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.
He cut one of her wrists free so that he could remove her cloak and proceeded to rifle through her pockets. They held nothing of interest, save for about fifty pounds in notes and coin, which seemed like a paltry sum for a notorious spy. He then moved his attention to her small satchel, dumping the contents onto the bed. Two beeswax candles—Lord only knew what she wanted those for, a silverbacked hairbrush, a small Bible, a leather-bound notebook, and some underthings that he could not bring himself to sully with his touch. He supposed everyone deserved some measure of privacy, even treasonous spies.
He picked up the Bible and flipped quickly through it, making certain there was nothing concealed between its pages. Satisfied that the book contained nothing untoward, he tossed it back onto the bed, noting with interest that she flinched as he did so.
He then picked up the notebook and looked inside. Only the first few pages contained any scribblings. “Contubernal,” he read aloud. “Halcyon. Diacritical. Titivate. Umlaut.” He raised his eyebrows and read on. Three pages full of the sort of words that earned one a first at Oxford or Cambridge. “What is this?”
She jerked her shoulder toward her mouth, motioning to the gag.
“Right,” he said with a curt nod, setting the notebook next to the Bible. “But before I remove that, I'll have to …” His words trailed off, and he let out an unhappy exhale. Both of them knew what he had to do. “If you don't struggle I'll be able to do this faster,” he said grimly.
Her entire body was tense, but Blake tried to ignore her distress as he quickly patted her down. “There, we're done,” he said, his voice gruff. “I must say I'm rather surprised you weren't carrying anything other than that pistol.”
She glared at him in return.
“I'll remove the gag now, but one loud noise and it's going right back in.”
She nodded curtly, coughing as he removed the rag.
Blake leaned insolently against the wall as he asked, “Well?”
“Nobody would hear me if I made a loud noise, anyway.”
“That much is true,” he conceded. His eyes fell back upon the leather-bound notebook, and he picked it up. “Now, suppose you tell me what this is all about.”
She shrugged. “My father always encouraged me to expand my vocabulary.”
Blake stared at her in disbelief, then flipped through the opening pages again. It was some kind of code. It had to be. But he was tired, and he knew that if she confessed to something that night, it wasn't going to be anything as destructive to her cause as the key to a secret code. So he tossed the book on the bed and said, “We'll talk more about this tomorrow.”
She gave another one of those annoying shrugs.
He gritted his teeth. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”
Caroline rubbed her eyes, reminding herself that she had to remain on this man's good side. He looked dangerous, and despite his obvious discomfort at searching her, she had no doubt that he would hurt her if he deemed it necessary to his mission.
Whatever that was.
She was playing a dangerous game and she knew it. She wanted to remain here at this cushy estate as long as possible—it was certainly warmer and safer than any place she could afford on her own. To do that, however, she had to let him continue to believe that she was this Carlotta person. She had no idea how to do this; she didn't know Spanish and she certainly didn't know how a criminal was supposed to act when apprehended and tied to a bedpost.
She supposed Carlotta would try to deny everything. “You have the wrong person,” she said, knowing he wouldn't believe her and taking a wicked delight in the fact that she was telling the truth.
“Ha!” he barked. “Surely you can come up with something a little more original.”