15. He’s a Smuggler!

HE'S A SMUGGLER!

A melia clutched her hands at her waist, walking beside this man who, unlike every gentleman she'd ever known, didn't offer his arm. She'd wanted to be annoyed with him, for not answering her questions—for treating her the same way everyone else always had.

It wasn't the plantation, of that she was fairly certain. She'd seen it in his eyes.

Was this tour meant to be a peace offering or a convenient diversion?

Regardless, she allowed herself to be distracted as he walked them through the lower floor, where he did, in fact, keep a tidy library, a very serviceable dining room, and two different parlors, one of them empty, the other in use by a few of his servants. Both had been fitted out with comfortable furnishings.

They then began climbing the wide staircase, and she grew curious when he explained that he'd only renovated the first two floors.

"Where are the servants' quarters, then?" she asked.

"We don't need any." He turned to meet her gaze, his eyes unguarded, and she saw more than a hint of pride there.

"But… you have servants."

"My team, yes. There are more than enough bedchambers to house them."

Amelia blinked. That option had not even occurred to her. "Do they share?"

"No." They arrived at the landing, not far from her chamber, and began to stroll along the corridor. "No need. As I said, there's more than enough room."

Amelia couldn't help but contrast Smuggler's Manor with her father's home. "We have seven additional bedchambers at Cherrywood Park. They sit empty except for one or two weeks out of the year." Furthermore, Mr. Beckworth's servants were apparently welcome in the main parts of the house ...

"That's not surprising." He sent her a sideways glance. "The aristocracy is nothing if not wasteful. So much excess.. They don't appreciate what they have, what so many can't even imagine."

"Such as? Besides the obvious." She genuinely wanted to know.

"Privacy," he said. "Growing up the way I did, it wasn't something I ever experienced."

"You slept outside?" She'd heard stories of people sleeping in doorways, and even though he'd told her the nature of his childhood, it was almost impossible to picture Mr. Beckworth being so helpless.

"A few times." He shrugged, and his arm brushed along hers. That simple touch had her longing to lean into him. "A gang of us took over an abandoned warehouse near the docks. When the owners tried to put us out, we fought back."

They'd almost arrived at the end of the corridor, where she could see the sea through a large window.

"You didn't have much choice, did you?"

He shook his head. "Not really. They chased us out a few times. But we had… methods for reclaiming our space. In the end, it was cheaper for them to move their business elsewhere."

Amelia shivered, but then he finally took hold of her arm, drawing her closer to the window. "I wanted you to see this."

It was a similar view to the one in his study, but from a higher vantage point. She could even see hints of sandy beaches beyond the edges of the cliffs.

The sight was lovely, certainly, but it couldn't distract her from the tragedy of his childhood.

"There aren't bedchambers in abandoned warehouses, are there?" Shame nearly crushed her. How had she gone her entire life blind to the conditions of those she'd been told were below her. "That's why you provide them for your servants."

"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.

What of it?

That was all he had to say for himself? What of it?

Were all men destined to betray her?

First, all that business with Lord Winterhope. Then her father and brother, and their shady dealings in Jamaica. And she couldn't forget the kidnapping, which led her to believe her family was also somehow cheating the Duke of Crossings.

But of course he was a smuggler!

And to think she'd wanted him to kiss her.

To think she'd believed he was different—that he had a heart!

"I've had enough of this tour." Her voice came out trembling. "Thank you."

Careful to give him a very wide berth, she marched past him, easily located the door to her chamber, and slammed it behind her.

She had wanted to kiss him! She'd wanted a smuggler to kiss her!

Once inside, she paced back and forth several times. What did this mean? Even knowing he was a smuggler still didn't explain why she was here.

Feeling like her heart was going to explode right out of her chest, she lowered herself onto a chair. There was nothing fancy about it, but of course, it was one of the most comfortable chairs she'd ever sat in.

But that was of no matter. She was such a fool!

Propping her elbows on her knees, she rested her forehead in her hands.

He was a smuggler!

What of it?

What had she thought he'd done to get his money? It wasn't as though he'd been educated at Oxford, and he'd outright told her he hadn't inherited anything, let alone a large enough sum to buy up those inns.

Or this massive, if not unorthodox, manor.

Of course he was a smuggler .

Smuggler's Manor. Amelia groaned. Smuggler's Manor!

The truth had quite literally been written in iron. Was she really that stupid? That gullible? He'd done nothing to hide who he was.

Absolutely nothing.

But what did this mean?

From the moment he'd stopped her father's carriage, she'd found him extraordinarily handsome—in a rugged, very unpretentious kind of way.

And just before that, hadn't she been wishing for something different to come along and sweep her off her feet? For something or someone to rescue her from that gloomy future with Lord Northwoods?

Well, Mr. Beckworth had certainly swept her off her feet , and he said he intended to protect her, but he'd never claimed to want to rescue her in the way she'd imagined.

Had she built him into the person she wanted him to be?

Amelia pressed her hand to her belly. It was flat, a little soft, but most notably, unrestrained. Unconfined.

Had the moment he'd cut off her corset altered something, in a physical way, that was playing with her mind?

But other evidence, conversations and gestures, pushed their way into the argument.

Such as the respect the maids and innkeepers seemed to have for him, a grateful kind. That he'd blamed himself for the trouble she'd had with her stays. How he'd supplied her with two new gowns, and then encouraged her to eat. He'd not even come close to raising a hand to her.

Except for those two swats when he'd had her slung over his shoulder.

And to be fair, she had just stabbed his finely shaped backside with her crochet hook. Anyone would be feeling a little cross.

That... that was an insane thing to think, wasn't it? He'd been in the process of abducting her; she'd been well within her rights to fight back against something like that.

But if he was doing it for the right reasons, if he had taken her from her family to protect her...?

Her feelings for him switched all too easily from hot to cold—and a thousand temperatures in between.

He was bad, but in a good way. Or was he good, but in a bad way?

Or was he simply a human—struggling to make his way in life by doing things she'd never once imagined?

Ultimately, she had no choice but to conclude something quite alarming. And that was that she, Lady Amelia Crowley, was devastatingly attracted to a man who was a highwayman and smuggler.

And kidnapper.

She mustn't forget that.