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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.
If her hands hadn't been bound she would have clapped them together with glee. She couldn't have escaped any faster if she'd arranged transport herself. This man might think she was someone else—a Spanish criminal to be precise—but she could straighten all that out once he'd taken her far, far away. In the meantime, she'd be quiet and still, and let him kick the horse into a full gallop.
Thirty minutes later a very suspicious Blake Ravenscroft dismounted in front of Seacrest Manor, near Bournemouth, Dorset. Carlotta De Leon, who had done everything short of hurl fire at his toenails when he'd cornered her in the meadow, hadn't put up even the tiniest resistance the entire ride to the coast. She hadn't struggled and she hadn't tried to escape. She'd been so quiet, in fact, that the gentlemanly side of him—which reared its polite head all too often for Blake's liking—was tempted to remove her gag.
But he resisted the impulse to be nice. The Marquis of Riverdale, his closest friend and frequent partner in crime prevention, had had previous dealings with Miss De Leon, and he had told Blake that she was deceptive and deadly. Her gag and bindings would not be removed until she was safely locked away.
He pulled her down off of the horse, holding her elbow firmly as he led her into his home. Blake employed only three houseservants—all of them discreet beyond compare—and they were used to strange visitors in the middle of the night. “Up the stairs,” he grunted, pulling her through the hall.
She nodded cheerfully—cheerfully?!?—and picked up the pace. Blake led her up to the top floor and pushed her into a small but comfortably furnished bedchamber. “Just so you don't get any ideas about escaping,” he said roughly, holding up two keys, “the door has two locks.”
She looked over at the doorknob but other than that had no obvious reaction to his words.
“And,” he added, “it's fifty feet down to the ground. So I wouldn't recommend trying the window.”
She shrugged, as if she'd never for a moment considered the window a viable escape option.
Blake scowled at her, irritated by her nonchalance, and looped her wristcuffs over the bedpost. “I don't want you attempting anything while I'm busy.”
She smiled at him—which was really quite a feat with the filthy gag in her mouth. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. He was utterly confused by her, and he didn't like the feeling one bit. He checked to make certain that her bindings were secure and then began to inspect the room, making sure he'd left no objects lying about that she might turn into weapons. He'd heard Carlotta De Leon was resourceful, and he had no plans to be remembered as the fool who'd underestimated her.
He pocketed a quill and a paperweight before shoving a chair out into the hall. He didn't think she looked strong enough to break the chair, but if she somehow managed to snap off a leg, the splintered wood would be a dangerous weapon indeed.
She blinked with interest when he returned.
“If you want to sit down,” he said curtly, “you can do it on the bed.”
She cocked her head in an annoyingly friendly manner and sat on the bed. Not that she had much choice—he'd bound her hands to the bedpost, after all.
“Don't try to charm me by being cooperative,” he warned. “I know all about you.”
She shrugged.
Blake snorted with disgust and turned his back on her as he finished his inspection of the room. Finally, when he was satisfied that the chamber would make an acceptable prison, he faced her, his hands planted firmly on his hips. “If you have any more weapons on your person, you might as well give them up now, since I'm going to have to search you.”
She lurched backward in maidenly horror, and Blake was pleased that he'd finally managed to offend her. Either that or she was a prodigiously good actress.
“Well, have you any weapons? I assure you that I will grow considerably less gentle if I discover that you have attempted to conceal something.”
She shook her head frantically and strained against her bindings, as if trying to get as far away from him as possible.
“I'm not going to enjoy this either,” he muttered. He tried not to feel like a complete cad as she shut her eyes tightly in fear and resignation. He knew that women could be just as evil and dangerous as men—seven years of work for the War Office had convinced him of that basic fact—but he'd never gotten used to this part of the job. He'd been brought up to treat women like ladies, and it went against everything in his moral fiber to inspect her against her will.
