“What a waste,” he muttered.
She raised her brows in question.
“Nothing.”
Her shoulders rose and fell in a rather gallic motion.
“How old are you?” he asked abruptly.
She flashed all ten fingers twice.
“Only twenty?” he asked in disbelief. “Not that you look any older, but I thought—”
Quickly, she held up one hand again, all five fingers stretched out like a starfish.
“Twenty-five, then?”
She nodded, but she was looking out the window when she did so.
“You should be married with children clutching at your skirts, not running around betraying the crown.”
She looked down, and her lips flattened into an expression that could only be called rueful. Then she twisted her hands in a questioning motion and pointed to him.
“Me?”
She nodded.
“What about me?”
She pointed to the fourth finger of her left hand.
“Why am I not married?”
She nodded, this time emphatically.
“Don't you know?”
She looked at him blankly, and then after several moments shook her head.
“I was almost married.” Blake tried to sound flippant, but any fool could hear the sorrow in his voice.
What happened? she mouthed.
“She died.”
Caroline swallowed and then placed her hand on his in a gesture of sympathy. I'm sorry.
He shook her away and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, they were devoid of emotion. “No, you're not,” he said.
She put her hand back into her lap and waited for him to speak. Somehow it didn't seem right to intrude upon his grief. He didn't say anything, though.
Feeling awkward in the silence, Caroline got up and walked to the window. Rain pelted the glass, and she wondered how much water she'd been able to collect in her little receptacle. Probably not much, and she certainly didn't need the water after all the tea he'd fed her today, but she was still eager to see how well her plan had worked. She'd learned long ago how to entertain herself in the simplest of ways. A little project here and there, charting the way the night sky changed from month to month. Perhaps if he kept her here for a while she could do weekly measurements of rainfall. At the very least, it would help to keep her mind occupied.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
She made no reply, verbal or otherwise, and grabbed the bottom of the window with her fingers.
“I asked you what you are doing.” His footsteps accompanied his voice, and Caroline knew he was drawing near. Still she didn't turn around. The window eased up, and the drizzle blew into the room, dampening the front of her dress.
“You little fool,” he said, clamping his hands over hers.
She whirled around in surprise. She hadn't expected him to touch her.
“You're going to be soaked through.” With a slight shove, he pushed the window back down. “And then you'll truly be sick.”
She shook her head and pointed to her little container on the ledge.
“Surely you can't be thirsty.”
Just curious, she mouthed.
“What? I didn't catch that.”
Jjuusstt ccuurriioouuss. She drew it out this time, hoping he'd be able to read her lips.
“If you spoke out loud,” he drawled, “I might understand what you're saying.”
Caroline stamped her foot in frustration, but when it landed, it landed on something considerably less flat than the floor.
“Owww!” he yelled.
Oh! His foot! Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry, she mouthed. I didn't mean it.
“If you think I can understand that,” he growled, “you're crazier than I'd originally thought.”
She chewed on her lower lip remorsefully, then placed her hand over her heart.
“I suppose you're trying to convince me that was an accident?”
She nodded earnestly.
“I don't believe you.”
She frowned and sighed with impatience. This muteness was getting to be annoying, but she didn't see how else to proceed. Exasperated, she pointed her foot forward.
“What does that mean?”
She wiggled her foot, then set it down and stomped on it with her other foot.
He looked at her in utter confusion. “Are you trying to convince me you're some sort of masochist? I hate to disappoint you, but I've never gone in for that sort of thing.”
She shook her fists in the air then pointed at him, then pointed at her foot.
“You want me to stomp on your foot?” he asked in disbelief.
She nodded.
“Why?”
I'm sorry, she mouthed.
“Are you really sorry?” he asked, his voice growing dangerously low.
She nodded.
He leaned closer. “Really and truly?”
She nodded again.
“And you're determined to prove it to me?”
She nodded yet again, but this time her movements lacked conviction.
“I'm not going to stomp on your foot,” he whispered.
She blinked.
Blake touched her cheek, knowing he was insane, but unable to help himself. His fingers trailed down to her throat, reveling in the warmth of her skin. “You're going to have to make it up to me a different way.”
She tried to take a step back, but his hand had snaked around to the back of her head, and he was holding her firmly.
“A kiss, I think,” he murmured. “Just one. Just one kiss.”
Her lips parted in surprise, and she looked so damned startled and innocent that he was able to delude himself, if only for this one moment, that she wasn't Carlotta De Leon. She wasn't a traitor or a spy. She was just a woman—a rather fetching woman—and she was here in his home, in his arms.