Chapter 22
con-tu-ma-cious(adjective). Obstinately resisting authority; stubbornly perverse.
There are times when one must act in acontumacious manner, even if one's husband is extensively displeased.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Ravenscroft
In a few short days, the honeymoon was over. It was time to capture Oliver.
Never had Blake so resented his work for the War Office. He didn't want to hunt down criminals; he wanted to walk along the beach with his wife. He didn't want to dodge bullets, he wanted to laugh as he pretended to dodge Caroline's kisses.
Most of all, he wanted to trade the prickly fear of discovery for the heady sensation of falling in love.
It felt good to finally admit it to himself. He was falling in love with his wife.
He felt as if he were going over a cliff, grinning as he watched the ground rushing to meet him. He smiled at the oddest times, laughed inappropriately, and found himself oddly desolate when he didn't know where she was. It was like being crowned king of the world, inventing a cure for cancer, and discovering one could fly—all in one day.
He had never dreamed he could be this fascinated by another human being. He loved to watch the play of emotion on her face—the soft curve of her lips when she was amused, the scrunch of her brow when she was perplexed.
He even liked to watch her when she slept, her soft brown hair spread like a fan on her pillow. Her chest rose and fell in the even rhythm of her breath, and she looked so gentle and at peace. He'd once asked her if her demons disappeared when she was asleep.
Her answer had melted his heart.
“I don't have demons any longer,” she'd replied.
And Blake had realized that his demons were finally disappearing, as well. It was the laughter that was driving them out, he decided. Caroline had the most amazing ability to find humor in the most mundane of topics. He was also discovering that she prided herself on being something of a mimic. What she lacked in talent, she made up for in enthusiasm, and Blake often found himself doubled over with laughter.
She was getting ready for bed right then, humming to herself in the washing room, her washing room, she'd dubbed it, since she'd lived there for nearly a week. Already her feminine accouterments—not that she'd had any before Penelope had taken her shopping—were crowding his belongings, pushing his shaving kit to the side.
And Blake loved it. He loved every intrusion she'd made upon his life, from the rearrangement of his furniture to the vague scent of her that wafted through the house, catching him off guard and making him ache with wanting her.
He was already in bed that night, leaning against the pillows as he listened to her perform her ablutions. It was the thirtieth of July. Tomorrow he and James would capture Oliver Prewitt and his fellow traitors. They had planned the mission out to the last detail, but Blake was still uncomfortable. And nervous. Very, very nervous. He felt prepared for the following day's work, but there were still too many variables, too many things that could go wrong.
And never before had Blake felt he had this much to lose.
When Marabelle had been alive, they had been young and thought themselves immortal. Missions for the War Office had been great adventures. It had never occurred to them that their lives might lead to anywhere other than happily ever after.
But then Marabelle had been killed and it no longer mattered if Blake thought himself immortal or not, for he had ceased caring about his own life. He hadn't been nervous before missions because he hadn't really cared about their outcomes. Oh, he wanted to see England's traitors brought to justice, but if for some reason he didn't live to see them hang…Well, it was no great loss to him.
But now it was different. He cared. He wanted more than anything to make it through this mission and build his marriage with Caroline. He wanted to watch her puttering about in the rose garden, and he wanted to see her face every morning on the pillow next to his. He wanted to make love to her with wild abandon, and he wanted to touch her belly as it grew round and large with their children.
He wanted everything life had to offer. Every last bit of wonder and joy. And he was terrified, because he knew how easily it could all be snatched away.
It only took one well-aimed bullet.
Blake noticed that Caroline's humming had stopped, and he looked up toward the washing room door, which was open a few inches. He heard a bit of splashing, then a rather suspicious silence.
“Caroline?” he called.
She poked her head out, a black silk scarf wrapped over her head. “She eez not here.”
Blake raised a brow. “Who are you meant to be? And what did you do with my wife?”
She smiled seductively. “I am, of course, Carlotta De Leon. And eef you don't keess me now, Senor Ravenscroft, I will have to resort to my most unpleasant tacteecs.”
“I shudder to think.”
She slunk onto the bed and batted her eyes at him. “Don't think. Just keess.”