Chapter 8 — Captain Alexander Whitmore #2
The stable boy abruptly found urgent work elsewhere.
“You enjoy arguing.”
“No. I enjoy being correct.”
“That must make life difficult.”
“Only for other people.”
He almost laughed again.
This was becoming irritating.
Alexander pointed toward the mare.
“She's difficult.”
“No. She's frightened.”
“She threw one of my grooms last week.”
“Perhaps she disliked him.”
“Horses do not make judgments about character.”
Amara looked at him.
“Then you don't know horses as well as you think.”
Alexander folded his arms.
“Show me.”
Amara glanced toward the mare.
Then toward him.
“Show you what?”
“That you can ride.”
Something changed in her eyes.
For the first time since arriving, genuine excitement appeared.
Then it disappeared.
“I am permitted to ride?”
Alexander realized the problem.
He had spoken without thinking.
“You can ride inside the estate.”
“On that horse?”
“If you believe you can manage her.”
Amara walked toward the mare.
Alexander expected hesitation.
There was none.
Within minutes she was mounted.
The transformation was immediate.
The guarded woman he had seen since yesterday vanished.
Amara smiled.
Not the sarcastic smile she used when arguing.
A real one.
She guided the mare into the open field.
Then she accelerated.
Alexander's eyebrows rose.
She rode beautifully.
Not merely competently.
She moved with the horse naturally, controlling speed and direction with small movements.
The supposedly difficult mare responded as though they had known each other for years.
Amara circled the field and returned.
Alexander tried not to look impressed.
He failed.
“Where did you learn?”
“At home.”
“Your father owned horses?”
“Many.”
“How many?”
Amara dismounted.
“I never counted.”
Alexander took the reins.
“What did he do?”
She looked at him.
“Many things.”
He recognized the answer.
It was the same kind of answer she had apparently given everyone else.
“You are remarkably secretive.”
“You are remarkably curious.”
“I like knowing who lives under my roof.”
“This is your house?”
“My family's.”
Amara looked toward the enormous residence.
“Of course.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“It sounded like something.”
“Then perhaps you are overly sensitive.”
Alexander took a slow breath.
He commanded armed men for a living.
He had negotiated with hostile officers.
He had endured gunfire with greater patience than this woman required before breakfast.
“Mrs. Bennett is looking for you.”
“Then I should go.”
“Yes.”
Amara took three steps.
“Amara.”
She turned.
“Tomorrow morning. Same time.”
Her eyes moved toward the mare.
“For riding?”
“Yes.”
A small smile appeared.
“I'll consider it.”
Alexander stared at her.
“I wasn't inviting you to consider it.”
“Then you phrased it poorly.”
She walked away.
Alexander remained beside the horse.
The head groom appeared from the stable.
“Remarkable rider.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting woman.”
Alexander gave him a look.
The groom disappeared.
Over the next several days, Alexander found himself encountering Amara with suspicious frequency.
She argued with Mrs. Bennett about the organization of the pantry.
She helped Lela recover from the voyage.
She corrected a young servant's arithmetic.
She spoke politely to the oldest workers and sharply to anyone who tried to intimidate her.
Most strangely, people began listening to her.
Within a week, she knew half the household by name.
Alexander also noticed things that did not fit.
Her hands were too soft for years of hard labor.
Her posture was too formal.
Her English was excellent, but occasionally she used expressions he associated with educated diplomats and foreign merchants.
She knew horses.
She knew accounts.
She understood geography.
Once, Alexander entered the library and found her looking at a map.
She moved away immediately.
He stopped.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“At what?”
“The world.”
He walked closer.
Her finger had been near the African coast.
“Are you trying to find your home?”
Amara's expression closed.
“No.”
It was clearly a lie.
Alexander studied her.
“Where is your home?”
“Far away.”
“Where?”
She looked at him.
“Why do you care?”
The question surprised him.
He did not know.
Perhaps because nothing about her made sense.
Perhaps because he had begun to suspect that the documents accompanying her were false.
Or perhaps because when she looked at that map, for a fraction of a second, she did not look stubborn or sarcastic.
She looked desperately lonely.
Alexander answered simply.
“I don't know yet.”
Amara held his gaze.
Then she turned and left the library.
He remained beside the map.
That evening, Alexander asked Harris to bring him every document associated with Amara and Lela.
The agent looked surprised.
“Is there a problem?”
“I don't know.”
“They were acquired legally.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
Harris shifted uncomfortably.
Alexander noticed.
“Who sold them?”
“A broker at the port.”
“Name?”
“I'll have to check.”
“Check.”
“Captain, your father has used these channels before. There is nothing unusual—”
“Then obtaining the information should be easy.”
Harris nodded and left.
Alexander looked again at the papers already on his desk.
They told him almost nothing.
Amara.
Approximate age.
African origin.
Educated.
No family information.
No reliable history.
Alexander leaned back.
Somewhere downstairs, he heard laughter.
Her laughter.
He recognized it already.
That annoyed him too.
He had known Amara for less than a week.
During that time she had argued with an overseer, reorganized part of his mother's household, challenged his knowledge of horses, refused several direct instructions, invaded his thoughts and made him suspicious of business arrangements he had ignored for years.
Alexander had always believed discipline solved most problems.
He had always believed that if an instruction was reasonable, people should simply obey it.
Amara appeared to consider obedience a personal insult.
He did not yet understand her.
He did not know where she came from.
He did not know why a woman with her education had been transported across an ocean and sold.
And he certainly did not know why he had begun looking forward to their arguments.
Alexander closed the documents.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would start getting answers.
He had no idea that Amara had already decided exactly how many answers he deserved.
Very few.