“Members of my team,” he corrected her. “We have a mutually beneficial arrangement. They provide a service. I provide a comfortable living.” He stood directly behind her, his hands on both of her elbows. When he spoke, his voice vibrated her insides.
The sensation caught Amelia off-guard. It reminded her of those moments when he’d pressed his knee into hers—in the dining room and again in the carriage. And when he’d grasped her wrist to stop her from serving him. Every time he’d touched her, in fact, seemed burned into her brain.
She swallowed hard, resting some of her weight against him.
It wasn’t a conscious decision, but the need to be closer was too powerful to resist.
She waited for him to push her away.
Instead, his hands moved along her arms, from her elbows to her wrists.
She was almost afraid to breathe—to speak—to do anything that would ruin this feeling.
It was a feeling she’d imagined and secretly wanted, but never found. She’d been disappointed so many times that she’d come to believe it only existed in her dreams.
This man was different from any man she’d ever known. Could that explain why he possessed that which every gentleman who’d ever courted her had lacked?
He’d done nothing to hide the truth of his past, and that felt so very genuine. He showed compassion for those less fortunate than himself. Was it, perhaps, that he had a heart? Was that the difference?
As she stood staring out the window, she felt his jaw brush the shell of her ear. Was his heart racing as fast as hers?
She’d lost track of their conversation and frantically searched for something to say.
Locking onto the sliver of sand on the beach, she burst out with, “It’s probably too cold to swim.”
As soon as she uttered the words, she groaned inside. It was early March. Of course the water would be frigid.
But this time, he didn’t laugh at her. Nor did he tease her.
“Some of the locals go out. As a matter of pride, I think. Almost like a ritual.”
“But you don’t,” she guessed. Not because it mattered, but to prolong this unexpected connection.
“God, no.” This time, he chuckled, dipping his chin so she felt his breath warm on the side of her face. And then a hint of something rough—the stubble of his whiskers, not quite nuzzling her.
She was tempted to turn around and face him, but inhibitions, deeply embedded, kept her in check more than a corset ever could. And so she stood perfectly still, uncertain.
Confused.
Was she losing the girl she’d believed herself to be? Or was she finding the person buried in her soul?
Far off in the distance, disguised by flickering sunlight on the sea, she saw the mast of a ship.
“Smuggler’s Manor,” she said with a chuckle, remembering stories of smuggled brandy brought over from France. No doubt, her father had purchased some of it. “I’d think this would be the perfect place for pirates to unload their treasures.” She was teasing.
Only, he didn’t laugh.
When his arms dropped and he stepped away from her, she felt the cold in more ways than one.
Smuggler’s Manor.
Amelia spun around to face him. “They do, don’t they? And you are. You’re a smuggler!” It all made sense. His wealth. His power. How did she think he’d been able to afford to purchase so many lodging establishments along the route to London?
He didn’t deny it.
In fact, his chin seemed to jerk a little higher. His jaw ticked. And she saw more than a hint of pride in his narrowed eyes.
“I might be. What of it?” He ran a hand through his hair, drawing her attention to the inky strands.
