In Total Surrender (23 page)

“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. Remarkably 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.

“I . . . really?”

“Is it so hard to accept?” He seemed so relaxed. It was alarming. Yet there was that watchfulness still in the back of his gaze, as if awaiting her rejection.

“I . . . well, it is not your usual comment.”

“Perhaps you have forced me to employ a new strategy.”

“Oh?”

“I dare not want to be the keeper of cold, metallic belts. Not if you find them uncomfortable against your skin.”

Was he . . . flirting with her?

“Your skin is always warm against mine,” she whispered.

His eyes were stripping her again. But this time she could feel the remembrance of his mouth and hands on her skin as he did so. “Yes.”

His lips against her cheeks, the feel of his fingers caressing hers.

Breathless and wanting all of it again, she watched him
.
All points of her body leaning toward his. Watched the various emotions pass over his dark blue eyes, his sharp cheeks, and oddly full lips—lips that were usually thinned by displeasure. She thought it beautiful—that openness on his face as for once he didn’t shutter the emotions mixing and chasing across.

And it decided things for her, really.

She could plot madly when needed, but when it came down to basic traits, she was an impulsive spirit, relying on instinct and emotion. And instinct and emotion said to follow the end of the thread that had been between them since the first time she had seen him catch his breath in a darkened theater.

She shifted forward slowly, just that extra bit, since he had complied so well in bringing them so close together.

Shifted straight forward. Not cocked to the side, so cheeks would brush together. She half expected him to pull back, but then again . . . he was a still and steady man. Rock hard. She pressed her lips slowly to his. His mouth was firm. That was unsurprising. But his lips were soft as well. Above the steel. The opposite of the man, really, who had such a dark and forbidding shell but was surprisingly gentle underneath.

He’d deny it. And perhaps the truth of it was that he was gentle only to those he cared for—and that the people in that category numbered few—but he had given her a glimpse of it. That gentleness focused on her. And it quickened her breath, thinking of it, made her press more steadily against him, uncertain and confident at the same time.

She had never initiated a real kiss before. Only those on the cheek. Warm lips to scratchy skin. Or the brush of his lips against hers. The taste of him on her tongue as she’d moistened her lips afterward. But her parents had always been affectionate souls. And she had gotten more than one eyeful of the ladies of the night on the streets outside. Observed them from her window, pressing against men, eager, or at least pretending to be so.

But there was something cheap in thinking such thoughts. For those women did it for coin. And she blamed them not at all for the choices they made, but she wanted something far different from the man whose lips were motionless beneath hers.

And suddenly they were anything but still.

Heat, overwhelming heat. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before last night. Like being burned alive and feeling no pain. Only the scorch and the flame. And his hands were wrapping around the back of her neck, tipping her up, bringing her closer, claiming and branding.

My God. She wanted to wrap herself around him, to pin herself to him, the heat melting them together, never able to separate.

His lips consumed hers. As if he had been waiting years, decades, to unleash such passion. Waiting there, leashed and growling, behind a cold and steely façade.

And she couldn’t think of a single regret as he stole the breath from her.

She had never been so right. That this was a man to whom one sold one’s soul. For he was assuredly pulling it right out of her. With every breath that passed from her lips to his. Piece by piece, never to be regained. Held for judgment or set free.

“Miss Pace?” An outside voice called. “Are you in here?”

Her lips were suddenly released, the hands in her nape slipping through the strands there, and he was gone.

She gaped at the empty space in front of her, breathing hard, a hand pressed to her chest.

“Miss Pace?”

She turned to see a large boy appear in the doorway. Robbie, who had the largest frame she had ever seen on a boy of fifteen. He was looking at her strangely, concern beneath his shyness.

“Yes, Robbie?”

“Are you well?”

“Oh, oh, yes. I, I almost pitched myself into the oven when I tripped.”

As if she had tripped against Andreas Merrick’s lips.

