“Clearly, he doesn't want to be found.”
“Why not?”
“I haven't the slightest idea,” he said, in a tone that said he had a very good idea. “Riverdale rather excels at disappearing when he's of a mind to do so.”
“I suppose that comes in handy in your line of work.”
Blake didn't reply. He had no wish to discuss his work for the War Office with her. Women tended to find his exploits dashing and glamorous, and he knew that they were anything but. There was nothing dashing or glamorous about death.
Caroline finally broke the long silence. “I'm sure you can let go of me now.”
“Can you walk?”
“Of course I—Ow!”
She'd barely taken a step before she howled in pain again. Blake immediately swept her into his arms and said, “I'll carry you to the drawing room.”
“But my books!” she protested.
“I believe they are my books,” he said with a small smile, “and I'll have one of the servants come and put them back.”
“No, no, please don't do that. I'll put them back myself.”
“If you'll pardon my saying so, Miss Trent, you cannot even walk. How do you plan to rearrange a library?”
Caroline twisted her head to view the chaos she'd inflicted as he carried her out of the room. “Couldn't you leave them this way for a few days? I promise I'll take care of the mess once my ankle heals. I have grand plans for the library, you see.”
“Do you?” he asked doubtfully.
“Yes, I thought to put all of your scientific treatises together, and to group the biographies onto one shelf, and, well, I'm sure you see my idea. It will be ever so much easier to find your books.”
“It certainly has to be easier than it is now, with everything on the floor.”
Caroline scowled at him. “I'm doing you a tremendous favor. If you cannot be grateful, at the very least you could contrive not to be quite so un-grateful.”
“Very well, I profess my undying and eternal gratitude.”
“That didn't sound terribly sincere,” she muttered.
“It wasn't,” he admitted, “but it will have to do. Here we are.” He set her down on a sofa. “Shall we elevate your leg?”
“I don't know. I've never twisted an ankle before. Is that what one is meant to do?”
He nodded and piled soft pillows under her leg. “It reduces the swelling.”
“Bother the swelling. It's the pain I'd like to reduce.”
“They go hand in hand.”
“Oh. How long will I have to remain like this?”
“At least for the rest of the day, I should think. Perhaps tomorrow as well.”
“Hmmph. That is perfectly dreadful. I don't suppose you could fetch me a spot of tea.”
Blake drew himself back and looked at her. “Do I look like a nursemaid?”
“Not at all,” she replied, clearly holding back a giggle. “It's just that Mrs. Mickle has gone to the village after preparing that lovely breakfast, heaven only knows where your butler is, and I don't think your valet fetches tea.”
“If I can fetch it, he damned well can, too,” Blake muttered.
“Oh, good!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Then you'll get some for me?”
“I suppose I must. And how the devil have you come to be on such good terms with my servants in only one day?”
She shrugged. “Actually, I've only met Mrs. Mickle. Did you know she has a nine-year-old granddaughter who lives in the village? She bought her the loveliest doll for her birthday. I should have loved a doll like that when I was a girl.”
Blake shook his head in amazement. Mrs. Mickle had been working for him for nearly three years, and she'd never mentioned that she had a grand-daughter. “I'll be right back with that tea,” he said.
“Thank you. And don't forget to make enough for yourself as well.”
He stopped in the doorway. “I won't be joining you.”
Caroline's face fell. “You won't?”
“No, I…” He groaned. He'd done battle against some of the world's most devious criminals, but he was powerless in the face of her frown. “Very well, I'll join you, but only for a short while.”
“Wonderful. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time. And you'll find that tea does wonders for your disposition.”
“My disposition!”
“Forget I mentioned it,” she mumbled.
Mrs. Mickle was nowhere to be found when Blake reached the kitchen. After hollering for the house-keeper for a minute or so, he remembered that Caroline had said she had gone to town.
“Dratted female,” he muttered, not sure whether he was referring to Caroline or Mrs. Mickle.
Blake put some water on to boil and scrounged around in the cupboards for some tea. Unlike most men of his station, he knew his way around a kitchen. Soldiers and spies often had to learn how to cook if they wanted to eat, and Blake was no exception. Gourmet meals were quite beyond his repertoire, but he could certainly manage tea and biscuits. Especially since Mrs. Mickle had already baked the biscuits. All Blake had to do was set them on a plate.
It felt very strange to be doing this for Caroline Trent. It had been a long time since he'd taken care of anyone save for himself, and there was something comforting about listening to the teakettle squeak and howl as the water boiled. Comforting and yet at the same time unsettling. Preparing tea, tending to her twisted ankle—they weren't terribly intimate acts, and yet he could feel them pulling him closer to her.
He fought the urge to smack himself in the head. He was growing overly and stupidly philosophical. He wasn't becoming close to Caroline Trent, and he certainly had no desire to do so. They'd shared one kiss, and it had been an idiotic impulse on his part. As for her, she probably hadn't known any better. He'd bet his home and his fortune that she'd never been kissed before.