Chapter 9 — No
Alexander chose breakfast to begin his investigation.
He considered this sensible.
Amara considered it irritating.
She had just finished helping Lela in the kitchen when Mrs. Bennett appeared and informed her that Alexander wanted to see her in his study.
“Now?”
“Now.”
“Did he say why?”
“No.”
Amara sighed.
During her short time at the Whitmore estate, she had discovered that Alexander possessed many admirable qualities. He was intelligent, disciplined, fair with the people who worked for his family, excellent with horses, and considerably less arrogant than she had initially expected.
Unfortunately, he also had a habit of giving instructions as though the rest of humanity existed primarily to follow them.
Amara found this deeply annoying.
She entered his study without knocking.
Alexander looked up from his desk.
“You're supposed to knock.”
“I'll remember that.”
“You said the same thing yesterday.”
“My memory is imperfect.”
He leaned back.
“Close the door.”
Amara closed it.
Several papers lay on his desk. She recognized them immediately.
The documents that had accompanied her from the port.
Her mood changed.
Alexander noticed.
“I've been reviewing your records.”
“How exciting.”
“They're incomplete.”
“Then perhaps you should complain to whoever wrote them.”
“I intend to.”
He gestured toward the chair opposite him.
“Sit.”
Amara remained standing.
Alexander looked at the chair, then at her.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
Silence.
It was not a dramatic refusal.
She did not raise her voice.
She simply said it.
No.
Alexander stared at her.
Nobody had spoken to him that way in years.
Soldiers occasionally questioned an order when circumstances changed. Senior officers disagreed with him. His mother ignored him whenever it suited her, and Catherine had never considered being his sister an obligation to respect military authority.
But this was different.
He had given a simple instruction.
Amara had simply refused it.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I asked you to sit.”
“No. You ordered me to sit.”
Alexander frowned. “Is there an important difference?”
“To me? Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I am tired of men giving me orders.”
Something in her voice made him reconsider the conversation.
He indicated the chair again, this time differently.
“Would you please sit?”
Amara studied him.
Then she sat.
Alexander stared.
“That was all it required?”
“Yes.”
“You are impossible.”
“So I've been told.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Then he pushed the papers toward her.
“I want to know where you came from.”
Amara's expression immediately became guarded.
“Africa.”
“I had gathered that.”
“Excellent. Investigation complete.”
“Which kingdom?”
She said nothing.
“Which town?”
Nothing.
“Who was your father?”
“Is.”
Alexander paused.
“What?”
“My father is alive.”
“You're certain?”
Amara looked at him sharply.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because he is far too stubborn to die while I am missing.”
The answer was strange enough to make Alexander stop.
“Does he know what happened to you?”
“If he knows I was taken, then half the world probably knows by now.”
Alexander watched her.
Again, there it was.
Not exaggeration exactly.
Certainty.
“What does your father do?”
“Business.”
“What kind?”
“Trade. Land. Mining. Agriculture.”
“All of those?”
“Yes.”
Alexander glanced at the papers.
“That sounds like a substantial enterprise.”
“It is.”
“How substantial?”
Amara smiled faintly.
“Very.”
“And yet there is no family name here.”
“I noticed.”
“No town.”
“Yes.”
“No explanation of how you came into the possession of the men who brought you across the ocean.”
Her smile vanished.
“I was never in their possession.”
Alexander immediately understood he had chosen the wrong words.
“I didn't mean—”
“Yes, you did. You simply didn't think about them.”
He leaned back.
She was right.
He disliked that.
“I am trying to understand what happened.”
“Then ask me what happened.”
“All right. What happened?”
“I was kidnapped.”
Alexander became still.
Amara had not intended to say it.
The word escaped before she could stop it.
He watched her carefully.
“Kidnapped?”
She looked toward the window.
“Forget it.”
“No.”
Now it was Alexander's turn.
Amara looked back at him.
He continued quietly. “I'm not forgetting that.”
