Rules of Surrender

  "There are lights on in your building," Charlotte said. "I thought everyone would have gone home by now."

  Wynter stared at the blank front of Ruskin Shipping. She was right. A candle flickered in Wynter's personal second-story office.

  Someone was in there. A thief? Or—he took a hard breath—an embezzler?

  Had one good thing come of this debacle after all?

  "Quietly," he warned Charlotte as he eased the door open. But her skirts rustled as she moved, a womanly sound he usually relished and which now could betray him. He led her through the darkened warehouse, with its wooden crates and spicy scents, to the bottom of the staircase. "Stay here." Moving with the stealth of a desert warrior, he crept up toward the one lit office, knife in hand, his whole being focused on that criminal within.

  Whoever he was, Wynter was going to kill him.

  Halting, he took a breath to calm his murderous rage. Perhaps killing the embezzler would be disproportionate. But given his gnawing fear about Leila, his frustration with his failure to find the embezzler and Charlotte's unreasonable behavior, bloodshed sounded quite desirable.

  Hearing a board creak and a rustle on the dark stairs behind him, he swiveled, knifepoint out.

  "Wynter," Charlotte whispered, a pale silhouette against the night. "I just thought—would Leila have known to come here?"

  The hand that held the knife shook as he sheathed it. "I don't know." Leila had been here on their way through London to Austinpark Manor. Perhaps his resourceful daughter had found her way to the safety of her family's property.

  Charlotte groped for his hand. "I want to come with you."

  He couldn't send her back down. Even as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could scarcely make out the multitude of obstacles. So he led her forward. "When we get up there," he murmured, "stay out of the way."

  "Yes."

  As they reached the upper corridor, he saw that the door to his office stood open.

  His fatherly hope died. It wasn't Leila. He knew it wasn't. His vigilant daughter would never be so foolish as to leave herself exposed in such a manner.

  Releasing Charlotte, he brought forth his knife and crept forward toward the light. On the threshold he stopped and took in the scene, lit by two candelabras.

  Stewart, dear innocent-looking Cousin Stewart, sat at Wynter's desk, spectacles perched on his nose, account book open and neat stacks of pound notes around him.

  Wynter made no sound, and Stewart muttered as he worked, but some other sense must have alerted him, for he looked up suddenly. He jumped, spattering ink across the scribbles on the page and exclaimed, "Cousin!" For one moment, he looked almost pleased to see Wynter. Then Wynter saw the guilt set in, for he put his hand over the book. "This isn't what it looks like."

  "Oh?" Deliberately, Wynter opened his hand to release the knife. It clattered to the floor. "What does it look like?"

  Stewart's gaze fixed on the knife, and he seemed unable to raise his eyes. "I didn't…that is, there's a good reason…" His thin, gnarled fingers trembled. "I'm your cousin. You won't kill me, will you?"

  "If I was going to kill you"—Wynter sprang forward, grabbed him by the cravat and lifted him to his feet—"I wouldn't have dropped the knife." He dragged Stewart over the top of the desk. Books and papers scattered, ink spilled, his flailing feet sent the chair flying.

  "Wynter!"

  He heard Charlotte's cry, but he paid her no heed. Stewart, his cousin, had taken advantage of Adorna, his mother. He had stolen from the family business, the business that had provided him a living all of his adult years. Stewart's eyes bulged as Wynter swung him up against a file cabinet and tightened his grip around Stewart's throat.

  "Wynter, what are you doing?" Charlotte tugged at his arm.

  "Why?" Wynter demanded of Stewart. "Why did you steal from my mother?"

  A woman spoke from the doorway. "He didn't."

  Wynter recognized that voice. He should; it had sung his lullabies.

  "Let go of Stewart," Adorna commanded. "He didn't embezzle from the business."

  Wynter released Stewart, an awful suspicion springing to life. Turning to face the door, he saw his mother, dressed for traveling and drawn up to her full height. "Who did, Mother?"

  She lifted her chin proudly. "I did."

