In Total Surrender

by Anne Mallory

  Her smile had abruptly slipped, finding nothing funny in what such statements implied. Especially after he had saved her life, whatever he denied.

  “And you find fault with this? His dispatching of those who try to kill him?”

  “Nay. Just in how it happens. There’s a tale that tells of knives in the dark, plunged into his flesh, and he, demon that he is, laughing, pulling the steel free, decapitating his enemies instead. Rising and walking away with nary a limp.”

  The thing that had intrigued her most about the tale, then and now, was the idea of Andreas laughing.

  It was something she longed to see, actually, real laughter from him. He had laughed a few times, but each of those had emerged attached to darker intent, a tie to darker emotions behind.

  But she prided herself on her ability to see the bigger picture, the end of the game. He had been genuinely amused a time or two since she had met him. She just needed to nurture such seeds.

  Seeds like those that had sprouted last night. She shuddered, her body heating again for the thousandth time that day.

  She turned her attention back to her surroundings. It was with twofold purpose that she spent most of her time that wasn’t spent with either Andreas or her parents in this domain. Everyone in the building eventually gathered in the kitchen areas, spending time by the heated ovens and plucking foods from the tables. The central meeting place and the one most revered. Heat and sustenance. There could be no room that screamed survival more.

  And though she too loved both the warmth and food, her current needs—to find information about her brother, to save her family’s company, to know about the Merricks—centered on the chatter that was freely given in such a place. Secure from outside elements, they talked of everything that was happening around them.

  If Andreas Merrick knew what his employees talked about under his nose, he would be extremely displeased.

  Then again, maybe he did know. It was hard to picture him as anything other than omniscient and omnipotent. And though stories were freely exchanged here, these same chattering boys and men were absolutely silent outside the walls. She had tried to talk to a few of them, before she’d approached Andreas Merrick directly that first night. She’d been coldly rebuffed, no matter what outrageous amount she had offered. Blank faces had been almost eerie in their absolute lack of expression.

  She had spent the rest of the night after meeting Andreas—and being given their debts back—figuring out how to infiltrate his men and domain.

  She had guessed correctly that Andreas would want nothing to do with her directly, so she had brightly and confidently told his men the next morning that she was there in order to repay her family’s debts with Mr. Merrick’s permission. She was decently sure that he hadn’t allowed any of the messengers to verify if the statement were true.

  And the man didn’t think he allowed his emotions to make decisions for him . . .

  There had been something about Milton Fox’s expression that morning, though. As if he knew what she was doing and knew something she didn’t. He had gone along with her statements—not denying them, but not helping either. Letting her actions that first morning determine his course. She must have passed whatever test he had created, for he had been supportive of her efforts from the next day forth.

  Now that she was simply part of the building, anointed by their demon boss and staying under his obvious protection, no matter that she had engineered much of it, they parted with information freely. Though should Andreas Merrick kick her out, those little faces would go blank once more, she had no doubt.

  She had been very careful about which questions she had asked in order to preserve goodwill. By working, mostly unnoticed, in the kitchens, they shared more than they would if she was in their direct view.

  Andreas Merrick would be very displeased if he realized what allowing her to stay here truly meant.

  “Won’t necessarily be the actual Merricks who get to you first either, if you catch me,” the older man said, pulling her back to the eavesdropped conversation. “We’re all Merricks here. Peter should have told you.”

  “He told me,” came Tommy’s grumpy reply.

  “You were settling in, boy. What’s got in your craw?”

  “I don’t like him. He’s a bastard.”

  “Boy,” the man said warningly, “Merrick has a lot of responsibility. He’s bound to be a mite grumpy.”

  “Right. Doesn’t mean he has to be a shit to Miss Pace.”

  There was silence for a long moment. “You don’t know what you are speaking about, boy. Not at all.”

  “He should—”

  “Shut your trap.” It was said in a tone that was full of warning, brooking no argument.

  There was a long and oppressive silence before Tommy broke it. “Fine. Can I go?”

  “Yeh, just you watch yourself, hear?”

  She definitely needed to speak to Tommy. It was entirely her fault that he had followed Andreas. But she had been hoping to remove a suspicion she’d had since the beginning, and it had seemed a good idea at the time she’d broached it to Tommy.

  She had no idea why Tommy thought Andreas was mean to her, though. He was veritably protective. And someone mean wouldn’t have . . . She blushed and kneaded harder.

  All in all, her inquiries were going in circles. Which meant that the truth was here. Her plans required some rethinking however. For as much as the thought of staying here, hiding here, forever, held seductive appeal, it wasn’t a reasonable solution.

  And her mother . . . she could still remember the tone of her voice when they had arrived back from Dover—the clipped words from her mother’s mouth. “I inquired about speaking with Mr. Merrick while you were gone. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that he was with you.”

  That hadn’t gone well. Chastity belt comments aside.

  No. Eventually they would need to leave. After making sure Father wouldn’t be incarcerated, and that the company would thrive in their absence, they could retire to the country and figure out how to cure him.

