Absolute Surrender

by LeBlanc, Jenn

  He had to return to London, do all the things that he said he was going to London to do. At least keep that much of his word. He wanted to return and hold her until she forgot what he had done.

  Hugh pushed himself away from the tree and disappeared into the forest.

  “I’ve never felt this...I don’t know what to call it. I’ve always believed that I loved you, or at least, I convinced myself of it because it was necessary. But, this…when you touch me it…it awakens me…places in me I never knew were sleeping. That sounds a bit trite, does it not?” Amelia said as Charles wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. “Thank you for chasing it.”

  “You’re welcome. I would hate to lose it. It’s a perfect color on you. Particularly when you laugh and your cheeks go all rosy. Like this.” Charles reached out to caress her cheek, then drew his hand back and left it suspended between them for what seemed, to her, forever. His fingers curled in on his palm, and he waited.

  Amelia turned to the cliffs and watched the distant waves for a time. She loved this. Had always loved this, but now it felt, somehow, different. Why should it feel different? This had always been hers. It would always be hers… But Hugh had always been a part of it as well.

  “Amelia?”

  “Charles, I want for you to touch me. Please.”

  She turned to find Charles had moved away—she hadn’t realized. But he turned and gazed at her. It was not quite what she was expecting after saying something like that to a man, but that’s what he did. He watched. So she smiled, and she waited. “Charles, I—”

  “No, Amelia, don’t—” Charles took a step back toward her and lifted his hand again, cupped her cheek. She felt the warmth of that hand to her toes and closed her eyes as his thumb traced the ridge of her cheek just below her eye. She breathed deeply of the forest and fields. She felt him move, and her mind stilled.

  “Mon Dieu,” Charles whispered.

  Her lips parted, and Charles’s hand at her back drew her in to meet him, the kiss more sweet than sensual, more staid than passionate.

  She opened her eyes and gazed up at him as he kissed her, his hand moving to the back of her neck, his mouth on her mouth, his mouth. That thought made her twitch, and his eyes snapped open as he drew back.

  “Amelia. This is well outside the range of possibility, I fear. We shouldn’t,” Charles said.

  “I want…” She drew her eyebrows together, let the tension rest there in her forehead, sink into her mind, and start a whirlwind of sensation. “Charles, I…I’m nervous, but I trust you.”

  He frowned.

  “Charles, kiss me again, please.”

  Charles seemed to recognize something in her eyes, then his chest quickly inflated and deflated against her. He shook his head, “I just…I need to wait a bit longer. I need to get my bearings. Today has been a bit much for us. I need to be sure…”

  She wrapped her hands around his forearms, leaned into his chest. “I understand. What Hugh did…he hurt us both.” Then she turned and pulled him toward the cliffs, watching the sun as it sank against the ocean.

  “It’s truly beautiful out here,” Charles said.

  She knew he was avoiding discussion. They walked the path at the edge of the cliff, far enough back that they were safe, but could still hear the ocean throwing itself at the base.

  Amelia shivered and moved closer to Charles. Shivers meant so many things, and she wasn’t sure what this one signaled. Fear? A chill?

  Charles wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she sank into him. They walked quietly along the cliffs for a while, and when the light changed, they turned back for the house.

  “You must be starving. It’s been a long day, and you’ve eaten nothing since yesterday,” Charles said as he rubbed circles into her back.

  “I very much doubt my stomach could handle food…” Her voice faded, and she shook her head, and he watched as her gaze drifted once again.

  “Amelia, my love, come back to me,” Charles said quietly.

  He saw the blush spread like a slow tide moving just below the surface of the sand, growing and retreating incrementally.

  The sound of her stomach growling broke his concentration.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon. I...well. I suppose perhaps I could eat.”

  “Very well then,” Charles said. He put her hand on his arm, and they moved toward the house.

  Charles washed his hands under the pump, then splashed water on his face, noting that it had a slight salty tang to it because they were so close to the sea.

