There was so much more than words conveyed in this exchange.
“What if you never marry?” he asked. He didn’t seem to expect her to answer.
Thrown into turmoil by what he was saying, Amelia had lost the ability to speak.
A few more seconds, and he removed his hand. Leaning back, he folded his arms across that massive chest of his. “Will you be happy with the life of a spinster?” A smug expression lurked around his mouth and then he added, “I think not.”
SMUGGLER’S MANOR
What remained of the journey to his manor was accomplished in relative quiet. Only in the literal sense, however. Because Amelia was keenly aware of the man seated beside her, and her insides took turns jumping and settling.
When he crossed his arms, her insides flipped. When he lifted his boots onto the opposite bench and reclined, they flipped again. Realizing he’d closed his eyes, she snuck far too many secret glances—practically counting the whiskers of his stubble at one point.
It was ridiculous, whatever this was.
She could hear the brushing of his clothing when he shifted. She could hear the whisperings of his skin when he rubbed his hands together.
She heard, quite literally, every single breath he took.
All the while, her thoughts waged a battle against rules that had been ironed onto her.
At one point, he dropped his hand to his side, and the warmth of his arm rested along hers.
It made her so dizzy, she half expected to have another breathing attack—but if she had, she couldn’t have blamed it on oppressive undergarments.
Quite the opposite, actually.
It was almost a relief when the carriage crawled to a halt. She watched out the window while one of the outriders hopped onto the ground and proceeded to open a massive iron gate. It was the kind of gate that would be near impossible to scale if one wished to.
Was that to keep people out? Or to keep them in?
It was a somber reminder that she wasn’t on holiday. That she wasn’t making a happy visit to the seaside.
They’d ridden with the windows partially open, and that salty, cool, almost undefinable scent of the ocean had grown stronger as time passed.
Not that she’d paid close attention to the passing scenery. In fact, with her thoughts discombobulated by Mr. Beckworth, it had passed in a blur.
“Smuggler’s Manor?” She read the twisted iron letters welded onto the gate out loud. It wasn’t the sort of name one would associate with a proper, upstanding businessman. Just another depressing reminder that there were matters at play that had nothing to do with her. And just as she’d been for her father, she was to be Mr. Beckworth’s pawn.
“Named thusly in the sixteenth century,” he answered. “Rather clever, don’t you think?”
The gate was opened and then closed behind them without so much as a squeak, and they were rolling along the road again. But the path was narrower and winding now, and the coach groaned a little when the horses pulled it up one of the steeper grades.
To her right, a wall of black rocks loomed so close that it passed in a blur. Out Mr. Beckworth’s window, there was a sheerdrop that became more dizzying the farther they went. Beyond that, Amelia focused on the distinct line that split the horizon. The sea was a sparkling turquoise color; the sky, a brilliant blue.
When the coach seemed to wobble a little precariously, she gasped, and instinctively clutched Mr. Beckworth’s hand.
He squeezed her fingers reassuringly. “We’re perfectly safe.”
Oddly enough, she believed him.
She trusted him.
After they turned inland to cross an expansive field, she let go, breathing a little easier.
Until, that was, the building itself came into view.
The term “manor” seemed a bit… generous. Not that it wasn’t massive or ancient. But the effect was a hodge-podge of varying levels and mismatched designs.
