To Catch an Heiress
Page 6
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Caroline gasped, her eyes lighting up with delight. Oliver was involved in something illegal? Oh, this was wonderful! Perfect! She should have guessed he was nothing more than a lowly crook. Her mind raced. Despite what the man in black had said, she doubted Oliver had done anything bad enough to hang for it. But perhaps he'd be sent to jail. Or forced into indentured servitude. Or—
“Miss De Leon?” the man said sharply.
Caroline's voice was excited and breathy as she asked, “What has Oliver been doing?”
“For the love of God, woman, I've had enough of your playacting. You're coming with me.” He stepped forward with a menacing growl and grabbed her by the wrists. “Now.”
“But—”
“Not another word unless it's a confession.”
“But—”
“That's it!” He stuffed a rag into her mouth. “You'll have plenty of time to talk later, Miss De Leon.”
Caroline coughed and grunted furiously as he bound her wrists with a coarse piece of rope. Then, to her amazement, he put two fingers into his mouth, and let out a low whistle. A glorious black gelding pranced out of the trees, its steps high and graceful.
While she was gaping at the horse—who must have been the quietest and best-trained animal in the history of creation—the man hefted her up onto the saddle.
“Iiiii shrr …” she croaked, quite unable to speak with the grimy gag in her mouth.
“What?” He looked over at her and took in the way her skirts were cutting into her legs. “Oh, your skirts. I can cut them or you can dispense with propriety.”
She glared at him.
“Propriety goes, then,” he said, and hiked her skirts up so that she could straddle the horse with more comfort. “Sorry I didn't think to bring a side-saddle, Miss De Leon, but trust me when I tell you that you've far greater worries just now than my seeing your bare legs.”
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.
“Miss De Leon?” the man said sharply.
Caroline's voice was excited and breathy as she asked, “What has Oliver been doing?”
“For the love of God, woman, I've had enough of your playacting. You're coming with me.” He stepped forward with a menacing growl and grabbed her by the wrists. “Now.”
“But—”
“Not another word unless it's a confession.”
“But—”
“That's it!” He stuffed a rag into her mouth. “You'll have plenty of time to talk later, Miss De Leon.”
Caroline coughed and grunted furiously as he bound her wrists with a coarse piece of rope. Then, to her amazement, he put two fingers into his mouth, and let out a low whistle. A glorious black gelding pranced out of the trees, its steps high and graceful.
While she was gaping at the horse—who must have been the quietest and best-trained animal in the history of creation—the man hefted her up onto the saddle.
“Iiiii shrr …” she croaked, quite unable to speak with the grimy gag in her mouth.
“What?” He looked over at her and took in the way her skirts were cutting into her legs. “Oh, your skirts. I can cut them or you can dispense with propriety.”
She glared at him.
“Propriety goes, then,” he said, and hiked her skirts up so that she could straddle the horse with more comfort. “Sorry I didn't think to bring a side-saddle, Miss De Leon, but trust me when I tell you that you've far greater worries just now than my seeing your bare legs.”
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.