  He pulled a basket from the stone box by the door used to protect deliveries from the elements and scavengers. Charles took it inside and found Amelia wrapped up in that throw, sitting in the chair by the fire. He put the basket on the table, then went and knelt before her.

  Charles was afraid to touch her—but simply could not resist. His knees were on both sides of her feet, and he put his hands on her ankles, slowly stroking the soft skin just above her boots.

  “Amelia, sweet,” Charles said quietly.

  She turned from the darkened embers and looked at him, her eyes nearly vacant she was so lost in thought.

  “Hugh—” She stopped, and he waited patiently. “He’s hurting.”

  This was something Charles had not considered. “That does not excuse his choice today,” Charles whispered, desperately checking his temper.

  “You don’t know him as I do,” she said.

  Charles was still very concerned about pushing her, but she wished to talk, and so talk they would, for as long as she seemed able.

  “I don’t know him like you, this is true, but I do know what we decided. I do know that he said he would do whatever you needed of him. I do know that he made certain promises, not only to you…but to me. I do know he went back on all of those things.”

  “Pain…fear…these are the greatest of motivators. Hugh will never be bound to us in the way we will be bound to each other. There would be nothing for him if something happened between the three of us. He would be ruined. In every way. His inheritance requires marriage of him.” She looked to Charles.

  “I had not thought…we hadn’t even discussed that far. I assumed we would…instead, he walked away without so much as a word. I trusted—” Charles stopped the thought. This pain wasn’t for him. He was here for Amelia. What Hugh had done, he’d done to her.

  She looked at him carefully, then continued. “As well, while you could protect me from rumors, you would be powerless to protect him. What could you say?” she whispered.

  She was absolutely right, but, again, these things needed to be dealt with, not run from. “Are you wishing for me to forgive him?” Charles asked, shaking his head. Forgiveness wasn’t in him. Forgiveness required something of him that simply wasn’t there, hadn’t been there. Had it? He and Hugh…they were just acquaintances, sometimes enemies. Weren’t they? Two men with a common goal. That’s it. Charles wanted to know why she was defending Hugh after what he’d done.

  “I—” She looked him in the eye then. “I don’t know what I wish for. But what happened here today was very unlike him.”

  Charles leaned forward, resting his forehead against her knees, and felt her hand tangle in his hair. It had seemed to him that this was not at all the Hugh he’d come to know in the past few days either, but the cold, heartless part? He’d known that Hugh before. He’d met with him often when they were younger. Part of Charles had expected this from Hugh, even as he had trusted him implicitly. He couldn’t lie about this, not to himself. Certainly, he’d trusted Hugh with all his heart.

  Charles and Amelia stayed like that for a time, his forehead on her knees, his hands traveling up her calves from her ankles, then back down. Then she tugged, and he lifted his head. She cupped his chin.

  “I know this is difficult for you. I know…forgiveness is often dependent on love, and that’s something you’re unfamiliar with.”

  Charles drew a slow breath. Love. He didn’t know what love was, did he?
He didn’t love Hugh, certainly. Perhaps he cared deeply for Amelia, but for Hugh? No, but he would allow Amelia some leeway in this discussion.

  “And I know, Amelia, that of all people in this world you trusted him more than anyone. Hugh should not have broken that trust,” Charles replied. He didn’t like this. He felt very uncomfortable with all this talk of feelings. At some point, that raw new edge of his that had only just begun to open had closed again, seared with anger. It was the moment Hugh left.

  “No.” She let her hands fall to her lap, and Charles shook his head. It was as though the light had left her eyes, and he wasn’t sure how to return it.