The boy looked from her to the oven, and moved closer, placing himself between her and the oven, in harm’s way. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no, of course not.” She dredged up a reassuring smile for the kind boy. Tucking her thoughts on what had just occurred into a nice, warm corner of her mind, to examine later. For it was a certainty that Andreas Merrick was gone and not returning for the moment.

“Oh, good.” Robbie shuffled his feet. “You said you were going to prepare cottage pie and treacle pudding tonight? May I help you?”

She smiled and put a hand on his sleeve, calming her racing heart further. Calm. Calm. Calm. “Of course, Robbie. Let’s get started.”

He gave her as close to a beaming smile as she’d ever seen on him. It had taken a bit for the boy to warm up, and she suspected deep abuse in his past despite his size, or perhaps because of it, but he had become a fast friend in the kitchens once he had determined she meant him no harm.

She ran a still shaky hand down her skirt. Calm. Calm. And instead thought of what she had gathered from her contacts here as she chatted with Robbie. That someone in the Merrick’s employ had observed what had happened to her brother was becoming more and more apparent. That she still felt completely safe here, even with the secret of it swirling, was strange.

She looked at Robbie from the corner of her eye as they worked. It could be someone like Robbie, too frightened to come forward. Or . . . or something else.

She was going to beard Andreas Merrick in his den tonight, over supper, and pry it out of him, however she had to do it. It was time—past time.

But she hoped he would force her to kiss him senseless first.

Chapter 18

H
owever, by the time she had finished her part of the supper preparations, she couldn’t find him. She worked in his office, tense and hopeful. Alone. Uncertain and eager. But he hadn’t shown.

She had finally asked, casually, in the kitchens when she’d gone to get a tray for her parents, and been told that raids were commencing and that Andreas was leading them. Something about revenge for the attack on the carriage and the last day that slimy bastard Cornelius would see of the sun.

That had gained the boy uttering it a prompt elbow to the gut from one of the others—everyone nervously exchanging glances.

The only things she knew of Cornelius were what she had learned by listening unobserved. Few people would part with information concerning him directly. She had a feeling that was due in no small part to Andreas’s tampering.

The boys had fallen over themselves to assure her that everything would be fine. The demon bastard never lost. Not even to another underworld lord. For some reason, that last bit of news hadn’t made her feel better.

It had made her nervous and tense in an entirely different way. But the building had been quiet, to the opposite of her turmoil inside. Her parents retired early, as usual, leaving her in the growing silence, stretched out on Roman Merrick’s plush sofa.

That changed a few minutes before midnight. Stomping and yelling could be heard up and down the stairs. A few victorious shouts. Phoebe scrambled up and pressed her ear to the door, waiting until she heard the footsteps on the stairs.

She peeked out and the lone person in the hall stuttered to a stop at the end. They stared at each other for long moments, then he walked stiffly toward his door, the limping very obvious.

Giving it not one extra thought, she closed the door behind her and ran toward him. He opened his door quickly. She half pushed, half slipped inside with him before he could bar her entrance.

She flitted into the middle of the room and turned, hands out in submission as he stared darkly at her. In another person she would have said she saw fear there for a moment.

But his face contorted suddenly and his hands went to either side of his left thigh, blood soaking through the fabric.

She heard the intake of her own breath, felt it vibrate from her chest. “Oh my God.” She started toward him, but his suddenly outstretched bloody hand stopped her.

“Stop. Leave.” There was a wealth of emotions strangled in those two words.

“Absolutely not. You are hurt. Have you sent for a doctor?” She listened for footsteps, but the hall was silent.

“No. I don’t need one.” He drew himself back upright. “Go back to your room, Miss Pace.”

“There isn’t a chance of that happening.” She inched forward, as if approaching a wild animal. “Let me see your leg. Please.”

“I don’t want you to see my leg. And I am not in good humor.” Everything about his voice and expression indicated it, but there was vulnerability underneath. One that everything in her latched on to. “So kindly get out. I will speak with you in the morning.”

That hint of exposure just made her more determined to erase the remaining barriers between them. She watched him, quickly trying to figure out the best course of action.