  Voices drifted out to be replaced with others.

  “Going on the raids tonight?”

  “Petey switched me.” The voice sounded a little hesitant. “My shoulder’s still a little sore.”

  “Yeah? You should get the Bones to look at it.”

  “Mayhap.” Shuffled feet. “You think I’ll catch hell for switching?”

  “What? Nah. We do it all the time. And if you don’t want to participate in raids, you don’t hafta. Most of us take pride in it, but there are some who’d rather stay out of such things. As long as you tell Donald or Milton or Peter, they will find you other tasks to do. They don’t want people participating that don’t want to. Blood spills badly otherwise.”

  “What about the Merricks?”

  “Well, orders come from them, don’t they? You ever seen the demon bastard take people with him that he hasn’t handpicked? Nah. He doesn’t take notice of most of us. Usually he does stuff himself. It’s Mr. Roman who forms teams. And he’s a keen one with people, he is.”

  Shuffling movement. Perhaps a hand set on a shoulder. “You stay out of the demon bastard’s way, and you’ll be fine. He don’t seek people out. Ever.”

  “Thanks.”

  The boys walked off, leaving the kitchen empty once more. It was like waves on the shore, people coming in, chattering, then breaking and leaving. The silence was smooth and untouched once more, waiting for the next wave to crash.

  She lifted her eyes and froze at the sight of a man—the man—across from her leaning against the opposing counter, arms crossed, almost languidly watching her work. The one who it was just said never sought people out.

  “Listening to gossip, Miss Pace?”

  Her heart raced at the soft, sly accusation. The easy remembrance of the events of the night before, and the sleepless night after, made her rub her suddenly dry lips together.

  “I . . . I’m sure they didn’t mean anything negativ
e.”

  He raised a brow. “Do you think I care what the little bastards say about me?”

  “I suppose not.”

  He looked amused for a moment, before covering it, face going unreadable once more. She stared, wishing she could freeze the amusement about his mouth and eyes. It made him devastatingly beautiful, really, and she wanted to stare at such a thing, chin on hand, all day if she could. Art that was far finer and more intriguing than any at a museum.

  Seeing expressions move across his face was riveting. When he was even remotely feeling a positive emotion, he was breathtaking to observe.

  “My question remains, are you enjoying the gossip?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I am simply kneading dough.”

  No need to admit that she had kneaded the dough so hard by that point that it would be a brick when it emerged from the oven.

  He examined her for a moment before gracefully rounding the barrier between them. He was moving more easily, and there seemed to be less physical tension to him today.

  But the thought of it flitted away as he drew closer and the expression on his face made her heart beat a little faster. Dark sarcasm could be fended off with easy charm. Beastliness could be undermined by happiness. But that intense, stripping gaze was harder to contend or resist.

  He lifted her hand, and she almost felt as if she were someone else watching the action. So seldom did he initiate contact with her . . . though the previous night . . . when he had gripped her hand . . . when he had pulled her close . . . touched her . . . made her fly. . .

  “Abusing the dough, Miss Pace?”

  His eyes were on the pummeled brown ball, but his fingers continued to hold her wrist, palm up, her fingers half-curled into the air.

  “All air needed to be removed.”

  Sort of like her lungs at the moment.

  “I would say that you have accomplished that task.”

  “I didn’t think you came to the kitchens, Mr. Merrick,” she said, breathed it really, trying to get her thoughts in order. She needed to be on her game with him, or she’d be quickly destroyed.

  “Where else would I find food?” His fingers slid from her wrist. It was a moment before she could move.

  She hastily pushed her fingers back in the belly of the firm dough. “I assumed you had it sent to you every meal.”

  “I’d starve if I did that.”

  She blinked. “They won’t bring you food?” It seemed such an odd concept based on everything else she knew about the occupants of the building.

  “They bring plenty.” He pointed to the ginger cake on the platter next to her. “Did you bake that?”

  “Yes.” She was a bit mystified, and she knew it showed. “It just came out of the oven a half hour or so ago.”

  He cut a slice and bit into it.

  She blinked at him, then unobtrusively checked everything about him from his height to his eyes, his posture to his visible scars. No, even if he had an identical twin hidden away, the other couldn’t possibly have the same scars on his neck and hands.

  His fingers turned over her hand again, and something was suddenly placed into her palm. She looked down to see a slice of cake nestled there.

  He had touched her again.

  “You look as if you could use something to eat. Do you feel unwell?”

  “No.” She felt out of sorts, not unwell.

  “Miss Pace?”

  “Yes?” She looked up at him, her mind a little hazy.

  “I asked if you were enjoying the gossip?” He leaned back next to her against the counter, almost lazily. But she wasn’t fooled. Every movement he made had purpose. He didn’t waste anything.

  “You plan to keep asking that until I give you an answer.”

  “Of course. It is the only way to pin you down.” There was something in his eyes that spoke to other things, that made it feel as if the ovens were blazing behind her. “Or else you will just evade and twirl and do something to make me try to forget what question I asked.”