“You wanted information. You got some.”
“Who kidnapped you?”
“I don't know all their names.”
“Which names do you know?”
She hesitated.
“Rourke.”
Alexander reached for a blank sheet of paper.
“Full name?”
“I don't know.”
“Describe him.”
“Why?”
“Because kidnapping is a crime.”
Amara laughed once, without humor.
“And selling me wasn't?”
Alexander's hand stopped.
For the first time since she had entered the room, neither of them had anything sarcastic to say.
Amara looked at the papers.
“You really don't know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“How we got here.”
“I know Harris acquired two household workers through a broker at the port.”
“Acquired.”
Alexander heard the contempt in the word.
“Amara—”
“We were sold.”
He stared at her.
She continued before he could respond.
“Men attacked us. They killed some of the people traveling with us. They tied our hands, carried us to the coast and put us aboard a ship. We crossed the ocean locked below deck. Then Rourke took us into a courtyard where strangers discussed how much we were worth.”
Alexander's face changed.
Amara had wanted that.
She wanted him uncomfortable.
But now that she saw his expression, there was no satisfaction in it.
“Lela too?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And Harris knew?”
“I don't know what Harris knew.”
Alexander stood.
Amara instinctively rose as well.
He walked toward the window and remained there for several seconds.
“When my father authorized Harris to hire additional workers, I assumed—”
Amara laughed bitterly.
“Hire?”
Alexander turned.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, I do.”
His jaw tightened.
“I did not personally arrange this.”
“That must be comforting.”
“It isn't.”
The answer surprised her.
Alexander returned to the desk.
“Tell me about Rourke.”
“No.”
His patience slipped.
“We are back to that?”
“We never left.”
“If this man kidnapped you, I can investigate him.”
“You can?”
“Yes.”
“Across an ocean?”
“I have military contacts. My family has commercial contacts in several ports. There are authorities—”
“Authorities?”
She looked at him almost sadly.
“You think nobody saw what was happening? There were buildings, agents, guards, buyers. Money changed hands in daylight.”
Alexander had no immediate answer.
Amara leaned toward him.
“You want me to trust another man because he has a uniform and says he can fix everything.”
“I didn't say I could fix everything.”
“Good.”
“I said I could help.”
That stopped her.
Alexander lowered his voice.
“You don't have to trust me today.”
Amara studied him.
“That's the first sensible thing you've said.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn't praise.”
“I know.”
For the first time that morning, the tension eased slightly.
Alexander picked up the documents.
“These papers are worthless.”
“Not entirely. They brought me to this charming conversation.”
He ignored that.
“If you were kidnapped, there may be people searching for you.”
“There are.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am.”
“Then give me enough information to contact them.”
Amara hesitated.
This was dangerous.
Every instinct told her to protect her identity until she understood exactly whom she could trust.
Rourke had wanted to know who her father was because the information would increase her price.
If Alexander learned she was King Adisa's daughter, what would he do?
Help her?
Demand a ransom?
Inform someone else?
She liked him more than she wanted to admit.
That was not the same as trusting him.
“Not yet.”
Alexander frowned. “Why?”
“Because I don't know you.”
“You live in my family's house.”
“Against my will.”
That landed harder than she intended.
Alexander looked around the comfortable study as if seeing it differently.
Amara continued more quietly.
“I had a house.”
“Where?”
“I had rooms. Horses. Books. Clothes. Family. People who knew me. I had a life.”
Alexander said nothing.
“Then strangers took it. Since that day, every man I meet tells me what will happen next. Get into the boat. Go below. Stand here. Walk there. Answer this. Be quiet. And now you tell me to sit.”
Alexander understood.
The chair suddenly seemed ridiculous.
“This wasn't about sitting.”
“No.”
“It was about choice.”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly.
Amara had expected an argument.
Instead, Alexander returned to his chair.
“All right.”
She blinked.
“All right?”
“I understand.”
