"I do not wish," she said firmly.
"But women always like to talk about themselves."
Nothing irritated her as much as these sweeping generalizations men, even the most civilized of men, were prone to make. "I don't know what women you have been associating with, my lord, but most women never get the chance to speak because of the constant and self-important conversation of men."
"I do not like these sweeping generalizations women make about men."
Had he plucked the thought from her head?
He demanded, "Have I told you anything about myself?"
"Very little," she admitted grudgingly.
"But perhaps this is what you wish. You wish to think me a barbarian, stupid and uncaring." His free hand played with the fringe on his cushion, and he watched her ceaselessly. "It is easier than getting to know me for who I am."
"I assure you that is not true."
"I will tell you now." He sat straight up, and when she would have interrupted, he pointed his finger at her admonishingly. "You will listen."
She didn't want to listen. She didn't want to raise the level of their intimacy, not when she had already conjectured seduction from ridicule. "We have much more ground to cover, my lord"—she showed him the pages held between finger and thumb—"and very little time until the Sereminian reception. If you don't wish to discuss life in the city, perhaps we could discuss horses and hunting. That would be more to your taste, I believe."
He ignored her as regally as a potentate from The Arabian Nights' Entertainments. "You've heard the gossip behind my escape to El Bahar."
"I believe you left after your father's death."
"You have been curious about me?" He sounded rather pleased. "You needn't be ashamed, Lady Miss Charlotte. I am also curious about you."
This familiarity is what came of conversing when she should be teaching. She bent her head to her book and read the first heading aloud. " 'A Gentleman in the Hunt.' "
"You do not wish to talk about you. Very well. When my father died, I was fifteen, and his passing caused me much pain."
She quoted, " 'A gentleman picks his steed for endurance and speed, and trains to jump with him until both move as one.' "
"My father had always been older than other fathers, but he shook off every illness. I thought he was indestructible."
She lost her place on the page. Or rather—the words before her eyes no longer made sense. "One does think that about one's parents."
"So your father also sings with the angels?" She shook her head, and he leaped to his next conclusion. "Or your mother?"
"The hunt," she said desperately.
"I comprehend. Both sit on the right hand of God."
Wynter spoke so gently, she found herself admitting, "Both are gone."
"Never truly gone." He blessed her with a beatific smile.
She didn't trust him when he looked so guileless, and she waited tensely to tell him again she would not confess her own story.
"Lady Miss Charlotte, I have told you before. You should leave off your corset."
Taken by surprise, she glanced down at herself. The whalebones were sticking her, but nothing of that showed.
"As you have left off your shoes at my command. Look at you," he scolded. "All stretched up tight on those comfortable cushions. If you left off your corset, you would perhaps smile and not look as if you have a bellyache."
She closed her eyes in mortification. "I'm sorry if my countenance displeases you, my lord, but as your governess I must warn you not to use the word 'corset.' "
"Yes, yes. You told me this already."
"Not 'bellyache,' either."
He nodded. "As I do not mention my wind."
"That is correct."
"And your countenance is most pleasing to me."
She pounced on that. "Please don't speak without reserve to your governess about her looks." Tapping her notebook, she added meaningfully, "Or any body parts which might attract your attention. In fact, even when one finds a lady one wishes to compliment, one mentions one's approval only in the most general manner. One never mentions the specifics."
"In public. I know this. In the privacy of my dwelling, I do as I wish."
"I believe we are meeting here for its neutrality," Charlotte retorted.
" 'Neutrality,' " he mused. "That is a strange word to use between us."
That stopped her. She didn't want to spar with him, nor did she yearn to explore the meaning behind his strange manner. With innate caution, she said, "We have the same goal, so I don't believe we're enemies."
"I do not know what we are, Lady Miss Charlotte. I suspect we will discover that soon enough."
CHAPTER 13
"But you were curious about my past," Wynter said.
