Rules of Surrender

by Christina Dodd

  Nevertheless, he would not reproach her. He knew she had been hurt—everything in her contained manner warned him that this was a woman who had been maltreated again and again, until every kind word was suspect. "Your story is much as I thought."

  "Is it?" she asked crisply.

  Undoubtedly she was annoyed with him, for she guarded her privacy most assiduously. But when she heard how her tale affected him and what a favor he would confer on her, she would be soothed. "This also tells me I am right in my plans."

  "What plans are those?"

  "We shall marry." His pronouncement left her, he noted with pleasure, speechless. Also immobile and wide-eyed with the honor done her. He kindly continued to give her a chance to recover. "You are suitable. You're well-bred, you're handsome, you're exceptionally courteous"—he paused, but she didn't smile— "and you are in need of a husband."

  She didn't exclaim, or thank him, or throw herself into his arms in an ecstasy of joy. Perhaps she didn't truly understand, or perhaps she thought him indifferent or uncaring about the attraction she felt for him. So he clarified. "Also, we both feel desire for each other. Our bedsport will be most satisfying."

  Now she responded. Color swept into her face and she lowered her head like a camel about to charge. "My…lord." She spaced the words carefully, as if he might be unsure of his title. "I am not in need of a husband."

  He chuckled. "Do not be absurd."

  The rim of her bonnet began trembling, and the trembling worked its way down her arms to her fingers.

  Alarmed, Wynter tried to gather both her hands in his to chafe them.

  In a tantrumlike motion as unrestrained as any Leila had ever produced, she knocked him away. With a staccato delivery, she said, "I have heard your speech before." She took a gulp of air. "I have been told before that I was suitable, well-bred and virtuous, and therefore the privilege of marriage would be conferred on me despite my poverty, and I would have the chance to express my gratitude and my undying devotion every day for the rest of my life."

  The words she spoke forced him to realize he had expressed himself badly. "I would expect—"

  "I don't care what you expect." She wasn't shouting or in any way sounding less than civil, but that shaking continued as if emotions bubbled within her that she couldn't contain. "When I was seventeen, I was an obedient young female who would do as she was told, even if it meant she would be a nothing, the keeper of an empty place men call a wife. But I changed my destiny." Her eyes froze him with their intensity. "You can't delude me, my lord. You know everything. Whoever told you my story wouldn't leave out the best part."

  Trying to express his sincere sympathy seemed the only way to calm her. "All parts seem to me to be a tragedy."

  But his sympathy seemed only to insult her. "Not this part." Her trembling halted. "This part was a triumph, because I…walked…away. I left my uncle's house with a single bag and caught a public conveyance to London."

  He winced. To think of Charlotte at seventeen, alone on a coach and traveling to the city, terrified him. Even though he knew her story ended well—or would once she accepted his proposal—he wanted to protect her from the terror and loneliness she had suffered. Such was the influence she had on him.

  "I went to the house of a female acquaintance," she said, "a commoner who wished badly to have her son become part of society. She hired me. Hired me for the same reasons I had been suitable wife material. By the time she heard the tale of my rebellion, her son was well on his way to being acceptable, and she allowed me to finish the job."

  The tightness in his gut loosened a little. "She was kind, then."

  "She was a swine who lowered my wages, citing as a reason the price of scandal."

  He had wanted Charlotte to tell him this, to share the trauma of her every experience so he could assure her of his tolerance. Yet for reasons that he didn't understand, she was not responding with the relaxation of her ever-present caution.

  When Barakah had told him about women, he warned him of this, too. He had said that sometimes women failed to grasp that their man had only their interests foremost in his heart. Wynter had never personally experienced such behavior, so he had discounted it as a myth. Now he sent an apology to Barakah, who as he sat on the right hand of Allah was no doubt laughing at Wynter's folly. "I am grieved that your situation at that time was not ideal, and I still grieve that your situations since have left you unhappy."

  "I am not unhappy," she said coldly.

  He ignored that, as it deserved. "But I am a man. You are a woman, and you must trust me to know what is best for you."

