“I only brought up one roll, I'm afraid.”

Caroline looked down at her little pot of butter, shrugged, and stuck her finger in. Who knew when he'd choose to feed her next? She had to get her sustenance wherever she could, even if it meant eating plain butter.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” he said. “Don't eat that. It can't be good for you.”

Caroline shot him a sarcastic look.

“How are you faring?” he asked.

She waved her hands this way and that.

“Bored?”

She nodded.

“Good.”

She scowled.

“I have no intention of entertaining you. You're not a houseguest.”

She rolled her eyes and let out a little snort.

“Just so long as you don't start expecting seven-course meals.”

Caroline wondered if bread and butter counted as two courses. If so, then he still owed her five.

“How long are you going to keep up this charade?”

She blinked and mouthed, What?

“Surely you have your voice back.”

She shook her head, touched her throat, and made such a sorry face that he actually laughed.

“That painful, eh?”

She nodded.

Blake raked his hand through his black hair, a little bit peeved that this deceitful woman had made him laugh more in the past day than he had in the past year. “Do you know, if you weren't a traitor, you'd be rather entertaining.”

She shrugged.

“Have you ever taken the time to consider your actions? What they cost? The people you hurt?” Blake stared at her intently. He didn't know why, but he was determined to find a conscience in this little spy. She could have been a good person, he was sure of it. She was smart, and she was funny, and—

Blake shook his head to cut off his wayward thoughts. Did he see himself as her savior? He hadn't brought her here for redemption; all he wanted was the information that would indict Oliver Prewitt. Then he would turn her over to the authorities.

Of course, she would probably see the gallows as well. It was a sobering thought, and one that somehow didn't sit well with him.

“What a waste,” he muttered.

She raised her brows in question.

“Nothing.”

Her shoulders rose and fell in a rather gallic motion.

“How old are you?” he asked abruptly.

She flashed all ten fingers twice.

“Only twenty?” he asked in disbelief. “Not that you look any older, but I thought—”

Quickly, she held up one hand again, all five fingers stretched out like a starfish.

“Twenty-five, then?”

She nodded, but she was looking out the window when she did so.

“You should be married with children clutching at your skirts, not running around betraying the crown.”

She looked down, and her lips flattened into an expression that could only be called rueful. Then she twisted her hands in a questioning motion and pointed to him.

“Me?”

She nodded.

“What about me?”

She pointed to the fourth finger of her left hand.

“Why am I not married?”

She nodded, this time emphatically.