She was not curious, and what in the world did he mean, I don't know what we are…I suspect we'll discover that soon enough? What kind of comment was that?
Wrapping his arm around his knee, he looked out the dark window into his past. "After my father's funeral, I left here on a mail coach for London. A freighter out of Marseilles bobbed on the Thames, and I imagined myself Jason seeking the Golden Fleece." Briefly he dropped his head into his hands and laughed. "I signed on as a hand. I spent a week spewing my guts into first the Atlantic, then the Mediterranean. I scrubbed decks until the blisters on my palms burst. And do you know, I had never eaten weevils in my bread before?"
The sound she made was composed partly of compassion, partly of nausea.
"Yes, dreadful! Made worse by the fact that the other sailors were French, coarse and tough. They called me a milksop and made me miserable. When I went on my quest, I never imagined I would suffer tribulation. In those days, I was given to great dramatics, but I flatter myself I was not a fool. I'd led a life of privilege, and I quickly realized that." Wynter lost the twinkle he'd had when describing his younger self. Soberly, he said, "Worse, I had failed my first test as a gentleman."
She didn't mean to, but the question just popped out. "How so?"
"At the very time my mother needed me most, I thought only of myself."
Charlotte wanted to plug her ears. If he continued in this wry and self-deprecating vein, she might come to like him!
"Even the boy I was knew that running away would not bring my father back. In fact it would have disappointed the man I had worshipped. But I used his death to do what I wanted. To seek adventure."
Go back to being a barbarian, she wanted to urge him. Go back to being appalling and rude. Stop this attractive candidness so I can again become a proper governess with no interest in my employer.
Especially not this kind of interest. Her gaze slid unbidden down his lounging form. No, never this kind of interest.
"I imagined an odyssey. I got catastrophe. I resolved to run back to England as soon as the ship put into port." He grimaced. "And I would have, too, except…"
He paused, and she capitulated. "Except?"
"Except for the pirates." He sat up, his eyes dark and dramatic. "They loomed out of the night and rammed the ship. They forced me to help them steal the cargo and then took me when they left. I was a pretty boy."
"Yes, I remember," she murmured.
Instantly diverted, he inquired, "Had we met?"
She had almost betrayed something of her past, the past she would keep private. "I saw your portrait in the gallery."
"Ah…yes."
He didn't look as if he quite believed her, so she said, "Please, my lord, what about the pirates?"
"The pirates. They planned to sell me in the market in Alexandria. I ruined that scheme when I cleaned a knife and cut a gash down my cheek."
She stared in fascination as he traced the scar on his face. "I could never be so brave."
"You? Yes, Lady Miss Charlotte. You would be so brave." Getting up on his knees, he leaned toward her and stared intently. "You would do whatever was needed to save your honor, I know it."
She wasn't so sure. "But you, my lord. What h
appened to you?"
"The pirates vowed revenge." He came to his feet and raised his fist. "I had cheated them out of a great fortune, so they sold me instead to a Bedouin as…his camel keeper."
He dropped his fist and spoke so drolly, she had to smile.
"I was to take care of five disgusting, smelly, spitting camels. What a blow to a rich English lad who come seeking adventure. The old man Barakah and I— and the camels—started off across the desert. The second day out, I ran away."
She leaned forward to catch every word. "My lord, I have read that the desert is an unforgiving place."
Shaking his head at his youthful folly, he said, "You have read correctly, Lady Miss Charlotte. The heat in the daytime…you cannot imagine. The sun beating down, the sweat drying on my brow even as it formed, the sand rippling on forever and ever, each dune the same as the next, the same as the one before it." He cupped his hand over his eyes and pretended to look all around. "I thought I knew how to get back to the harbor, but I was lost, hopelessly lost, when—" He seemed to run out of breath, and he sprawled on his stomach on the carpet. "But Charlotte, I have spoken of myself for too long, and this you have taught me is not gentlemanly behavior."