  Her shaking began again.

  "You will wed me. It is the right and proper thing to do."

  "I will not walk up the aisle even if it means security and approval from the society which has scorned me." Her vehemence was all the more convincing for being subdued. "I have stood alone for nine years, my lord. I will stand alone until I die."

  He studied her in astonishment. "Are you refusing me?"

  "This is not a refusal, my lord, this is indifference."

  He allowed her to place her hand on the door and open it. The step had been put below, and she used it to descend as the footmen rushed to assist her.

  Wynter waited until she stood on the ground before he called, "Regardless of your indignation and your…er…indifference, Lady Miss Charlotte, I think you love me."

  She turned her head toward him, but he couldn't see past the rim of her bonnet. "I think, Lord Ruskin, that you do not know what love is."

  CHAPTER 18

  Love him. Charlotte headed down the carriage-way for a walk to the far reaches of the estate. Toward the oak tree in the meadow. Or the bench in the formal garden. Or to the Americas, although the Atlantic would present a bit of a challenge for a woman no taller than she was.

  Yes, she should have gone to the nursery, sought out the children and proceeded about the business of being a governess as if nothing untoward had happened.

  Nothing had happened.

  In the inner reaches of her mind she had been prepared to be disappointed in Wynter. She was. Her infatuation was over. She would proceed as if their brief interlude had never happened.

  Love him. As if she would love a man like him. A man who had abandoned his mother, his country and his manners. Who did he think he was, some pasha too lofty for ethics? She couldn't love a man like him.

  She found herself swinging her arms and putting each foot before the other in excessively firm movements. Movements that, if nature had comprehended her mood, would have shaken the earth.

  Dear heavens, why had she told him the truth of her life in such detail and with such passion? She knew how to relate her story—in a dry tone, as if the past had ceased to wound her and she didn't care that she lived in exile from the place where she'd grown up. When she pretended indifference, she at least saved her pride. Now she had no pride. And he thought she loved him!

  At least when she'd refused that first proposal, her suitor hadn't accused her of loving him. Indeed, he would have been surprised and offended if she'd offered such emotion. And she never would have. Even if he had gone to the trouble of courting her, she'd had too much sense then to imagine the courtship to be prompted by anything other than expediency.

  Love him. Wretched Wynter thought she loved him. Probably he had proposed marriage with no intention of going through the ceremony and every intention of performing the consummation. But Charlotte was no dewy-eyed fool. No, she was too old and wise to fall for that hoary trick.

  "Miss Dalrumple?" the hostler called as she hurried past the stables.

  Reluctantly she halted. "Yes, Fletcher?"

  "Need t' talk t' ye."

  She didn't want to speak with him. She didn't want to speak with anyone, especially not someone of the male gender, but Fletcher was a man of few demands and fewer words, so when he communicated it was with purpose. "Is there some service I can render to you?" she asked.

  "Me t' ye." The
knotted, gnarled hostler gestured toward the fenced stableyard with his unlit pipe. "D'ye know th' little girlie is ridin' yon mare?"

  "The little girlie?" Charlotte was bewildered. "Not…Lady Leila?"

  "Th' very same."

  "That's…that's not possible." Charlotte strode to the paddock. The horse he indicated was no pony, but fifteen hands high and sleek with the spirits of a healthy young animal. "When?"

  Fletcher had been around for so many years he knew she wasn't really expressing disbelief, only consternation. Speaking as calmly as if he'd been gentling a horse, he said, "Knew someone was ridin' Bethia. Saw th' evidence. Didn't know who or how. Stableboy told he'd seen a teeny sprite who flitted along on fairy wings."

  "What nonsense!" Leila was no sprite, and for a moment Charlotte's spirits rose. Perhaps the hostler was mistaken.

  "Aye. Seen me share o' sprites, don't none o' them ride worth a damn. Beggin' yer pardon, m'lady. So I kept watch." Fletcher placed his pipe between his lips and sucked on it as if it were lit.

  "You're sure it's Leila?"

  "Skinny girl, six hands high, good bones, nice mane. Aye, it's her."

  Charlotte placed her hand on her racing heart. What if Leila had been hurt while riding, and no one had known where she had gone? At the thought of the child lying helpless, unconscious or crying in pain, Charlotte had to lean hard against the white-painted fence.

  Fletcher watched her until she'd recovered her first fright. "She's ridin' after supper when ye've given yer charge into th' hands o' th' nursemaid. Best chide Grania."

  "I would suppose." Charlotte narrowed her eyes at the hostler. "You've stopped Leila, of course."

  Fletcher snorted. "Nay. Not I. Can't stop a girlie who slips in wi'out bridle or saddle an' rides th' beastie. Never seen a girlie ride like her, m'lady. Never seen a child commune wi' a horse like that. 'Tis a gift an' an inspiration t' this old man." He tapped the pipe against the fence. "Just thought ye ought t' know."

  "Yes," Charlotte said faintly. "Thank you."

  Her walk forgotten, she turned toward the manor. She had to talk to Leila at once. She had to make her see the danger she courted. Charlotte placed her hand on her own forehead. This was her fault. She hadn't done as she had promised the first day she arrived and taught Leila to ride sidesaddle. She hadn't acknowledged the child's love of horses at all, and Leila had taken matters into her own hands.

  Worse still, Charlotte had been distracted lately, imagining all manner of romantic drivel. Never mind that teaching the children in the day and Wynter in the evening had occasionally made her bleary-eyed. She was being paid, and paid well, to perform both duties for the limited time until the Sereminian reception. Moreover, she understood that Leila craved attention. The poor child was homesick and trying to find something to replace the life she had lost. Charlotte understood that, and her. Everything else in Charlotte's life was nothing but smoke and distraction.

  Entering the house, Charlotte went at once to the nursery. She found Robbie cleaning his muddy boots on the hearth. "Stop that, Robbie," she said mechanically. "Send those downstairs for the footman to clean."

  Leila stood holding the wooden horse Charlotte had brought her as a gift and staring at it as if at this very moment she were contemplating a ride.

  Grania was nowhere in sight. Heads were going to roll.

  Torn between the desire to hug Leila and the desire to shake her, Charlotte squatted before her charge. Leila looked up inquiringly, and Charlotte asked, "Dear, can we have a little talk?"

  "You're in trouble," Robbie muttered.

  Charlotte ignored him, intent on making Leila feel at ease with her. "Let's sit down on this bench, shall we?"

  Leila sat down where she stood, right on the hard floor.

  Obviously, she was still perturbed at Charlotte. "This is a good place, too." Charlotte sat down beside Leila, ignoring the discomfort of her corset, and slipped her arm around Leila's shoulders. "I would like to go riding with you."

  Leila's dark gaze slid toward her, and she examined Charlotte suspiciously. "Why?"

  "You said you liked to ride, and I want to train you."

  Leila contemplated her wooden horse, then her earnest governess. "I don't need to be trained; I already know how."

  Robbie sidled over and stood above them. "She's going to teach you to ride like an English miss, fool."

  "She's not a fool," Charlotte reprimanded. Then, aware she had been too sharp, she thumped Robbie's arm. "She's so smart, it's immediately obvious she's your sister."

  Robbie's face contorted as he tried to decide if he'd been insulted or praised.

  Satisfied she had silenced him for the moment, Charlotte said persuasively, "When you learn to ride sidesaddle, Leila, we can ride together."

  Leila hunched her shoulders.

  Charlotte's vivaciousness faltered under such disinterest. She had truly failed the child if Leila didn't care to ride with her. "Every morning."

  Leila narrowed her eyes.

  "When your father is home, you could ride with him."

  "Papa doesn't ride sidesaddle," Leila retorted.

  "He could if he wanted to," Robbie said.

  Grateful for that answer, which would never have occurred to her, Charlotte replied, "I don't know if he could or not. Boys ride the easy way."

  Leila pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. "Can I stand up?"

  "Now?" Bewildered, Charlotte looked around the nursery.

  "No, on the horse!"

  Charlotte blanched. "Why would you do that?"

  "We always do," Robbie said enthusiastically. "We stand up, and we hang off to the side, and we practice shooting between the horse's legs." He swaggered and for a moment he looked so much like his father Charlotte blinked at the illusion. "I'm really good at hitting a target."

  "So am I," Leila shouted.

  "A lady's voice is always low…" Charlotte trailed off. How did one tell a child not to raise her voice when she had been rehearsing for a desert battle? "Guns? You shoot guns?"

  From his wide grin, it was obvious Robbie comprehended Charlotte's consternation and fully intended to enjoy himself. "Papa can shoot a bow and arrow, but he hasn't taught me."

  Charlotte still couldn't—didn't want to—fully comprehend. "Your father lets you shoot guns while riding on the horse's side?"

  Leila looked at Robbie, and Charlotte saw the silent communication that passed between them.

  "Papa made us practice with the rifle before he let us ride with it." Leila paused dramatically. "He was afraid we were going to hurt the horse."

  Charlotte stood and paced across the room. "This is worse than I thought."

  The children burst into giggles.

  She fixed them with a stern look. "Are you children teasing me?"

  "No, Lady Miss Charlotte," they said in unison.

  "I'll have to talk to your father." She had known all along she was going to have to have a conversation with him anyway. She had to inform him of her failure to monitor Leila and the child's escape to the stable. But now…now she would have to find a way to tactfully wrap her hands around his throat and demand what he'd been doing, teaching children of such tender age to shoot and ride like gypsies.

  She had also hoped not to see him so soon after the scene in the coach, but she was not so weak-minded as to delay for the sake of her own composure.

  "When are you going?" Robbie asked.

  "As soon as I speak to Miss Symes about getting a nursemaid up here who understands her duty."

  Leila scowled.

  Charlotte knelt beside her. "Leila, I must ask for your word that you'll not go riding without a companion."

  "Told you you'd get caught," Robbie said.

  Leila shrugged one bony shoulder.

  "Leila, please." Charlotte lightly stroked her hand over Leila's hair, then under Leila's chin. "I love you, and I would worry if you rode out on your own."

  "I won't get lost." Leila allowed Charlotte to
lift her chin. "Do you really love me?"

  Charlotte looked into that thin little face. "Very much."

  Oh, God, it was true. She had broken the first rule of governessing. She had come to love her charges as if they were her own children. But what could she do? While she hadn't been looking, these imps had stolen their way into her heart. If Wynter had been shrewd, if he had truly wished to disturb Charlotte, he would have accused her of loving his children. It wasn't Wynter who squeezed her heart into painful little knots of anxiety, or sparked pride at their accomplishments. It was his children. Of course.

  Flinging wide her arms, she held them open…and waited for one very long second.

  Leila launched herself first, coiling herself around Charlotte like a vine which had found the necessary support. "I love you, too, Lady Miss Charlotte."

  Robbie was second and made up for it by hugging her to the point of pain. "I love you a lot, Lady Miss Charlotte."

  They offered up their faces. She kissed them both, and hugged them again, and accepted noisy smacks on her cheeks. She came away from their embrace with tears of tenderness and the desperate hope that she hadn't done wrong by declaring herself. After all, governesses were easily replaced, especially when they'd spurned the master. But Lady Ruskin had promised she could stay through all the children's formative years, and so Charlotte would remind her. Charlotte would fight for these children.

  Leila touched the tears on Charlotte's cheek. "Aren't you happy?"

  "Very happy. Happier than I've been in so many years." Charlotte smiled at them and rose. "You've gladdened my heart."

  "Are you going to see Papa now?" Robbie asked.

  "Absolutely." It would be easy, for she didn't love him. "After I find you a nursemaid."

  CHAPTER 19

  The new nursemaid dispatched and grania reprimanded, Charlotte strode along the corridor toward the old nursery. She was not completely at ease at the thought of seeing Wynter, but it would take more than a marriage proposal and the unfounded insinuation that she loved him to make her timorous. Her dismay had been nothing more than an instinctive recoil against another heartless and unwished-for proposition.