“I doubt that.”
“So do I. But I'm trying.”
That answer unsettled her more than anger would have.
Alexander picked up another paper.
“I still need to know what work you're capable of doing while you're here.”
“While I'm here?”
He noticed the phrase too.
“Yes.”
Not forever.
While.
Amara relaxed slightly.
“I can read and write. I understand accounts, correspondence and trade.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“My mother told me about the linen inventory.”
Amara looked pleased. “It was terrible.”
“Mrs. Bennett managed it for seventeen years.”
“Then it was terrible for seventeen years.”
Alexander rubbed his forehead.
“Languages?”
“Four well. Two badly.”
“Which four?”
She told him.
His surprise became impossible to hide.
“Who educated you?”
“Tutors.”
“Expensive tutors?”
“Very.”
“Your father really was wealthy.”
“Is.”
Alexander nodded. “Is.”
He made a note.
“Can you cook?”
Amara looked offended.
“No.”
“Sew?”
“No.”
“Clean?”
“I understand the general theory.”
Alexander stared at her.
“What exactly did you do at home?”
Amara almost answered, Rule.
She stopped herself.
“I studied.”
“And?”
“Rode.”
“And?”
“Attended meetings.”
“What kind of meetings?”
“Business.”
Alexander narrowed his eyes.
She smiled innocently.
He was becoming convinced that the mystery surrounding Amara was much larger than he had first believed.
“All right. You can assist with correspondence and accounts.”
“No.”
Alexander slowly put down his pen.
Again.
“Why not?”
“I haven't agreed to work for you.”
He stared at her in disbelief.
“Amara, you just told me what you're capable of doing.”
“You asked.”
“And now I am giving you appropriate work.”
“No.”
Alexander stood.
She stood too.
They faced each other across the desk.
He was taller.
She did not care.
“You cannot simply say no to everything.”
“I don't.”
“You have said it repeatedly during one conversation.”
“Because you repeatedly say things I don't agree with.”
“People cannot function this way.”
“I function beautifully.”
Alexander took a breath.
“You need something to do.”
“I agree.”
“Good. Accounts.”
“No.”
“Correspondence.”
“Perhaps.”
“Why perhaps?”
“Ask me.”
He stared at her.
Amara waited.
The absurdity of the situation became obvious.
Alexander Whitmore, who had commanded men under fire, was standing in his own study negotiating the wording of a request with a woman who technically possessed no recognized authority at all.
And somehow she was winning.
He sat down.
“Amara, would you be willing to assist my mother with correspondence?”
She considered it with exaggerated seriousness.
“Yes.”
Alexander looked toward the ceiling.
She smiled.
“You learn quickly.”
“Leave.”
“Is that an order?”
He pointed toward the door.
Amara laughed.
A real laugh this time.
She walked toward it, then stopped.
“Alexander.”
It was the first time she had used his given name.
He looked up.
“If you truly want to help me, find Rourke.”
“I will.”
“And Briggs.”
“Who is Briggs?”
“A man I would very much like to meet again under different circumstances.”
Alexander suspected he did not want details.
“I'll find what I can.”
Amara nodded.
“Thank you.”
She opened the door.
“Amara.”
She looked back.
“One day you're going to have to tell me who you really are.”
For a moment, neither smiled.
Then Amara said, “One day.”
She left.
Alexander remained at his desk, staring at the doorway.
He had summoned her expecting answers.
Instead, he had discovered that she had been kidnapped, transported across an ocean, sold through a network his own family had unknowingly touched, and was almost certainly the daughter of someone wealthy enough to educate her like a diplomat.
He had also discovered something else.
Amara was not going to obey him merely because circumstances said she should.
Respect would have to be earned.
Trust would have to be earned.
Even a simple yes would have to be earned.
Alexander looked at the empty chair opposite him.
Nobody had spoken to him that way in years.
He should have been furious.
Instead, against every reasonable instinct, he was smiling.