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.
Caroline nearly jumped for joy. If only there were some way she could fake a fever to make her seem even more sickly. She supposed she could put her face next to a candle in the hope that her skin would grow unnaturally warm, but if he came in she'd have a devil of a time explaining why she had a candle lit on such a bright morning.
No, the mute throat would have to be enough. And even if it weren't, she didn't have any choice in the matter, because she could hear his footsteps sounding loudly down the hall.
She dashed across the room and scrambled into the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She coughed a couple of times, then pinched her cheeks to give them the appearance of being flushed, then coughed some more.
Cough cough cough.
The key turned in the lock.
Cough cough cough COUGH. It was murder on her throat, but Caroline wanted to give an especially good performance right as he was coming in.
Then another key started turning in another lock. Blast. She'd forgotten that there were two locks on the door.
Cough cough cough. Hack hack. Cough. GAG.
“Good God! What is that infernal noise?”
Caroline looked up, and if she weren't already mute she would have lost her voice. Her captor had looked dashing and dangerous in the dark, but by day he put Adonis to shame. He seemed somehow larger in the light. Stronger, too, as if his clothing only barely leashed the power of his body. His black hair was neatly trimmed, but an errant lock fell forward to his left eyebrow. And his eyes—they were clear and gray, but that was the only innocent thing about them. They looked like they had seen far too much in their lifetime.
The man grabbed her shoulder, his touch burning through her dress to her skin. She gasped, the covered it up with another cough.
“I believe I told you last night that I have grown weary of your playacting.”
She shook her head quickly, grabbed her neck with her hands, then coughed again.
“If you for one moment think that I believe—”
She opened her mouth wide and pointed at her throat.
“I'm not going to look at your throat, you little—”
She pointed again, this time urgently jabbing her finger into her mouth.
“Oh, very well.” His lips were clamped into a firm line as he turned on his heel, strode across the room, and wrenched a candle out of its holder. Caroline watched with undisguised interest as he lit the taper and crossed back to the bed. He sat down next to her, the weight of his body depressing his side of the mattress. She rolled a little toward him and put her hand out to stop her descent.
She connected with his thigh.