“It’s the best we can do for now.” He tossed some garments inside and then glanced sideways before turning back to explain. “I’d stop at the next inn so you could rest, but we don’t have time.” He managed to almost sound apologetic. “You should be able to get some sleep tonight, though.” His black as night stare flicked to her gown, he shook his head, and then closed the door.
Momentarily stunned, Amelia realized he was allowing her privacy to change.
Time she was wasting.
Grappling with the pile of fabric, Amelia held up what looked to be a man’s shirt and then a pair of breeches. They were too small to belong to Mr. Beckworth, but she’d still swim in them.
Without knowing how long he would give her, however, she forced her limbs, still heavy from her little breathing attack, into action.
In his urgency to help her, he’d ripped out not only the buttons, but also a few seams. As she wrestled her arms out of her sleeves, and then the rest of herself out of what remained of the gown, Amelia couldn’t help but agree that it was, indeed, “done for.” Even the pillows in her bell sleeves seemed deflated.
He’d done equal damage to her stays, which, with a little wiggling, she was able to peel right off her front.
Wearing nothing but her chemise, she tossed the rest onto the floor. Staring at the wretched mess, she found it oddly symbolic. Of the season. Of her future.
She quickly dismissed the notion, however, because Mr. Beckworth would return any moment.
After peeking out the window and seeing a few of the men loitering nearby, she donned the breeches and then, crouching on the floor, made a hasty switch into the shirt, not folding the chemise until she was sure she’d covered herself completely.
Only then did she crawl back onto the bench.
Shifting, she adjusted the men’s garment around her middle, and then faced forward. Despite the foreign sensation of having fabric wrapped around her thighs, the ensemble was surprisingly comfortable.
“Are you presentable?” A voice rumbled from outside—Mr. Beckworth’s.
“Yes.” Amelia sat up straight and, keeping her eyes downward, stared at her knees, which were pressed together.
It was odd, seeing the outline of her legs individually. But for the first time since being abducted, she wasn’t terrified, or embarrassed, or uncomfortable.
The door opened, and although Mr. Beckworth peered inside, scowling now, he made no move to join her.
His demeanor had changed. Was he angry that they’d had to stop? Annoyed that her little problem had inconvenienced them so?
Feeling a cold sort of tension, Amelia lifted her chin. She might be wearing men’s clothing, but she was still a lady.
Always a lady.
Besides, if he was irritated about her presence, he only had himself to blame.
“Can’t do anything about your shoes,” he said, sounding the opposite of apologetic as he eyed her up and down. “A good fit, though. Fitz will never hear the end of it when the others see you, poor bastard.”
“Fitz? As in Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“Fitzherbert, I believe.” Lines appeared between his eyes. “Not sure, really. We’ve always just called him Fitz.” He glanced away again, but then added, “My… associate.” Another pause. “The original owner of the clothes that you’re wearing.”
She had noticed Mr. Beckworth speaking with a smaller man on a few occasions. “Why will he… never hear the end of it?”
The corner of Mr. Beckworth’s mouth twitched. “Because they look so much better on you.” But he was already glowering again.
He lifted his hands just then and, reaching inside, placed a rolled blanket on the seat beside her and then snagged the pile of her discarded clothing.
Was he afraid she’d don them by herself and make another attempt to run away? She didn’t offer any protest, and althoughit was, in fact, “done for,” she still winced at the demise of her only dress.
“We’ll stop to change out the horses in the next village.” He was all seriousness now. “You’ll be allowed a few minutes to clean up.” His gaze locked with hers. “Don’t make me regret trusting your word.”
Amelia was learning he had a particular type of disdain for the concept of honor, and even as he relied upon hers, he did nothing to hide his obvious doubt.
Her word was going to have to be good enough.
