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“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.
