13. Smuggler’s Manor

SMUGGLER'S MANOR

W hat 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 sheer drop 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.

Oddly fitting, however, considering its owner.

"It doesn't look like something built in the fifteen hundreds," she said, aiming for a neutral tone. Despite featuring two towers set on opposite ends of the structure, one section brought to mind ruins she'd visited with one of her governesses. Ruins that were crumbling, having been built in the eleventh century.

"That's when most of it was renovated." He sent her a rare teasing smile. "I think it may have been a prison at one time…"

"A prison?" She couldn't keep her voice from rising a full octave. All those fears she'd dismissed came rushing back.

"Don't look so worried." He was laughing again, and Amelia barely resisted the urge to swat him. "I said I wasn't going to lock you in a tower, remember?"

"Oh. I mean. I didn't think—" And then she winced. "Was it really a prison?"

"For a few decades, or so they say."

Shaking her head, Amelia stared anxiously outside as they approached the massive structure.

Massive and formidable.

"It may have been used as a fortress before that," Mr. Beckworth added as the driver drew them to a halt.

Spurred into action, he didn't wait for a servant to get the door for them, but pushed it open himself and hopped out, the same as he'd done every other time.

Accepting his hand for assistance, Amelia stepped down, tilting her head back. Depending upon where one looked, portions were anywhere between three and six stories high. White stones made up most of the fa?ade, and one hall that seemed to tie it all together featured a sparse number of almost regimented windows. Cautious curiosity set in as Amelia followed.

Mr. Beckworth waited for her to catch up before marching them both toward the entrance.

Behind her, a few hearty-looking fellows were milling about, removing trunks from the back of the coach while others unfastened the horses. But there was no host or hostess, no butler standing at the top of the steps, no proper housekeeper to greet them officially.

There was not, in fact, a single woman in sight. What was this place?

"I thought you said we wouldn't be alone," she said. Hadn't he? Or had she simply assumed there would be other women to act as chaperone?

Mr. Beckworth gestured toward his men. "What are they? Roosters?"

Amelia stumbled, not sure if she should feel betrayed or amused. Luckily, she was saved from having to decide on either when the front door opened and an older looking couple stepped outside.

Although the stout, bald man wasn't dressed like a butler, he had all the demeanor and attitude of one—territorial and a little judgmental. The woman, wearing a white apron over a gray dress, was obviously the housekeeper. Her eyes danced and her smile was wide. Both appeared somewhere around the age of fifty, but Amelia couldn't be sure.

Regardless, seeing at least one woman amongst the sea of men sent relief fluttering from Amelia's head down to her toes.

Although they must have noticed Amelia, their focus was on Mr. Beckworth.

"Welcome home, Boss," the woman said.

The butlerish man kept his hands behind his back. "Boss," he grunted with a nod.

"Bessie, Stubbs," Mr. Beckworth gestured towards Amelia. "This is the guest Fitz will have told you about. Lady Amelia."

Mr. Stubbs dipped his chin, but Mrs.… erm— Bessie —turned that wide smile to Amelia. "Welcome, my lady. We've a chamber all made up for you. I suppose Miles is fetching your trunk."

"This is all I have." Amelia held up her satchel. Sally had provided it for Amelia to carry the various items provided for her at The Goat's Tail.

Without another word, Mr. Stubbs disappeared inside again while Bessie pivoted back to her employer. "Fitz is in your office—going over the letters that arrived at sunup. Said you'd be interested. And since you'll be busy, I'll take ‘er ladyship upstairs."

"I'd appreciate that." Mr. Beckworth turned to take his leave, but then stopped. "Which room?"

"The nicest one." The housekeeper smiled. "Except for yours, I suppose."

Mr. Beckworth frowned, all business again. "Right, then. Well done." He flicked a distracted glance back to Amelia. "If you've a need, ask Bessie or anyone else on my team." His brows furrowed. "Or me."

Team?

He seemed anxious to get away, but before she could forget, Amelia reached out a hand.

"I do have one request," she said. "If you don't mind?"

It was obvious he hadn't expected her to take him up on his offer so soon, but he straightened and waited. "Yes?"

"Could I have a hook and some yarn or thread?" And seeing that he didn't comprehend her request, she added, "So that I can crochet."

He tilted his head. "You are asking for another needle?"

"Not a needle, a hook."

Bessie was nodding in approval. "I've got a few I can spare. Even Ladyships need to entertain themselves, don't they. I'll take care of it, Boss."

But Mr. Beckworth's gaze narrowed. "If you stab me in the ass with this one," he said, "You'll be sorry."

Amelia's mouth twisted at the vulgarity, but she tried to take it in stride. He was joking with her again.

She narrowed her gaze right back. "Don't give me a reason to."