“I am fine,” he said tightly, his voice deeper and harsher than usual. The tightness of his body, his expression, and his voice only strengthened her resolve. “Now please leave.”

“No.” She took a deep breath. Andreas Merrick was hers. “If you aren’t going to send for a doctor—”

“I don’t need one.”

But blood had finally seeped to the floor, alarming her further.

“You most certainly and obviously do.” She took a step toward him, only stopping when he turned his blackest glare on her. “Is this when I ask you if
you
are taken by madness, Andreas?” she asked in a low voice.

Something shifted on his face for a moment, perhaps at her use of his name, but then it grew hard once more. Implacable and dark. “I do not want you here, Miss Pace. I don’t know what right you think you have to enter my rooms, then remain after I’ve asked you to leave.”

“Indeed, I follow direction poorly. And sometimes you are a rude, brutish man.” She moved forward, in direct opposition to the expression on his face, which was growing darker with each of her steps. The shadows drawing in with the creases of his narrowed eyes, the tightened line of his mouth. She gave a determined smile. “But I like you. And I’m going to help you.”

“Well, how about I don’t like
you.
” His voice was tight and stressed, that vulnerability harshly buried beneath. “Now will you leave?”

“No,” she said, tone going gentle. “I like you well enough for the both of us.”

His face tightened again, but it was obviously a reaction to pain this time, as he all but collapsed on a very elegant chair.

She dropped into the chair across from him and reached for his bloody leg.

He pushed her hand away. “No.
No.
” But there was a fine line underscoring the words, threatening a break, echoing the sheen of sweat on his forehead and above his lip.

“Let me see your leg.”

“Get out!” he roared.

She took a deep breath, but she held firm. “I have every thought that you will treat this yourself and not seek help elsewhere. But you need help, and I am going to help you.”

“I want you gone. That will be the most helpful action you can undertake.” The last word was said with a low, hissing quality. The echo of it prickled across her skin. “Stop helping me, stop kissing me, stop invading my territory.”

And there was that vulnerability again. A desperation.

“It is a sad fact that things we want are often not the things we receive,” she said lightly, reaching for him once more.

He caught her hand in his, holding it between them. “That must mean you
want
to be helpful.”

“You are a mean-spirited man. You realize this, yes?”

His lips twisted, but it was more of a grimace. “Keenly.”

“But, as I said, I like you. And I am going to help you.”

He just watched her for a long penetrating moment, before abruptly pulling the unmarked right leg of his trouser up sharply, over his knee. “Are you going to match them together?” The words were bitter.

She looked at the exposed limb for a moment in shock, then reached forward to feel the steel encasing it. It was almost like a clockwork, how everything seemed to move and shift together. “How . . .” She touched the skin of his leg between the flat bands and bolts. He shifted, and she lifted her hand. “How long have you had this?”

It was genius. She had never noticed anything amiss in the shape of his right leg through his clothes.

“Years.” His voice was dark and deadly. If he had been another man, and she another woman, she would have stiffened, waiting for the blade to pierce her exposed neck.

But she wasn’t, and neither was he.

She examined what she could see of the scar beneath. And the brace on top. Something very bad had happened to his right leg at some point.

She remembered him snapping it back into place in the carriage. A weakened joint that popped out frequently? The metal surrounding would brace it. Most men would just use a cane. There was little surprise as to why he didn’t, though, when she thought about it. But the secret of it . . .

He had just trusted her with the secret of it. Most likely in an illogical attempt to drive her away, as he was on the thin edge of eruption. He would destroy their relationship without thinking twice and probably think it for the best.

But he had trusted her with an obviously
very
closely kept secret. There was something relieved and resigned in his tenseness. Angry and unguarded.

She stared him hard in the eyes. “It is fine. Let’s look at your left leg.” She wasn’t going anywhere.

Andreas Merrick was nothing if not a dominant man. And every facet of his facial expression threatened dire consequences. But if she were ever going to have given into his threatening gazes, it would have been well before now. Well before she had an actual vested care for his well-being.

“I am not going anywhere,” she reiterated aloud.

