—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.

“What is the matter with you?” he said aloud. Feeling sorry for the crafty little spy. Bah! Hadn't he told her he was going to starve her? He never made promises he didn't keep.

Still, she was a skinny little thing, and those eyes of hers … he kept seeing them in his mind. They were huge, so clear they practically glowed, and if he saw them right now, Blake thought with a mixture of irritation and remorse, they'd probably look hungry.

“Damn,” he muttered, standing up so fast he knocked his chair backward. He might as well give her a dinner roll. There had to be better ways to get her to give him the information he needed than to starve her. Perhaps if he doled out the food in a miserly fashion, she'd grow so grateful for what he gave her, she'd start to feel beholden to him. He'd heard of situations where captives had begun to look upon their captors as heroes. He wouldn't mind seeing those blue-green eyes looking at him with a touch of hero worship.

Blake took a small roll from the tray on the table, then put it back in favor of a larger one. And maybe a little butter. It certainly couldn't hurt. And jam … no, he drew the line at jam. She was a spy, after all.

Caroline was sitting on her bed, going cross-eyed watching a candle flame, when she heard him at the door. One lock snapped open, then another, then he was there, filling the doorway.

How was it that every time she saw him he seemed even more handsome than before? It really wasn't fair. All that beauty wasted on a man. And a rather annoying one at that.

“I brought you a piece of bread,” he said gruffly, holding something out to her.

Caroline's stomach let out a loud rumble as she took the roll from his hand. Thank you, she mouthed.

He perched at the end of the bed as she wolfed down the roll with little thought to manners or decorum. “You're welcome. Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “I brought you butter as well.”

She looked ruefully at the scrap of bread left in her hand and sighed.

“Do you still want it?”

She nodded, took the little crock, and dunked her last bite in the butter. She popped it in her mouth and chewed slowly, savoring every morsel. Heaven!

I thought you were going to starve me, she mouthed.

He shook his head in incomprehension. “Thank you, I can manage, but that was quite beyond me. Unless you've your speaking voice back and would like to actually say that sentence aloud …”

She shook her head, which wasn't technically a lie. Caroline hadn't tested her voice since he'd left. She didn't want to know if it was back or not. It somehow seemed better to remain ignorant on the matter.

“Pity,” he murmured.

She rolled her eyes in reply, then patted her stomach and looked hopefully at his hands.

“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.