  Charles considered all that she’d said. He wanted to destroy Hugh, pull him limb from limb, physically, mentally. In every way a man could be crucified, Charles wished to see it done. Not merely destroyed on this earth, but everywhere. Could Charles forgive him? But this assumed he cared for him, something Charles wasn’t sure he could admit to. He knew that Amelia wanted Charles to simply leave Hugh be, or find some semblance of forgiveness for his actions, but Charles intended to destroy Hugh and never speak on it. Charles groaned against the thought. He was suddenly unsure whether he could do that to Hugh or to Amelia—and what did that mean for him?

  He concentrated on the feel of her hand, which had returned to tangle in his hair. He closed his eyes. This felt like…falling. Charles felt unconstrained, at the world’s end, unable to stay his advance regardless of the terror he felt at the fall. Like walking straight for the cliffs outside without a pause, just as she had described to him, except he knew she was waiting at the bottom to catch him. Amelia always felt as though her fall was never-ending.

  Charles suddenly wanted the fall…that rift opened back up, and that’s when he knew.

  He stood abruptly and walked to the table. He pulled the basket of food toward him and unpacked it. Some ham, a block of cheese, some fruits, and a large loaf of crusty bread. There had also been a cast iron pot next to the basket with a lid on it. Charles shuffled around as he considered all the facts, everything that had happened.

  He removed the lid to find some sort of stew, so he pulled one of the arms from the fire, hung the cast iron pot on it like Hugh had done and swung it back over to start the simmer. Then Charles added a bit of wood and stoked the fire back up.

  He filled the kettle from the other arm with fresh water and pushed it back over the fireplace next to the stew and broke off a couple pieces of cheese, poured a glass of water and took them to her. Amelia still stared into the fire. Charles sat next to her, placing the water and cheese in her fingers.

  Charles knew from his travels that there were practices in Asia meant to open your mind, to make you more accepting of the world. At the time he’d learned of them, he’d thought them hogwash, as he was perfectly able to still his mind wherever he was. There was no need for him to concentrate in order to be silent and accepting of his surroundings or situation.

  She, apparently, could not. Charles thought perhaps she could learn to do this. That practicing some sort of concentration would help her to quiet her busy head. Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it quiet. Charles loved the way her expression flitted from idea to idea, even though she could rarely tell him what it was that was flitting around in there. As for the occasional words that escaped without her permission? They were like small gifts, though he knew she hated them. Perhaps this concentration would help her to explain these things as well?

  He breathed deeply as the scent of the stew assaulted him, clenching his hungry belly as he groaned.

  “Lamb, I reckon,” Charles said quietly as he stood and went to stir the pot. “Oh…yes.” He took a small taste from the spoon then stirred some more as his stomach lurched and rolled, fighting its way toward the succulent brew.

  The sudden feel of her hands on his sides startled him at first. Then Charles leaned back toward her warmth, and leaving the pot to simmer with the spoon handle sticking out, he turned and wrapped her up in him.

  “Amelia, I do believe…I’m quite desperately in love with you.”

  Amelia stared at his neck, that small divot that held the very taste of him. His chin, rough with whiskers. His mouth…her heart kicked like a mule. She shouldn’t look at his lips, so she moved to his stormy eyes. It felt like he looked straight into the depths of her soul. Charles was not looking at the girl on the outside…she could feel him within her. Moving around there, looking at her memories, examining the very fiber of her being, refusing to leave.

  “I—”

  Charles did not allow her to finish but closed the distance between their mouths and kissed her with all the sincerity and passion of a man in love. He was...in love with her, and Hugh wasn’t here. She needed to push Hugh from her thoughts because this…this was a massive revelation for this man, and she truly needed to be here for him. Now. There were no two ways about it—his realization changed everything. Her mind shifted like tumbled locks.

  She moved her hands to his arms as Charles held her face, his hands tangled in her hair. She felt the tears on her cheeks, but dared not move to wipe them away. They gathered there above his hands, little pools of saltwater in the crooks of his thumbs that she could see the room reflected in. She started to fade and knew she had to change tack before she lost it. Because Hugh was gone, and Charles was here, and he had just conceded a great thing.