  Well, that was a discomfiting response. “I cannot help but hear some of what you deem gossip, yes.” Far easier to answer the question than to let him think on her methods further.

  “Putting yourself in the kitchens helps to facilitate such situations.”

  “To facilitate the completion of my baking? Yes.”

  “Your word games won’t work.”

  “But you seem to enjoy them. I don’t want to disappoint.”

  That faint smile tugged his lips again. She couldn’t help but lean closer. The skin around his eyes tightened, the deep blue color of them darkened, but not with anger.

  There was something almost loose about him. It both excited her and made all the hair on her neck stand on end in warning.

  “I’m not sure ‘disappoint’ is a word I’d use for you, Miss Pace. Perhaps anger, annoy, rile . . . please. But not disappoint.”

  Yes, the ovens had to have been lit.

  “Oh. That is rather . . . pleasing to hear.”

  He watched her for a second, and she could have sworn there was a moment of hesitation, that he was going to reach for her and pull her to him, but he crossed his arms. “Are you going to tell me about the morning’s events?”

  She put the slice of cake down on the counter and squared it with her fingers. “What would you like to know?” She looked up through her lashes. “What do you already know?”

  She was sure she wasn’t the only one who knew how to listen for gossip without drawing notice.

  “Why don’t you start where you feel it best.”

  “That is a disconcerting request, Mr. Merrick. What if I tell you something that I might not have needed to otherwise?”

  “That is the point.” His voice was almost gentle. She looked up fully, examining his face for the expression that would match that tone, but it was already gone, replaced, if not by the cold façade he usually sported, then something equally as expressionless.

  “We experienced a small fire in your brother’s bedroom. Everything is fine now. The drapes had to be replaced, and we will pay for that, of course. We cleaned the walls too, as there were a few scorch marks. The boys used a few buckets full of water to extinguish the flames completely, so there may be a bit of light water damage. But the woods and linens are almost completely dried now. We will reimburse any lingering damage that has not yet been accounted for.”

  She wiped her palms together, discarding crumbs, and smiled reassuringly at him, hoping that explanation would do.

  His face remained stoic. “Your father is not of sound mind.”

  She couldn’t fully contain her wince. “No.” There was relief that he finally knew, along with the tiny knot of fear that she might have misjudged him. “You saw him, didn’t you? He was in your room when he was missing during the fray.”

  “Yes.”

  She bit her lip. “There are times when he is fine. When he remembers. This morning was not one of those.”

  “I am sorry.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. Thankfully, only her relief remained. “Thank you.”

  His arms remained crossed. “You aren’t going to exclaim over my suddenly sympathetic nature?”

  “I have never thought you an automaton, Mr. Merrick. Or unfeeling. I think you as human as I am. And I appreciate your concern. Very much,” she added softly.

  She wondered with supreme intensity what was going through his mind at that moment, for his face gave nothing away.

  “How long ago?”

  “That we fully noticed about Father?” She could have dodged the subject a moment more—turned it back to him, with humor about how long she had noticed his nonmachinelike state. But not after that exchange. She shook her head. “It has been building for a while. We pretended . . .” She clamped her lips together. It was always hard to admit it without tears. She shook her head and strove for a light tone. “We wanted him to be well.”

  “You have hidden it well. Remark
ably well.”

  She wished she could read the expression on his face. “Yes. Under the impression that he became an inept recluse rather than not altogether there.” Her smile strained. “A rather poor exchange.”

  “So far you have kept both the business from failing and your father free of prison or an institution. A fair exchange by any standard.”

  “But not for long. The scale waits to tip one way or the other. If Christian were here . . . but he’s not. I have sought your help, and you have given it. If our plans don’t work, I will let the business fail or be consumed by Lord Garrett before Father goes to prison, of course.” She picked up the dead dough again, needing something to do. “But Lord Garrett is behind many of our troubles. I don’t want him to be rewarded.”

  “Yet you are friends with Garrett’s sons.”

  “Edward Wilcox is nothing like his father. Neither is Henry—not for a long time now, though I’ve heard that he tried his hardest to emulate him when he was younger.”

  “The seed usually runs true.”

  She sighed. “That is like saying that each dog in a litter is a replica of the sire. It is possible to deviate from a course, even one set down from birth.”

  His eyes were shadowed. “A nice sentiment.”

  “I think it simple truth. Though it is hard to deviate from the path others expect from you even if you grow into something more. Mother still thinks I’m daft occasionally. The lighthearted, quirky relief for our family.”

  “And you aren’t?”

  “Sometimes, yes. It is in my nature to be blithe. And other times it is just easier to pretend that ease and play the role.”

  He leaned over and cut another slice of cake. “I think I like it when you are smiling, from within, no matter how that occurs.”

  She stared at him as he ate and watched her. It was as if the world had turned upside down but hadn’t swept her with it. Standing on the ceiling now, stomach suddenly in her throat, waiting to fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs.