.

“I suppose you were up all night coughing.”

She nodded again.

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second longer than was necessary before saying, “You have my reluctant admiration for this. Inflicting such pain upon yourself just to escape a few questions shows true dedication to the cause.”

Caroline gave him her best expression of outrage.

“Unfortunately for you, you chose the wrong cause.”

All she could manage this time was a blank stare, but it was an honest blank stare. She had no clue what cause he was talking about.

“I'm sure you can still speak.”

She shook her head.

“Give it a try.” He leaned forward and stared at her so hard she squirmed. “For me.”

She shook her head again, this time quickly. Very quickly.

He leaned in even closer, until his nose was almost resting on hers. “Try.”

No! She opened her mouth, and would have shouted it, but truly, not a sound emerged.

“You really can't speak,” he said, sounding wholly surprised.

She tried to shoot him her best what-on-earth-do-you-think-I-would-have-been-trying-to-say-if-I-could-speak look, but she had a feeling that the sentiment was a bit too complex for a single facial expression.

He stood quite suddenly. “I'll return in a moment.”

Caroline could do nothing but stare at his back as he left the room.

Blake sighed with irritation as he pushed open the door to his study. Damn, he was getting too old for this. Eight-and-twenty might still be relatively youthful, but seven years with the War Office was enough to leave anyone prematurely tired and weary. He'd seen friends die, his family was always wondering why he continually disappeared for long stretches of time, and his fiancée …

Blake closed his eyes in pain and remorse. Marabelle wasn't his fiancée any longer. She wasn't anyone's fiancée and wasn't likely to become one, buried as she was in her family plot in the Cots-wolds.