“You dare to mock my rosebushes?”

She made scissors-like motions with her fingers.

“You think they need pruning?”

She nodded emphatically.

“A spy who likes to garden,” Blake said to himself. “Will wonders never cease?”

She cupped her hand next to her ear to let him know she hadn't heard him.

“I suppose you could do a better job?” he quipped.

She nodded again, moving back to the window to get another look at the bushes. But Blake hadn't seen her coming, and he stepped toward the window at the exact same moment. They crashed into each other, and he grabbed her upper arms to keep her from falling.

And then he made the mistake of looking into her eyes.

They were soft, and they were clear, and heaven help him, they weren't saying no.

Blake leaned down a fraction of an inch, wanting to kiss her more than he wanted to breathe. Her lips parted, and a small gasp of surprise escaped her mouth. He moved closer. He wanted her. He wanted Carlotta. He wanted—

Carlotta.

Damn, how could he have forgotten, even for a second? She was a spy. A traitor. Completely without morals or scruples. He shoved her away from him and strode to the door. “That won't happen again,” he said, his voice clipped.

She looked too stunned to respond.

Blake swore under his breath and stalked out, slamming and locking the door behind him. What the hell was he going to do with her?

Even worse, what the hell was he going to do with himself? Blake shook his head as he bolted down the stairs. This was getting ridiculous. He had no interest in women for anything other than the most basic of reasons, and even for that Carlotta De Leon was monstrously inappropriate.

He had no wish to wake up with his throat slit, after all. Or not to wake up at all, as the case would probably be.

He had to remember who she was.

And he had to remember Marabelle.

Chapter 4

nos.trum (noun). A medicine, or medical application, prepared by the person recommending it; a quack remedy.

He doesn't seem to have much faith in his nostrums, but still he forces them down my throat.

—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent

Blake left her alone for the rest of the day. He was too enraged to trust himself near her. She and her bloody mute throat were infuriating, but the truth was, most of his anger was self-directed.

How could he have thought of kissing her? Even for a second? She might be half-Spanish, but she was also half-English, and that made her a traitor. And it was a traitor who had killed Marabelle.

As if to mirror his mood, it started to rain as the sun went down, and all Blake could think about was the little quill-holder she'd left on the ledge to collect water.

He snorted. As if she were going to perish of thirst after all the tea he'd forced down her throat that afternoon. Still, as he ate his evening meal in silence, he couldn't help but think of her upstairs, locked in the tiny room. She had to be starving. She hadn't eaten all day.