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."