  CHAPTER 33

  Charlotte had never felt so left out, so uninformed, so orphaned in her whole life. Wynter had thought someone was embezzling from his business? And he had never told her? But of course, she realized, he had never thought to tell her anything.

  And Adorna had done the embezzling?

  Nothing could have made it clearer to Charlotte: She was not a part of this family.

  Then behind Adorna, something moved. A face peeked around the doorway.

  And Charlotte forgot her sense of abandonment on a surge of joy. "Leila."

  The little girl looked at her and smiled tentatively.

  Dropping to her knees, Charlotte held out her arms. Leila wiggled around Adorna's full skirts and into Charlotte's embrace. Leila hugged Charlotte with all her might; Charlotte squeezed the thin body, murmuring, "Leila. My dear little Leila."

  Somehow Wynter got there, too, on his knees, arms around them both, rocking them in his hold.

  Later, Charlotte thought he had been crying. At that moment, nothing mattered but the return of her child.

  Unfortunately, reality returned on a father's growl. "Leila. Fruit of my loins, you have much explaining to do."

  Leila did have explaining to do, Charlotte realized. Like her grandmother, she was dressed in traveling clothes. She didn't look frightened. She wasn't dirty or bruised. All of which made Charlotte thankful, and at the same time ready to shake her. "Leila, young lady, where have you been?"

  Leila's lip trembled, and Adorna intervened. "Do you want me to tell you about that first, or explain about the embezzling?"

  Charlotte stared at her mother-in-law, who appeared fresh and beautiful while Charlotte resembled a London alley in both odor and aspect. Then she looked at Wynter. Smudges marked his skin, his golden hair was dingy and in the scuffle with Stewart he'd split his wide lower lip. Blood dried on his chin, but he kept his arms around his wife and his daughter, and glared at his mother.

  "Leila first," he said.

  Wynter and Charlotte had already left for London when the cause of the uproar reached Adorna in the formal dining chamber.

  "My lady, have you heard? The little lass ran away to be with her infidel husband," Miss Symes told her.

  Adorna stopped counting the table linens and asked impatiently, "Symes, what are you babbling about?"

  "Miss Leila. She's gone."

  Adorna gave Miss Symes a look, the one that demanded facts and not speculation.

  Miss Symes straightened to almost military attention. "She left a note. She said she was going home."

  "To her infidel husband?"

  Miss Symes squirmed. "Well…no."

  "Hmm." Adorna went back to counting the table linens.

  "My lady, aren't you worried about her? Your own granddaughter? "

  "Hmm," Miss Symes left Adorna thinking, and thinking hard, and when she had finished counting, she also had solved the puzzle that was Leila. She had Cook pack a basket. She climbed the stairs to the second floor. Then to the third floor…then, very quietly, to the attic.

  Carefully, she opened the door to the main room. Not surprisingly, it echoed, barren and empty. But Adorna noted the floor, dust-free in front of one of the corridors that led away into the attic chambers. As silently as she could, she crept down that hallway, and at a door near the end, she found the clue she needed. A single piece of straw.

  Straightening—after all, there was no use in stealth now—she flung wide the portal and announced, "Your grandmama is here with provisions."

  "Yipe!" Leila curled into a little ball.

  "Good heavens," Adorna exclaimed, gazing around her. "No wonder the ghost made so much noise."

  Th
e child had done a marvelous job of recreating her home in El Bahar. The stolen linens from the west wing had been draped around to create a tentlike atmosphere, with an opening at the window for light and air. Leila had found an old carpet and placed it over the squeaky floorboards, and she'd made up a bed of straw from the stables. In the place of honor, in the center of the chamber by the pretend campfire, stood the wooden horse Charlotte had given her and an open book.

  "You can't tell me she didn't drop straw anywhere else," Adorna muttered. Then she saw Leila's expression of defiance and misery, and hastily she changed from disapproving homeowner to indulgent grandparent

  Opening the basket, she lowered it so the child seated on the cushions could see the contents. "I brought cold meats, hard-boiled eggs, the choicest strawberries and sweetened cream to dip them in." Pointing at the little pile of stale rolls Leila had hoarded, she said, "With your bread, we could have a real feast." She smiled charmingly. "Won't you invite me into your tent, oh mistress of the desert?"

