She shrugged. “You can believe what you want.”
“You seem to be acting very confidently for someone who is clearly at the disadvantage.”
He had a point there, Caroline conceded. But if Carlotta truly was a spy, she'd be a master at bravado. “I don't appreciate being bound, gagged, dragged across the countryside, and tied to a bedpost. Not to mention,” she bit off, “being forced to submit to your insulting touch.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, and if Caroline hadn't known better she would have thought he was in some sort of pain. Then he opened them and once again looked at her with a hard and uncompromising gaze. He said, “I find it difficult to believe, Miss De Leon, that you have come so far in your chosen profession without having had yourself searched before.”
Caroline didn't know what to say to that so she just glared at him.
“I'm still waiting for you to talk.”
“I have nothing to say.” That much, at least, was true.
“You might reverse your opinion after a few days without food or water.”
“You plan to starve me, then?”
“It has broken stronger men than you.”
She hadn't considered this. She'd known he would yell at her, she'd thought he might even hit her, but it had never occurred to her that he might withhold food and water.
“I see the prospect doesn't excite you,” he drawled.
“Leave me alone,” she snapped. She needed to develop a plan. She needed to figure out who the devil this man was. Most of all, she needed time.
She looked him in the eye and said, “I'm tired.”
“I'm sure you are, but I'm not particularly inclined to let you sleep.”
“You needn't worry about my comfort. I'm not likely to feel well-rested after spending an evening tied to the bedpost.”
“Oh, that,” he said, and with a quick step and flick of his wrist, he cut her free.
“Why did you do that?” she asked suspiciously.
“It pleased me to do so. Besides, you have no weapon, you can hardly overpower me, and you have no means of escape. Good night, Miss De Leon.”
Her mouth fell open. “You're leaving?”
“I did bid you good night.” Then he turned on his heel and left the room, leaving her gaping at the door. She heard two keys turn in two locks before she regained her composure. “My God, Caroline,” she whispered to herself, “what have you gotten yourself into?”
Her stomach rumbled, and she wished she'd had something to eat before she'd run off that evening. Her captor appeared to be a man of his word, and if he said he wasn't going to give her food or water, she believed him.
She ran to the window and looked out. He hadn't been lying. It was at least fifty feet to the ground. But there was a ledge, and if she could find some sort of receptacle, she could put it out to collect rain and dew. She'd been hungry before; she knew she could handle that. But thirst was something else altogether.
She found a small, cylindrical container used to hold quills on the desk. The sky was still clear, but English weather being what it was, Caroline figured there was a decent chance it'd rain before morning, so she set the container on the ledge just in case.
Then she crossed to her bed and put her belongings back in her satchel. Thank the heavens her captor hadn't noticed the writing inside the Bible. Her mother had left the book to her when she died, and surely he'd have wanted to know why the name Cassandra Trent was inscribed on the inside front cover. And his reaction to her little personal dictionary … good heavens, she was going to have trouble explaining that.
Then she had the strangest feeling …
She took off her shoes and slid off the bed, walking on silent, stockinged feet until she reached the wall that bordered the hall. She moved closely along the wall until she reached the door. Bending down, she peered through the keyhole.
Aha! Just as she'd thought. A wide gray eye was peering back at her.
“And good evening to you!” she said loudly. Then she took her bonnet and hung it over the doorknob so that it blocked the keyhole. She didn't want to sleep in her only dress, but she certainly wasn't about to disrobe with the chance that he might be watching.
She heard him curse once, then twice. Then his footsteps echoed as he strode down the hall. Caroline stripped down to her petticoat and crawled into bed. She stared up at the ceiling and started to think.
And then she started to cough.
Chapter 3
a-kim-bo (adjective). Of the arms: In a position in which the hands rest on the hips and the elbows are turned outwards.
I cannot begin to count the number of times he has stood before me, arms akimbo. In fact, I shudder even to contemplate it.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
Caroline coughed through the night.
She coughed through the dawn.
She coughed as the sky turned bright blue, stopping only to check on her water-collector on the ledge. Blast. Nothing. She could have used a few drops of liquid. Her throat felt as if it were on fire.
But sore throat or no, her plan had worked like a charm. When she opened her mouth to test her voice, the sound that came out would have put a frog to shame.
Actually, she rather thought the frog itself would have been ashamed to have made a noise like that. No doubt about it, Caroline had rendered herself temporarily mute. That man could ask her all the questions he wanted; she wasn't going to be able to answer a thing.
Just to make certain her captor wouldn't think she was faking the affliction, she opened her mouth wide and looked in the mirror, angling her head so that the sunlight shone on her throat.
Bright red. Her throat looked positively monstrous. And the bags she'd developed under her eyes from staying up the entire night made her look even worse.