"Don't be silly. You can't stop now!" The moment she heard those words out of her mouth, she knew he'd cozened her. She also knew she didn't care. She had to know the end of his tale.
Propping his chin on his fists, he looked up at her. "Have you no relatives left to care for you, Charlotte?"
Charlotte. He was calling her Charlotte. Not that pretty sobriquet which indicated respect, but her first name. That could bespeak intimacy or insolence. Neither was acceptable. Clenching her fist atop of her book, she stared at the strained white knuckles. Her reserve and her caution ran deep. "I have no family who matters. Please, my lord, what happened to you?"
"No attachments whatsoever?"
"Friends. Good friends."
"No lovers?"
Oh, he sounded innocent, but she knew better. He was as innocent as the snake in the Garden of Eden. He even slithered on the ground like a snake. Gathering up her book and her shoes, she stood. She walked around his reclining form toward the door. Away from the warmth of the fire, the scent of melting beeswax and the deceit, the deviousness and indolence that was Wynter, Lord Ruskin.
Just as she reached the threshold, he said, "I was almost dead when the old Bedouin found me."
Charlotte slid her stockinged feet along the hardwood floor.
"Actually, the most revered Barakah had never lost me," Wynter said. "He had just followed me through the desert until I rid myself of the notion I could escape on my own. Then he retrieved me."
She shouldn't turn back. Her every suspicion about Lord Ruskin had just been proved true.
"He tied me that night to the camel's saddle and told me he had done me a favor, for the desert lets no one depart unscathed."
She had no illusions about Wynter. If she didn't listen now, he would never speak of his history again. He was ruthless in getting his way.
She was not. She capitulated, all her restraint done in by curiosity. "What happened next, my lord?"
"I entered the Bedouin camp. Do you know much about the Bedouins, Lady Miss Charlotte?"
His ploy to snoop into her life had failed, so he returned to the formality of her title. He also sounded mildly curious, as if it were quite normal to carry on a conversation with a woman who stood in the doorway with her back to him.
"The children have told me of their lives," she said.
"Then you know the Bedouins are proud wanderers and fearless warriors. They travel the caravan routes across the Sahara, carrying goods from one port to another, and in that way they make their fortune." He seemed to notice nothing amiss about her behavior. "A goodly fortune it is, too, and there were others who coveted our route and our wealth. Barakah was the chief of his tribe, a princely ancient with an instinct for finding his way after a sandstorm had obliterated all markings. He also had an instinct for taming rebellious slaves and rearing them to be worthy men."
She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, then rolled around to face Wynter. The wall supported her, which she thought was good, for obviously she lacked upright moral fiber.
He wasn't even looking at her. He had made a mound of all the cushions—all except hers, which were still stacked and waiting for her return—and he had crawled into the midst of them. He faced the fire, and she could just see the top of his raised head.
Funny, but she still thought he knew she was yielding. Inch by inch, and reluctantly, but yielding nonetheless. She crept forward, placing her book and her shoes at the edge of the carpet.
"By the time we had traveled the whole caravan route, I had a few whip marks on my back, I knew how to saddle a reluctant camel and I was the old man's devoted son."
"Son?" she exclaimed.
"I saved his life. Remind me, Charlotte, to show you the mark of the knife I took for him."
Charlotte surrendered completely. She walked around the cushions and knelt in front of Wynter like a concubine begging a favor from her reclining lord. "You were hurt?"
"I almost died. But when I recovered—I was a man." The firelight played on him lovingly; seeking the cornsilk of his hair, smoothing the golden brown of his skin. Moving with a slow, steady fluidity, he sat up and eased his shirt over his head.
Charlotte saw the brown of his skin and his blond body hair extended all the way to the edge of his trousers. All except in one place over his heart. There, a scar glowed with a pale sheen. He hadn't exaggerated to make his story more dramatic or to make himself sound courageous. The knife had sliced deep and long, and she found her hand hovering over the scar, attracted by the proof of his pain as she had not been by the arrogance he had gained from it.