  "So she never left the house." Charlotte could have kissed Adorna, but she still knelt on the floor in Wynter's office, clasped in both Wynter's and Leila's arms. So she hugged Leila again. "Sweetheart, what made you think of going up there?"

  Leila took a big breath and confessed, "I needed someplace to hide so I could read your book."

  "What book?" Charlotte asked.

  "The Arabian Nights' Entertainments."

  "You didn't have to hide to read it. I would have given…ohh." Charlotte understood now. "But if you knew how to read, why did you tell me you didn't?"

  "I thought you'd stop reading to me." Leila looked sideways at her father. "Like after he'd taught me to ride, Papa stopped riding with me."

  "No, you don't, monkey. You can't make me guilty to get out of punishment for this." Without the hint of a smile, Wynter looked at his daughter. "Frightening us like this was wrong, and you knew it."

  "Yes," Leila said in a little voice.

  "But you are a child. You are learning right from wrong." Releasing his grip on Charlotte and Leila, Wynter rose to his feet. "Your grandmother, on the other hand, is an adult who should have known better than to embezzle from her own company. Mother, what possible excuse do you have for this reprehensible behavior?"

  Adorna took a step back from his rapidly increasing volume. "I wanted you to come home."

  Wynter was struck speechless.

  "From the way Stewart was acting, I knew he had had some kind of contact with you."

  Charlotte glanced over at Stewart.

  He was massaging his throat and smiling nervously. "A letter," he croaked.

  "Yes, I had sent a letter," Wynter confirmed, "to tell him I was alive and to prepare you for my eventual return."

  "After I confronted him, he did tell me. I was very happy you were alive." Walking to him, Adorna rested her gloved palm on his cheek. "But he said you weren't coming back right away."

  "I didn't tell her immediately," Stewart said, "because I knew she would be unhappy that you delayed your return."

  "Ah." Wynter nodded. "I stayed for the children's sake, Mother."

  Adorna snatched her hand away. "The children are my grandchildren, and they belong in England."

  Charlotte looked into Leila's eyes and saw the delight there. It would seem granddaughter and grandmother were reconciled at last.

  Charlotte rose and stood on aching knees.

  "So you wanted us to return to England, and knew appeals would have no results, so you and Stewart hatched a plan to make it look as if someone were embezzling from the business," Wynter deduced.

  "Stewart is the most honorable, sweetest man in the world," Adorna said. "He would have never done anything so underhanded. It was all me."

  Wynter turned to Stewart, who shrugged in embarrassment. "I wrote you that letter thinking I needed to alert you of a serious threat to the family business."

  Both men scrutinized Adorna. "I suppose you could say you did," Wynter said.

  Charlotte didn't think Adorna's wide-eyed innocence could have been faked. She had truly done what she thought best, and she didn't regret it a bit.

  All women could learn a lot from Adorna.

  "Poor Stewart didn't find out what I'd done until after you were home, and he was very disapproving, Wynter." Adorna shook a stern finger at her son. "You owe Stewart an apology for choking him."

  "Sorry, old fellow." Wynter extended his hand.

  "No apology needed. I'd have done the same." Stewart shook hands with Wynter.

  Wynter was putting it all together now. "So, Stew, when you deduced who the villain was, you ended up trying to put the money back."

  "Yes. She's done so much for me over the years." Stewart's spectacles sat crooked on his nose, and he tried to straighten them. "I owed her that much. But she didn't ever seem to comprehend the seriousness of her felony!"

  Charlotte felt moved to point out the obvious. "Stealing from herself is not a felony."

  "Thank you, Charlotte," Adorna said.

  "I thought I could finish the job tonight, because I was sure you wouldn't be in town. Not with the Sereminian reception tomorrow." Stewart looked them all over. "What are you doing here?"

