Rules of Surrender

by Christina Dodd

  His eyes opened; he looked incredulously at her, at the mark on his skin. And she saw it happen. He lost control.

  He plunged all the way inside, clearing the way for himself, making himself at home in her body. Tears sprang to her eyes, but when he pulled away she wrapped her legs around him. He came back, sliding more easily this time. She whimpered, her inner muscles flexing and releasing.

  "Charlotte." His voice was dark and rich, flavored with the desert language. "You are so beautiful, Charlotte."

  He moved between her legs. Driving in, touching deep, then gliding out. Her feet stirred restlessly across his buttocks, feeling the labor of his muscles. He encircled her with his body, enveloped her in his pleasure and she loved it. She rose beneath him, learning to match his rhythm. Learning that her movement could make him groan her name again and again.

  His hands skated into her hair, every strand loosened in their struggle. He held her head and brought his lips to her face, showering kisses on her. Kisses that fell so lightly she couldn't catch them, but kisses that told more clearly than words his delight in her.

  She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. The pain—or was it ecstasy?—increased as his tempo increased. She recognized the sensation; he'd brought her to this peak of exhilaration time and time again in the last weeks.

  But this was more. With him inside her, touching the deepest part of her, being a part of her, the loneliness of a lifetime vanished.

  Close against her ear, she heard the catch of his breath. The momentum increased. Excitement thrummed through her, rising inexorably with each stroke and kiss. Each whisper of her name became a groan. She raced toward the tumult with him in her arms, cradled by him. Yet inside her womb was stillness…waiting. Waiting.

  The waiting ended. Deep inside, the spasms started, growing, pulling at him. He panted, thrusting into her as if heat would make them one. Planting her feet on the bed, she lifted and lifted her hips—and froze as surges of rapture shook her. Again she screamed, this time not in pain but in bliss.

  He continued, then halted. His face above her revealed a man transported by euphoria. The muscles of his thighs contracted once, twice, three times. Tiny movements, nudging as deep inside her as he could be, filling her with his seed.

  Closing her eyes, she luxuriated in the scent of him, the weight of him, the full satisfaction of urges she'd realized only with him. Trembling and ecstatic, she savored the last moments of fulfillment.

  "Charlotte," he whispered. "My wife. At last."

  Then, languidly, they sank to the bed.

  For a blessed long time, her mind was empty of worry or guilt or…

  My God, what had she done?

  CHAPTER 29

  Charlotte had wrestled with Wynter as if she thought herself some kind of warrior.

  She had thought herself some kind of warrior. For some reason, he'd let her tussle with him, hold his wrists, imagine she had a chance of winning. And she had fought him until vigor had swept her mind clear of thought and left her only her instincts. Instincts which had led her to this…mating.

  Merciful heavens, she had screamed in the throes. Twice.

  His voice rumbled through his chest to hers. "I was hoping you would drop off to sleep and not be troubled by vexsome cares, my rose sweet with petals of flame."

  He hadn't moved. He remained a weight atop her, his head resting beside hers and turned away, so how did he know?

  "You…"

  "Yes?"

  She didn't know what to say to him. What did one say to a man when one had experienced such an amazing activity in his arms? "You must think I'm a woman of easy virtue."

  "Easy?" He reared back and stared down at her, the portrait of righteous indignation. "I'm married to you and I still had to shoot off the lock!"

  She tried to look straight at him, she really did, but her eyes swam with tears.

  "Ah, woman." Gently he lifted himself away from her.

  To her distress, her body objected, pulsing around his organ as if providing a lingering kiss.

  "Dear lord." He sounded hoarse, tormented. "You are…wonderful."

  Wonderful wasn't what he had been going to say, she was sure. Wanton? Maybe.

  Where he had been pressed against her skin, the air felt cool, and the chill revived her brain yet more. How could she have been so gullible as to think she might have a chance against him?

  Slowly, as if he hadn't yet recovered his vitality, he stretched out on his back beside her. Painstakingly, he wrapped his arm under her shoulders and around her hips and pulled her against him.

  She hadn't grown used to this nudity, his or hers, and now that passion and wrath no longer tumbled through her, she was painfully aware. Her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder. Her hands…where did she rest her hands? One underneath him, of course, but the other? He caught it as it hovered and placed it on his chest. The front of her rested against his side, and she didn't dare move. That would attract his attention and…and what? She didn't know what happened next. She only knew that as he held her close, the chill faded.

  Catching a blanket, he pulled it over them. Tilting up her chin, he looked into her eyes. "Now. You are thinking: He played me for a fool, pretending to wrestle with me. But you must think with my mind, Lady Wife. I have wanted you since I saw you standing on the portico with your carpetbag at your feet. I was determined to be strong and not take advantage of my children's governess, but you tempted me."

  The heat of vexation dried her tears. "I never tempted you!"

  "But you did. You walked, you breathed, you smiled." He traced the curve of her cheek, the shape of her lips, and it felt remarkably like affection. "Too seldom you smiled, Lady Wife. When my mother decided you should teach me, I decided to surrender to your wiles."

  "I don't have any wiles."

  He smiled down at her. "Your unconscious wiles. I could not be a cad and seduce you, so I determined to wed you."

  "You could have warned me," she muttered.

  "So you could fight me more? I do not think so. My conceit lies in tatters as it is."

  That made her laugh. Just a chuckle, brief but reviving.

  "Then—I have convinced you to marry me—"

  "Blackmail!"

  "And you challenged me. Me!" He thumped his chest. "I answered your challenge, finding you, teaching you to accept my touch, bringing you to ecstasy."

  She tried to bury her head in his chest, but he still held her chin.

  "No. Don't turn away. It is a good thing for a wary woman to find pleasure in her man's caresses." He took an exasperated breath. "But it is very, very difficult for the man."

  "Really?" Such a thought had never occurred to her. "Did you suffer?"

  "Yes."

  She liked that. She liked that very, very much. "How charming."

  Now he chuckled, but darkly. "If I had managed to climb up to your bedchamber, I doubt I could have kept my vow to consummate our marriage after the ceremony, for you had strained my resolution to the limit. I would have taken you then." He glared at her to give his words more impact. "I would have taken you."

  Her fingers flexed on his chest. Her legs moved in a restless movement. Just as she had responded to his coercive seductions, now she responded to the fact he had wished to dominate her. What kind of primitive creature lived in her heart, craving his mastery?

  "Your railing gave way, thus proving God was watching over us." He tipped her over on her back as he came up on his elbow. Leaning over her, darkly golden and insistent, he said, "Today I did not take you, Lady Wife. We struggled. We fought. We took each other. Never lie to yourself about that." He cupped his hand over her shoulder and shook her slightly. "Promise me."

  So. He had tricked her. He had known he would possess her—truth to tell, she had known it, too—but he'd refused to allow her the easy way out. She could never say she had been unwilling. She had been a participant in their joining. "You know me very well," she said.

  He towered over h
er, rugged, hearty, male and completely convinced of his superiority. "A wise hunter knows his prey."

  She knew him very well, too. "Everything has come out just as you intended." Her throat hurt with holding back tears, but she had to bring forth the words. She had to tell the whole truth, and thus comprehend exactly what she had done. "I will now be your wife. You will take care of me. And I will love your children—and you."

  "Yes!" His eyes shone with approbation. "You see at last my wisdom and the wisdom of my desert father."

  She'd said it. She'd admitted that she loved him. She'd admitted it to him and to herself. And he did not reciprocate. His only thought was that he had been proved right. That she had become a creature of his design. A woman like any other.

  The press of tears eased, for what had she to cry about? Her life was settled. She'd had to surrender the one principle that had molded her character. She'd fallen in love with a man who didn't love her and become, not the center of his universe, but a convenience to make his life easier, a mere planet dependent on the mighty sun. She had lost herself.

  Ironic, that he had come from the dry and arid desert and brought the desert to her. "As you say, you didn't take me, we took each other," she said. "I can't lie to myself about that, and I never will. I promise."