The prudence of a lifetime seized her. She started to withdraw, but he caught her wrist and carried it to his chest. Beneath her fingertips his skin was warm. The scar was smooth and unyielding. And beyond that…He released her wrist.
She leaned toward him, touching him now because she had to. The hair on his chest was nothing like the smooth shining mass on his head. Each strand was stiff with stubborn curl, and invited the comb of her fingers. Beneath the hair his muscles bulged, delineating his strength. His chest rose and fell slowly with his breath as her palm stroked up toward his collarbone, then circled his throat, or as much of his throat as her small hands could encircle. There in the crease between his neck and his face the skin grew rough with the stubble of his beard. Fascinated by the sensation of harshness, she walked her fingers up over his chin and softly, gently touched his lips from one corner to the other.
A rumble started in his chest.
Startled out of her boldness, she tried to snatch her hand back. He caught it in his and pressed her palm back to his chest. She never even saw his other arm go around her—had he had it at the ready all along?—she only knew he picked her up by the waist and rocked her down on him, then slid backward on his cushions.
He was solid beneath her, too bare for comfort, a body alien from any she'd ever seen or touched. She'd never been so aware of her maidenly status as all along the length of her she felt…so much. They pressed breastbone to breastbone. His face was there, right before her, if she dared look up. She didn't dare. She tried desperately to think what to do. How to extricate herself. How to make herself want to be extricated.
"Charlotte." His breath whispered across her face, and his finger nudged at her stubbornly bowed chin. "Look at me."
Cowardice wasn't her way. She glanced up.
And found his brown eyes shining with admiration and something…more. Something dangerous. Something she'd never seen before, but she recognized.
Fear…it must be fear…brought a clutch deep in her womb. She thought to push against him, but before plan could become action, his lips swooped to hers.
In a moment of madness, she'd stroked his mouth with her fingers. Her fingertips still tingled, but that
sensation was nothing compared to the commotion those satin lips caused against hers. Dry, warm, gentle, they pressed against hers firmly, a meeting and a declaration.
His eyes fluttered shut, so she let her eyes close, too. She concentrated on the way he angled his head. The tensing of his muscles in the body beneath her. The power of his shoulders held in her clutching hands. Just as each perception grew slightly familiar, she found something else changed. His hand flattened on her back and pushed her closer. His fingers plucked at her hair in little searching forays, and she heard faint pings as several somethings hit the floor. Her hairpins, she realized vaguely.
One tug pulled at her roots, not hard, but enough to wake her from her tumultuous haven. Her eyes flew open and she grabbed his hand. "Ouch!"
"I'm sorry." He was saying it even before she was done exclaiming, and he rubbed the sting in slow, soothing circles. "I'm sorry. I'm clumsy. Charlotte…" He came back for another kiss.
She covered his mouth with her hand.
He nuzzled her palm. Then, for some reason…he licked her.
Yanking her hand back, she scrubbed it against the cushion, but the sensation of his tongue, soft and wet, lingered.
She had never been this close to a man before. She had never seen a man from this angle. She needed to remember that only a few weeks ago, she had considered Wynter a savage. Even tonight, he had shown himself to be overbearing and opinionated.
He didn't kiss like an overbearing man. He didn't try to force her or sweep her away. He just kissed as if their meeting of lips was both a voyage and a destination.
"Charlotte. Again." He lifted his face toward hers.
Unwillingly flattered, she bent to him. Her lips settled easily on his, at home already with his warmth, the texture of his skin…and his taste.
Taste. His lips had opened, just slightly, yet enough that she…well, she had opened hers, too. She didn't know why; what madness urged her to meet him halfway, what curiosity nudged her along the path of dissipation. Maybe her attraction to the exotic, an attraction she had always feared, had led her to sample his flavor as if he were a dish for her delectation.
Rules of Surrender Page 11