  She opened her eyes to find him looking down at her, his thumbs stroking the paths of her tears, cleansing her cheeks and letting them be on their way.

  “Amelia?”

  “I love…”

  “Pudding?” he asked with a smile when she didn’t complete the thought.

  She tried to smile but knew it hadn’t happened. “There is something I must say. Perhaps we should sit down.”

  Charles nodded and released her, then turned for the stew. “First, you must eat. I know you’re famished, as am I. Please, let me serve you.” Perhaps he understood that they needed to slow the pace of this conversation.

  Amelia walked to the little table in the center of the room and sat. Charles placed a steaming bowl of Cook’s lamb stew in front of her. She’d always hated the idea of the stew, had had terrible nightmares about it as a child. She was forever attempting to rescue the poor little things from the hatchet.

  Her father had scolded her when she’d named the animals that were to be used for food, but she couldn’t help it. She believed they deserved to be remembered in some small way for their sacrifice.

  “Amelia.” She looked up to find him across the table. “I must say, if you learn to quiet your mind, I will be greatly disappointed if you do it so often that I’m not allowed to see your thoughts painted across your face.”

  She smiled.

  “What were you thinking?”

  “Of the lambs.”

  “I thought that was what this was. Was it a favorite?”

  “Of mine? No. Well, yes. And no. The stew, of course, is wonderful, but I always felt for the lambs, you see.”

  Charles nodded.

  “Do you? See, I mean?” She believed he might—or at least that he was beginning to. He was starting to understand the circles her mind traveled in, and she marveled at that for a moment.

  “I do.” He paused. “I was once whipped for setting free a pig that was to be roasted for a dinner with Her Royal Highness.”

  Amelia gaped. She knew she did. She felt the weight of her jaw as it hung there in shock. “You did not!” She snapped it shut.

  “Oh, but I did. In fact, when I was presented at court to receive my title, she mentioned it. Her Majesty has a brilliant memory. She said she’d eagerly awaited the day I would come before her, only so that she could tell me—”

  “What? What did she tell you?”

  “She told me that she hated pork and was glad to see it run the land outside the Keep,” Charles said with a smile.

  Amelia’s jaw dropped again. Then they laughed together. “I don’t believe you.”
r />   “Oh, my dear, whether you believe me or not, I’ve no doubt it will be mentioned when we go to court.”

  She frowned.

  “Amelia, I’m aware you don’t appreciate the ton. In fact, I have little patience for society as it is. However, you do understand that I must present my bride at court for the queen.”

  “Oh yes, I do. I was only…well. I thought that you were supposed to do that before the marriage?”

  “There are ways around that. Her Majesty is aware of our pending nuptials, of course. I spoke with her before I quit London. As is absolutely required of me.”

  Amelia nodded. “Of course. Far be it from me to assume you’d not done something so bold as to speak with the queen before even securing my hand,” she said distractedly. “Charles, I need to say something.”

  “Eat first, please.”

  Charles moved a laden spoon to his mouth and blew across it to cool the stew before leaning across the small table and touching it to her lip. She acquiesced readily as the aroma rose to her, and she was overcome by the heady scent of Cook’s famous dish.

  The spicy sweet tang of the sauce and the light buttery flavor of the lamb filled her senses, and she melted into her chair, taking up her spoon and, rather unseemly, shoving stew into her mouth. When she was finished, she looked up to see him transfixed on her mouth. “I…pardon. I suppose that was rather indecent of me.”

  “Not at all. In fact, if you’d been delicate, I would have thought I’d not properly exhausted you, which might have damaged my male pride,” Charles teased.

  Male. Charles was male, and she female, and, by God, hadn’t they proved to the heavens they knew just what to do about that? She blushed. Charles cocked his head...just a touch.

  “Please eat, you must be just as famished as I am,” she said.

  He took a bite, and after a long moment she said, “Now if I may say what it is I wish to say?”

  He pushed the stew around in his bowl. “Ender.”