  He kissed her forehead and smiled at her, the most beautiful smile in the world. "You are everything I have ever wanted. Sensible, hardworking and pleasing to gaze upon."

  She watched him, in awe of his handsome face and impregnable conceit. "Such praise will turn my head."

  For a moment he frowned, uncomprehending. Then a gentle smile lifted his lips. "You are the light of my eyes, the dawn of spring, the—"

  She interrupted. "And you are the custodian of worthless compliments. I liked being sensible, hardworking and pleasing to gaze upon better."

  "You do not like my tributes?"

  She couldn't contain her distress. "You already have me. There's no use wasting them."

  "But to me you are the dawn of spring," he said.

  Absurdly, she thrilled to his words.

  "I am happy, and you are happy. When I have recovered, and this may be"—he lifted his hand, fingers spread—"a year from now, I will wake you, and we will again take each other. Now, sleep, Charlotte, my wife."

  They settled together, shoulder to shoulder.

  He thought he'd won.

  She knew he had.

  CHAPTER 30

  The wedding a month ago had been a resounding success, and everyone in the ton was obsequiously mindful that Adorna had made it so.

  The ceremony had been poignant, the food and drink had received high praise, the orchestra had played the night away, Wynter's departure with Charlotte had caused an immense amount of satisfying gossip and the ton now waited anxiously to see how Adorna would top that on the morrow during the Sereminian reception. Adorna smiled as she walked toward the stairway. As if there could be doubt.

  "M'lady, m'lady!" The poor dear footman Harris rushed toward her. "Cook says th' ducks haven't arrived from London yet." He looked absolutely beleaguered with his hair standing on end.

  Adorna patted his arm soothingly. "If there are no ducks for the dinner, then Cook shall dig a pit and roast an oxen. I'm sure the Sereminian delegation will enjoy it."

  Harris nodded, bowed and rushed back toward the kitchens.

  Adorna climbed the steps.

  The skeptics didn't know her. When the Sereminian royal family left Austinpark Manor, they would be charmed and entertained, Queen Victoria would be gratified and Adorna would be the most celebrated hostess in England.

  Adorna quite looked forward to that.

  "My lady!" Miss Symes hurried down the corridor toward her. "Someone at the wedding stole the linens in the west wing and we can't make up all the beds."

  "At least this time they didn't steal the silver." Adorna put her arm around the housekeeper. "Queen Victoria's whole idea is to give the Sereminian delegation a short tour of the English countryside and entertainment in a casual setting. Her Majesty, Prince Albert, the court and the Sereminians are coming in the morning and returning to London late in the afternoon. We don't need beds made up."

  Miss Symes pulled a disgusted face. "You know some of them will get tiddly and they'll have to stay over."

  "But not all, dear, and we have enough linens for the east wing, don't we?"

  "Yes."

  "There. You see. We shall be fine."

  Miss Symes wasn't happy; she hated to be in any way unprepared. "Thank you, my lady. I'll make up every chamber in the east wing at once." But she didn't curtsy. Instead, she looked off to the side as if she were embarrassed. "Have you…given thought about what to do about the ghost?"

  "Oh, yes." Adorna touched her finger to her cheek. "I suppose when the Sereminians are gone, I will have to do something about our little spook, won't I?"

  "If you want to have any upstairs maids left, you will, my lady."

  "I'll take care of it, Miss Symes." Adorna sent her on her way. Miss Symes was a dear to worry so. Too bad that all of Adorna's reassurances that some grand merriment would arise had not reassured her.

  Of course, Adorna would think of something special to entertain the delegation, and if she didn't, without a doubt some bit of excitement would turn up. After all, she hadn't actually planned for Wynter to blow the lock off Charlotte's door. That had been pure serendipity. Adorna always had been lucky that way.

  Except with Lord Bucknell. She set her teeth and walked more quickly. He had disappeared during the wedding reception and never returned. She'd not heard one word from him, not even when she sent around a little note inquiring with the greatest delicacy about his health. Vile man. She didn't know how she had ever thought she liked him. She certainly didn't understand why she missed him.

