"I don't believe this. I just don't believe this." Blake threw up his arms as he strode away. "Dig up the entire garden! Add a new wing to the house! What do I matter? I just own the place."

Caroline turned to James with concern as Blake disappeared around the corner. "How angry do you suppose he is?"

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"Er... if you think his mood would fit on such a scale."

"It wouldn't."

She chewed on her lower lip. "I was afraid of that."

"But I wouldn't worry," James said with a reas­suring wave of his hand. "He'll come around. Rav­enscroft isn't used to having his life disrupted. He's a bit grumpy, but he's not entirely unreasonable."

"Are you certain of that?"

James recognized her question as rhetorical and took the shovel from her hands. "Here now," he said, "tell me what you need me to do."

Caroline gave him instructions to dig under the purple flowering plant and knelt down to watch his work. "Mind that you don't break the roots," she said. Then a moment later: "Why do you suppose he is always so angry with me?"

James didn't reply for a few moments, and the shovel stilled in his hands as he obviously pondered how to answer her question. "He's not angry with you," he finally said.

She gave a little laugh. "We were obviously not watching the same person just now."

"I mean it. He's not angry with you." He stepped on the edge of the shovel and pushed it further down in the dirt. "He's afraid of you."

Caroline started coughing so hard James had to whack her on the back. When she caught her breath she said, "I beg your pardon."

There was another long moment of silence, and then James said, "He was engaged once."

"I know."

"Do you know what happened?"

She shook her head. 'Just that she died."

"Blake loved her more than life itself."

Caroline swallowed, surprised by the squeezing pain in her heart elicited by James's statement.

"They'd known each other all their lives," he con­tinued. "They worked together for the War Office."

"Oh, no," she said, her hand moving to her mouth.

"Marabelle was killed by a traitor. She'd gone out on a mission in Blake's place. He had a putrid throat or something of the sort." James paused to wipe a bit of sweat from his brow. "He forbade her to go, utterly forbade her, but she was never the sort to listen to ultimatums. She just laughed and told him she'd see him later in the evening."

Caroline swallowed, but the motion did little to ease the lump in her throat. "At least her family could take solace in the fact that she died for her country," she offered.

James shook his head. "They didn't know. They were told -everyone was told- that Marabelle had been killed in a hunting accident."

"I-I don't know what to say."

"There's really nothing to say. Or do. That's the problem." James looked away for a moment, his eyes focusing on some spot on the horizon, then asked, "Do you remember when I said you re­minded me of someone?"

"Yes," Caroline said slowly, horror beginning to dawn in her eyes. "Oh, no... not her."

James nodded. "I'm not certain why, but you do."

She bit her lip and stared at her feet. Dear God, was that why Blake had kissed her? Because she somehow resembled his dead fiancee? She suddenly felt very small and very insignificant. And very un­desirable.

'It's really nothing," James said, clearly con­cerned by her unhappy expression.

"I would never take a risk like that," Caroline said firmly. "Not if I had someone to love." She swallowed. "Not if I had someone who loved me."

James touched her hand. "It's been a lonely time for you these past few years, hasn't it?"

But Caroline wasn't ready for sympathetic com­ments. "What happened to Blake?" she asked sharply. "After she died."

"He was devastated. Drunk for three months. He blamed himself."

"Yes, I'm sure he would. He's the sort to take responsibility for everyone, isn't he?"

James nodded.

"But surely he realizes now that it wasn't his fault."

"In his head, perhaps, but not in his heart."

There was a long pause while they both stared at the ground. When Caroline finally spoke, hef voice was soft and unnaturally tentative. "Do you really think he thinks I look like her?"

James shook his head. "No. And you don't look like her. Marabelle was quite blond, actually, with pale blue eyes and-"

"Then why did you say-"

"Because it's rare to meet a woman of such spirit." When Caroline didn't say anything, James grinned and added, "That was a compliment, by the way."

Caroline twisted her lips into something that was halfway between a grimace and a wry smile.

"Thank you, then. But I still don't see why he's be­ing such a beast."

"Consider the situation from his view. First he thought you were a traitor, the very breed of vermin who'd killed Marabelle. Then he found himself in the position of your protector, which can only re­mind him of how he failed his fiancee."

"But he didn't fail her!"

"Of course he didn't," James replied. "But he doesn't know that. And furthermore, it's quite ob­vious he finds you rather fetching."

Caroline blushed and was immediately furious with herself for doing so.

"That, I think," James said, "is what scares him the most. What if, horror of horrors, he were to fall in love with you?"

Caroline didn't see that as the worst horror in the world, but she kept the thought to herself.

"Can you even count how many ways he'd think he was betraying Marabelle? He could never live with himself."

She didn't know what to say in reply, so she just pointed to a hole in the ground and said, "Put the plant there."

James nodded. "You won't tell him of our little chat?"

"Of course not."

"Good." Then he did as she asked.

di-a-crit-i-cal (adjective). Distinguish­ing, distinctive.

One cannot deny that a complete lack of order is the diacritical mark of Mr. Ra-venscroft's garden.

-From the personal dictionary of

Caroline Trent

By the end of the day, Caroline had the garden looking the way she thought a garden ought. James agreed with her, complimenting her on her excellent sense of landscape design. Blake, on the other hand, couldn't be prodded into uttering even the most grudging words of praise. In fact, the only noise he'd made at all was a rather strangled groan that sounded a bit like: "My roses."

"Your roses had gone wild," she'd returned, thor­oughly exasperated with this man.

"I liked them wild," he'd shot back.

And that had been that. But he'd surprised her by ordering two new dresses to replace the one she'd brought from Prewitt Hall. That poor rag had been through enough, what with being kidnapped, slept in for days, and dragged through the mud. Caroline wasn't sure when or where he'd managed to get two ready-to-wear dresses, but they seemed to fit her reasonably well, so she thanked him pret­tily and didn't complain that the hem dragged just a touch on the floor.

She took her supper in her room, not feeling up to another battle of wills with her somewhat cranky host. And besides, she'd obtained a needle and thread from Mrs. Mickle, and she wanted to get to work shortening her new dresses.