His nicely shaped lips disappeared in a thin, hard line. He opened his mouth, and she had the very sure notion that he was about to say something completely unforgivable.

She clamped her other hand onto the one holding hers. “It doesn’t matter what you say, I will not leave tonight. Your words will only matter for how things go between us after this. Tomorrow.” She kept her eyes fixed to his. “I hold you in high stead. I have a care for your well-being. If you have any sort of care for me at all, you will say none of the black thoughts echoing in your head right now—though hopefully not in your heart—and simply accept my help.”

It was a little like looking into the face of a deadly animal backed into an alleyway.

“I will not begrudge you ungracious words,” she continued calmly. “Just nothing unforgivable.”

His gaze held hers for long moments, and she thought for a second that he was going to do it anyway. But his gaze shuttered, and he gave a sharp nod.

She squeezed his hand, relief draining her. “Good. Fine. Yes.” She took a breath. “Where are your medicinal supplies?”

He pointed to a shelf. There were a number of bags, vials, and cordials. Needles, tinder, and tape.

She quickly walked over and gathered everything she could, trying not to knock over the very expensive statues guarding the area.

A quick, fleeting glance at her surroundings said that all of his furnishings were elegant and hard. Like him.

No one would ever guess from looking at the exterior of the building that such expensive spaces were to be found in the Merricks’ private chambers. Everything that existed in Andreas’s realm was secret.

She poured capped water into a bowl. She didn’t have to ask if the water had been previously boiled. That shelf stated in all manners that all of the supplies were for this very purpose.

She wouldn’t be surprised if someone as prepared as Andreas Merrick freshened the dressings and restocked the supplies each morning.

She quickly took a pair of scissors and went to work cutting his trousers. In any other instance, she would have been redder than red, but determination had taken over. She could suffer a lady’s embarrassment later.

Parting the fabric, she pressed her lips together to refrain from gasping and reached for the water-dipped cloth to clean and determine the extent of the injury.

He lifted a bottle and held it to her. It stung her perfectly wound-free fingers as she tested it. She gave him a sharp look, but he gave her a “get on with it” signal with his hand. She dabbed a bit on the edge of the gash.

He grabbed the bottle from her and shook it over the wound before she snatched it back. She took a deep breath and liberally coated his thigh.

He made not a sound. But he had procured a bottle of liquor from a nearby cabinet and was drinking like he was preparing for a week in the desert.

As she’d never seen him drink liquor before, it was quite a sight.

She contemplated her next action. She had never stitched something as deeply gashed as the wound on his thigh, but she had some experience sewing wounds since her father frequently harmed himself—or someone else accidentally—with his sometimes bizarre actions.

Although there was still blood sluggishly emerging, the wound did not appear life-threatening. After three flights of stairs and however many streets he had traveled, he was lucky.

She picked up the needle and thread to start the stitches, contemplating the mechanics of sealing the cavernous gap. Suddenly his hands pressed the skin on either side together, thinning the gash. Like it was a paper cut that simply needed pinching.

A stream of blood trailed out.

She met his eyes, kneeling between his legs, her hand on his left knee. “Are you sure you don’t want to call someone else?”

He stared at her for long moments, those intense eyes swallowing her. “I’m sure. I would do it myself if you weren’t here.”

She looked back at the gash. She threaded the needle.

Then she leaned up and kissed him, her free hand pressed to his cheek.

He tasted like liquor, unsurprisingly. But also of fire and brimstone. He responded immediately, lips pulling hers against his over and over.

She pulled away, focused her concentration to a pinpoint, and stabbed the needle in.

He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, just let her work and gain a rhythm. She tried to pretend she was working on a needlepoint sampler that needed fixing.

“You are now the third female to stitch me up,” he said finally, tipping the bottle again. His voice sounded resigned. As if all the anger had drained right out with the snip of his clothing. Or more likely, the fifth tip of the bottle.

“Third?” She questioned in the light voice that worked best with him in times of stress. “I believe I’m a bit jealous.”