Julia Quinn - To Catch an Heiress

But for now, he had a job to do. With grim de­termination he gathered up three quills, a small bot­tle of ink, and several sheets of paper. If Carlotta De Leon couldn't tell him everything she knew, she could bloody well write it down.

Caroline was grinning from ear to ear. Thus far her morning had been a complete success. Her captor was now convinced that she couldn't speak, and Oliver-

Oh, that made her smile all the more, just think­ing about what Oliver must be doing at that very moment. Screaming his foolish head off, most prob­ably, and throwing the occasional vase at his son. Nothing precious, of course. Oliver was far too cal­culating in his rages to destroy anything of real monetary value.

Poor Percy. Caroline almost felt sorry for him- almost. It was hard to summon much sympathy for the thick-brained lout who had tried to force him­self on her the night before. She shuddered to think how she'd feel if he'd actually succeeded.

Still, she had a feeling that if Percy ever managed to get out from under his father's thumb he might grow into a halfway decent human being. No one she would want to see on a regular basis, of course, but he certainly wouldn't go around attacking in­nocent women if his father didn't order him to do so.

Just then she heard her captor's footsteps in the hall. She quickly wiped her face free of its smile and placed one hand on her neck. When he reentered the room, she was coughing.

"I have a treat for you," he said, -his voice sus­piciously cheerful.

She cocked her head in reply.

"Look at this. Paper. Quills. Ink. Isn't it exciting?"

She blinked, pretending not to understand. Oh, blast, she hadn't considered this. There was no way she was going to convince him she didn't know how to write -she was clearly an educated woman. And it went without saying that she wasn't going to be able to manage to sprain her wrist in the next three seconds.

"Oh, of course," he said with exaggerated solici­tude. "You require something upon which to lean. How inconsiderate of me not to consider your needs. Here, let me bring over this desk blotter. There you are, right on your lap. Are you comfort­able?"

She glared at him, preferring his anger to his sar­casm.

"No? Here, let me fluff your pillows."

He leaned forward, and Caroline, who really had had enough of his sugary-sweet attitude, coughed onto his mouth and nose. By the time he drew back far enough to glare at her, her face was a picture of complete contrition.

"I'm going to forget you did that," he bit off, "for which you ought to be eternally thankful."

Caroline just stared down at the writing accou-terments on her lap, desperately trying to devise a new plan.

"Now then, shall we begin?"

Her right temple itched, and she brought up her hand to scratch it. Her right hand. That was when it came to her. She had always favored her left hand. Her early teachers had scolded, screamed, and prodded, trying to get her to learn to write with her right hand. They'd called her bizarre, unnatural, and ungodly. One particularly religious tutor had even referred to her as the spawn of the devil. Caroline had tried to learn how to write with her right hand -oh Lord, how she had tried- but though she could grip the quill in a natural fashion, she'd never been able to master anything other than an unintelligible scrawl.

But everyone else wrote with their right hand, her teachers had insisted. Surely she didn't want to be different.

Caroline coughed to cover up her smile. Never before had she been more delighted to be "differ­ent." This fellow would expect her to write with her right hand, as he and the rest of his acquaintances

undoubtedly did. Well, she'd be happy te» give him what he wanted. She reached out with her right hand, picked up a quill, dipped it in the ink, and looked at him with bored expectation.

"I'm glad you've decided to cooperate," he said. "I'm sure you'll find it most beneficial to your health."

She snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Now then," he said, staring at her with shrewd intensity. "Do you know Oliver Prewitt?"

There was no use denying that one. He'd seen her leaving the house just the night before. Still, there was no point in wasting her secret weapon on such a simple question, so she nodded.

"How long have you known him?"

Caroline thought about that one. She had no idea how long Carlotta De Leon had been working with Oliver, if indeed that was the case, but she also sus­pected that the man standing in front of her with folded arms didn't know, either.

Best to tell the truth, her mother had always said, and Caroline didn't see any reason to depart from this policy now. It would be easier to keep her sto­ries straight if they were as truthful as possible. Let's see, she had been living with Oliver and Percy for a year and a half, but she'd known them for some time longer than that. She held up four fin­gers, still wanting to save her handwriting for an answer that was nice and complex.

"Four months?"

She shook her head.

"Four years?"

"Good God," Blake breathed. They'd had no idea that Prewitt had been smuggling diplomatic information for so long. Two years, they'd thought, pos­sibly two and a half. When he thought of all of the missions that had been compromised... Not to mention the lives that must have been lost as a re­sult of Prewitt's treason. So many of his colleagues, gone. His own dearest...

Blake blazed with anger and guilt. "Tell me the exact nature of your relationship," he ordered his voice dipped.

Tell you? she mouthed.

"Write it!" he roared.

She took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for some terrible chore, and laboriously began to write.

Blake blinked. Then he blinked again.

She looked up at him and smiled.

"What the devil language are you writing in?" he demanded.

She drew back, clearly affronted.

'For the record, I don't read Spanish, so kindly write the answer in English. Or, if you prefer, French or Latin."

She wagged her finger at him and made some sort of motion he wasn't able to interpret.

"I repeat," he bit off, "write down the exact na­ture of your relationship with Oliver Prewitt!"

She pointed to each collection of scribbles-he was hesitant to call them words-slowly and care­fully, as if demonstrating something new to a small child.

"Miss De Leon!"

She sighed, and this time she mourned something as she pointed to her scrawl.

"I don't read lips, woman."

She shrugged.

"Write it again."

Her eyes flared with irritation, but she did as he asked.

These results were even worse than before.

Blake balled his hands into fists to keep from wrapping them around her throat. "I refuse to be­lieve that you do not know how to write."

Her mouth fell open in outrage and she jabbed furiously at the ink marks on the paper.

"To call that writing, madam, is an insult to quills and ink across the world."

She clapped her hand over her mouth and coughed. Or did she giggle? Blake narrowed his eyes, then got up and crossed the room to the vanity table. He picked up her little book-the one filled with the brainy words-and waved it in the air. "If you have such dreadful penmanship, then explain this!" he thundered.

She stared at him blankly, which infuriated him all the more. He marched back to her side and leaned in very close. "I'm waiting," he growled.

She drew back and mouthed something he couldn't decipher.

"I'm afraid I just don't understand." By now his voice had left the realm of angry and had ventured into the dangerous.

She began to make all sorts of odd motions, pointing to herself and shaking her head.

"Are you trying to tell me that you didn't write these words?"