  The door of the nursery stood open, and from inside Adorna could hear Charlotte speaking. The sweet girl insisted on working with Robbie and Leila on their manners every day, ignoring Adorna's reassurances that the children had been exemplary at the wedding.

  Charlotte was a dear, but subdued since she'd returned from the hunting lodge with Wynter.

  If Wynter would only stop searching for the embezzler! He went to London every day. He was there now. Adorna had thought his marriage would keep him home, but he matter-of-factly kissed Charlotte every morning and rode off to the city. Why, when Adorna had married Henry, he hadn't been able to stay away for more than two hours at a time, and he'd been in his seventies!

  Young people just didn't have that spark anymore.

  Pausing in the doorway, Adorna saw that Charlotte read from that book the children adored so—The Arabian Nights' Entertainments, it was called, and they seemed to be in quite an exciting part. At least, it appeared to be exciting to Charlotte and Robbie. They sat side by side in chairs, hunched over the book, as Charlotte read faster and faster.

  Leila, on the other hand, sat droopy-eyed on the floor, tracing the pattern in the carpet. Suddenly lifting her head, she said, "Lady Miss Charlotte, can we call you Mama now?"

  Robbie turned on his little sister. "Leila. For the last time, be quiet! I want to know what happens."

  Leila flopped back on the floor in a huff.

  Charlotte looked at a loss. "Of course you may call me Mama. That would make me very happy."

  Adorna moved then, and Charlotte noticed her.

  Robbie noticed her, too, and in obvious disgust tumbled to the floor beside Leila.

  Leila grinned, lay down and drummed her heels on the carpet.

  "May I come in and listen?" Adorna hadn't planned to attend them, but the household could run without her for a few minutes, and she sympathized with her grandson's impatience.

  Charlotte accepted her presence calmly, but then Charlotte accepted everything calmly these days. It was as if the tumult before the wedding had never occurred, and without a murmur of protest she had settled into being the wife Wynter had wanted. "Of course, Mother, we'd be glad to ha
ve you join us. Robbie"—Charlotte touched his shoulder—"set a chair for your grandmama. She wants to hear the rest of the story."

  Robbie flashed Adorna a smile as he placed a chair on the other side of Charlotte. Since the wedding, she and her grandson had come to an accord of sorts. He didn't throw his knife at her wallpaper, and she pretended not to notice when he sneaked out to play with his new friends. That included a rather subdued vicar's son, who apparently made no more slurs about people's accents or backgrounds.

  A valuable lesson for both the lads, but the turn of events left Leila alone again.

  Adorna seated herself and pretended to listen while Charlotte took up the thread of the story. In actuality, she watched Leila. Leila, who made a production of not listening. Leila, who played with the wooden horse Charlotte had given her, yet never complained that her riding lessons had been set back once again.

  Leila. Adorna seldom found herself at a loss with other people, but Leila puzzled her. She was hiding something, of that Adorna was certain. But what? What secret could a child of Leila's age keep from every loving adult? Why did Leila smile slyly when she thought herself unwatched? Why, when she talked about El Bahar, did she call it home! And why had Adorna once seen her helping herself to Cook's homemade rolls, tying them into a handkerchief and sneaking them upstairs?

  Adorna intended to find out—after the Sereminian reception.

  Adorna realized the story had ended while she contemplated the enigma of her granddaughter, and Robbie watched her expectantly. "Very good," she exclaimed. "If every tale is as exciting as that one, I will have to read the whole book myself."

  "I want to," Robbie said. "But I don't. I like to hear M-mama read them."

  Charlotte's face lit up in tangible pleasure, and she embraced Robbie.

  Leila sat up. "I wanted to call her that!"

  Charlotte opened her other arm to Leila. "I'll be Mama to both of you."

  Leila came to Charlotte's side and accepted the hug, but all the while she moved nervously as if she were a thoroughbred waiting for the start of a race.