  "Oh, dear." Adorna looked at the clockpiece on the shelf. "We need to get back to Austinpark Manor at once. Queen Victoria and the royal party will be there in about nine hours. Get the candles, Stewart." She took Leila's hand and Stewart's arm, and led them toward the door. "What an evening this has been! But at least I have a special entertainment planned for Their Majesties, thanks to my dear granddaughter."

  The light disappeared down the corridor, leaving Charlotte and Wynter alone. She shook out her skirts and started to follow her mother-in-law, daughter and cousin. They were her family. She understood Adorna's embezzling activities. She comprehended Leila's childish rebellion. She admired Stewart's staunch protection of Adorna. Whatever grief they had caused her, she could forgive.

  But Wynter…she paused and eyed her husband with intense disfavor. She'd cried over this man. She'd moped about his detachment. Now she knew he'd been busy trying to find an embezzler, but she didn't know why she had cared. She would just walk away from him and never concern herself with him again. Give him a taste of his own medicine. She would just walk away…

  She snapped, "At least now I know why you have spent all your time in London. I suppose I should be grateful for that."

  Folding his arms over his chest, he took his desert prince stance, complete with hair, earring and scar. "You missed me?"

  She took a quivering breath. Why was she talking to him? She should leave. She shouldn't allow herself to feel emotions so similar to the ones she experienced with Leila—worry, exasperation and, of course, love.

  Love. Not like the indulgent, anxious love of a parent, but this inconvenient passion that brought her physical fulfillment night after night and left her days empty and lonely. "You thought someone was embezzling from your business—and you never even gave me a clue."

  He recited one of his moronic adages. "A woman is not interested in business."

  "A wife is interested in her husband's activities," she countered. "Married couples should talk."

  "Talk?" He had the nerve to knit his brow as if he'd never heard the word. "Lady Wife, I think you should remember. You have never been married before. I have, and I assure you, married couples do not talk."

  "And men do not love." How did she fight him? Why did she even try? "You didn't love your first wife."

  "No." He sounded positive of that.

  "But she loved you."

  "Yes." He sounded less certain.

  "She chose you because she thought you would save her life. That would seem to be a pragmatic decision. So maybe she didn't love you, she only loved the security you provided for her. A lot of marriages are like that, Wynter."

  "It was a good marriage," Wynter reminded her. "Placid and uneventful."

  "And that's what you want again." Charlotte n
odded. "As you wish. I am resigned to such a union. You can do—you have done—what every other man does, and put me into a compartment in your mind. The compartment marked wife. And it'll be one of many compartments, and some will be more important that others. Business, for instance, will be a big one. So will horses, and male friends. And you'll glance at the compartment marked wife, and as long as there's no fuss going on there, you'll think you have what you want. You'll think I'm happy, that you knew best, and that the only compartment in my mind is the one marked Wynter. But it's not, because I'm going to find other interests, other activities. If you won't give me any of you, then I will keep all of myself. And one day you'll wake up and look in my compartment, and I won't even be there."

  He moved so quickly she gasped when he gripped her by the arms. "You can't leave me."

  Maybe he did care. Maybe he was listening. "I don't have to leave you. I'll just be like all the other wives, Wynter. My husband won't be important to me at all."

  He stared down at her as if he couldn't believe she could defy him so completely.

  Then, throwing back his head, he laughed.

  Laughed! Again she had tried to communicate with him. Again she had bared her soul. And he laughed?

  "You! You think you can be like this? You, who loved my children from the first moment of meeting? You, this creature of passion who every night opens her arms and legs to me with all the generosity of her soul?" Wrapping his arms around her, he brought her close to the heat of him and glared hotly down into her eyes. "What do you gain from this…resignation? Yes, I understand you were disappointed in the first man who wished to marry you. Yes, I understand you were abandoned by your family. But this has nothing to do with us. Nothing!"

  Her muscles clenched from the hurt of his laughter, from the way he twisted her words…from the clarity of his vision. He saw through her and her defenses. He stripped them away and left her naked and shivering. "I am what my upbringing has made me!"