Caroline whirled around but saw nothing. Her heart raced. She could have sworn she'd heard something. "It was just a hedgehog," she whispered to herself. "Or perhaps a hare." But she didn't see any animals, and she didn't feel reassured.

"Just keep moving," she told herself. "You must get to Portsmouth by morning." She resumed her

trek, walking so fast now that her breath began to come faster and faster. And then...

She whirled around again, her hand instinctively reaching for her gun. This time she'd definitely heard something. "I know you're out there," she said with a defiance she didn't quite feel. "Show your face or remain a coward."

There was a rustling noise, and then a man emerged from the trees. He was dressed completely in black, from his shirt to his boots-even his hair was black. He was tall, and his shoulders were broad, and he was quite the most dangerous-looking man Caroline had ever seen.

And he had a gun pointed straight at her heart.

pug-na-cious (adjective). Disposed to fight; given to fighting; quarrelsome.

I can be pugnacious when backed into a corner.

-From the personal dictionary of

Caroline Trent

Blake Ravenscroft wasn't certain what he thought the woman would look like, but this certainly wasn't it. He'd thought she'd look soft, coy, manipulative. Instead, she stood tall, held her shoulders square, and stared him in the eye.

And she had the most intriguing mouth he'd ever seen. He was at a complete loss to describe it, except that her upper lip arched in the most delightful way and-

"Do you think you could possibly point that gun elsewhere?"

Blake snapped out of his reverie, appalled by his lack of concentration. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Well, yes, actually, I would. I have this thing about guns, you see. I don't mind them, precisely. They're good for some purposes, I suppose-hunt­ing and the like. But I don't particularly enjoy having them pointed at me, and-"

"Quiet!"

She shut her mouth.

Blake studied her for several moments. Some­thing about her wasn't right. Carlotta De Leon was Spanish... well, half-Spanish at least, and this girl looked English through and through. Her hair couldn't be called blond, but it was definitely a light shade of brown, and even in the dark night he could see that her eyes were a clear bluish-green.

Not to mention her voice, which was tinged with the pommy accents of the British elite.

But he'd seen her sneaking out of Oliver Prewitt's house. In the dead of night. With all the servants dismissed. She had to be Carlotta De Leon. There was no other explanation.

Blake-and the War Office, which didn't pre­cisely employ him but did give him orders and the occasional bank draft-had been after Oliver Prewitt for nearly six months now. The local authorities had known for some time that Prewitt was smug­gling goods to and from France, but it was only recently that they had begun to suspect mat he was allowing Napoleonic spies to use his small boat to carry secret diplomatic messages along with his usual cargo of brandy and silk. Since Prewitt's boat sailed from a little cove on the southern coast be­tween Portsmouth and Bournemouth, the War Of­fice hadn't originally paid much attention to him. Most spies made their crossings from Kent, which was much closer to France. Prewitt's seemingly in­convenient location had made for an excellent ruse, and the War Office feared that Napoleon's forces had been using him for their most delicate mes­sages. One month ago they had discovered that Prewitt's contact was one Carlotta De Leon-half-Spanish, half-English, and one hundred percent deadly.

Blake had been on the alert all evening, as soon as he'd learned that all of the Prewitt servants had been given the night off-an uncommon gesture for a man as notoriously stingy as Oliver Prewitt. Clearly something was afoot, and Blake's suspicions were confirmed when he saw the girl slip out of the house under the cover of darkness. So she was a trifle younger than he'd supposed-he wasn't going to let her guise of innocence deter him. She proba­bly cultivated that look of blooming youth. Who would suspect such a lovely young lady of high treason?

Her long hair was pulled back into a girlish braid, her cheeks had that pink, well-scrubbed look, and...

And her delicately boned hand was slowly reach­ing down toward her pocket.

Blake's finely tuned instincts took over. His left arm shot out with startling speed, knocking her hand off course as he lunged forward. He hit her with all his weight, and they tumbled to the ground.

She felt soft beneath him, except, of course, for the hard metal gun in her cloak pocket. If he'd had any doubts of her identity before, they were now gone. He grabbed the pistol, shoved it in his waistband, and stood back up, leaving her sprawled on the ground.

"Very amateur, my dear." She blinked, then muttered, "Well, yes. That's to be expected as I'm hardly a professional at this sort of thing, although I do have some experience with..."

Her words trailed off into an unintelligible mum­ble, and he wasn't at all sure if she was speaking to him or herself. "I've been after you for nearly a year," he said sharply. That got her attention.

"You have?"

"Not that I knew who you were until last month. But now that I've got you, I'm not letting you go."

"You're not?"

Blake stared at her in irritated confusion. What was her game? "Do you think I'm an idiot?" he spat out.

"No," she said. "I've just escaped from a den of idiots, so I'm well familiar with the breed, and you're something else entirely. I am, however, hop­ing you're not a terribly good shot." "I never miss."

She sighed. "Yes, I feared as much. You look the sort. I say, do you mind if I get back up?"

He moved the gun a fraction of an inch, just enough to remind her that he was aiming at her heart. "Actually, I find I prefer your position on the ground."

"I had a feeling you would," she muttered. "I don't suppose you're going to let me go on my way."

His answer was a bark of laughter. "I'm afraid not, my dear. Your spying days are over."

"My spying-my what?"

"The British government knows all about you and your treasonous plots, Miss Carlotta De Leon. I think you'll find we do not look kindly upon Spanish spies."

Her face was a perfect picture of disbelief. God, this woman was good. "The government knows about me?" she asked. "Wait a moment, about who?"

"Don't play dumb, Miss De Leon. Your intelli­gence is well-known bom here and on the conti­nent."

"That's a very nice compliment, to be sure, but I'm afraid there has been a mistake."

"No mistake. I saw you leaving Prewitt Hall."

"Yes, of course, but-"