17. A Taste of Freedom

A TASTE OF FREEDOM

A melia woke very early the next morning, surprisingly refreshed despite a night of very improper dreams.

Mr. Beckworth had been in them. They'd taken place in the hallway upstairs, but he'd actually kissed her this time, and then more.

She rubbed her eyes with shaking hands.

At home, she would have remained in bed. She'd have waited for her maid to bring her tea. After a few sips, she would have stood and clasped the bedpost, sucking in her breath until her stays were knotted to Miss Henrietta's satisfaction, and she would not have left the room until she was perfectly presentable, every part of her arranged in accordance with the standards of her position.

But she wasn't at home.

Amelia shot up and, feeling an exciting surge of independence, stripped out of the nightrail. After brushing a damp linen over her yellow gown, doing her best to emulate Sally's technique, Amelia then donned it herself, and even braided her own hair.

She did not pin it up, as had been required since she'd passed the age of ten, but allowed it to hang down her back, tied with a piece of green yarn Bessie had brought up for her embroidery.

Outside, the sun had just begun cresting over the horizon, casting a pink light everywhere. And since Mr. Beckworth insisted she wasn't going to be locked up in a tower, she presumed she could explore on her own.

An opportunity she wasn't about to miss.

Still, she stepped quietly through the corridor and down the stairs, hoping no one would wake up. Hoping she wouldn't be stopped.

Simply enjoying the novelty of being… alone.

She didn't think she could "escape", not really, and she wasn't trying to, but she rarely, if ever, had been allowed to explore a new place like this. And the grounds surrounding Smuggler's Manor all but begged to be explored.

Particularly the cliffs.

Stepping outside, she stood with the world at her feet, the morning air crisp and inviting. Listening to the sounds of the distant crashing waves, and a few seagulls, she felt a wonder at the vastness of the world. How could England be the center of the world when there was so much she could never see?

Unexpectedly, London and The ton seemed rather insignificant.

Amelia took a moment to look all around her.

Nobody leapt out to berate her like she half-expected. Lightning did not come from the heavens to strike her down.

It was difficult to believe that she could behave and dress so casually without consequence, but everything was quiet and peaceful. A lush green field stretched out before her, beckoning, and suddenly her heart didn't feel so tight in her chest anymore. The muscles in her limbs loosened, and a sense of lightness stole through her, lending wings to her feet.

She didn't walk, no, she ran, slowly at first, and then faster, spurred by the wind on her face. And she didn't stop until she arrived at the cliff's edge, her chest heaving as she caught her breath.

Staring out over the vast expanse of churning water, old memories surfaced.

She'd been six and ten the first time she'd seen the sea. While her parents had attended a whirlwind of festivities, Amelia had been left in their rented cottage with Miss Merry—a woman who hadn't lasted more than half a year as her governess.

Amelia's parents had expected Miss Merry to ignore the excitement of being in a new place and teach her charge the usual agreed upon lessons. But Miss Merry had been of a different mind. Ignoring her employer's instructions, she'd taken those lessons—and Amelia—to the beach.

They'd collected rocks and seashells, and Amelia had learned the names of birds, fish, and all the flowers and shrubs growing along the shore. But most importantly, Amelia had had fun.

It hadn't lasted long.

Returning to find her daughter pink from the sun and covered in sand one evening, Amelia's mother sacked Miss Merry on the spot.

It had effectively ended the holiday.

Still, Amelia dismissed the sad part of that memory. And, staring down at the rocks and sand and crashing waves, she silently thanked the woman for those precious days, images tucked away but not forgotten as she'd grown from a girl into a lady.

A woman .

Vivid images from her dream swooped down and wrapped around her. The scenarios her mind had conjured up, scenarios involving Mr. Beckworth, were hardly fit for a young lady. No, they'd teased the longings of a woman.

The dream had felt as true as the ground beneath her feet. He hadn't kissed her in real life, and yet her mouth tingled with the memory of it. Absently, gently, she touched her fingertips to her mouth to assure herself. It had only been a dream.

Crossing her arms over her middle, she turned to examine what seemed like an infinite coast. Another illusion.

Still, there was something…

He was wrong.

She had not imagined him to be like other gentlemen who'd courted her.

She knew her own thoughts—better than ever before. Seeing her life from the outside allowed her to see her family, the ton , and everything about it in a different light.

She'd realized some new truths, truths that contradicted her parents' ways of thinking, and those were turning everything upside down.

People weren't all good, or all bad. And being a member of the upper classes did not, in and of itself, make a person honorable—or better.

Furthermore, people born into the lower classes could, in fact, live honorable lives—in their own way. Her cousin Clementine, who had been born and raised on a farm and never exposed to society, had been honorable—in her own way. Until she hadn't.

Amelia stilled. She'd never heard Clementine's version of the story. Was Amelia missing something there as well? Because no one was all bad. Just as no one was all good.

Which brought her thoughts right back to Mr. Beckworth.

He was a smuggler, and for reasons he persisted in keeping to himself, he'd carried her away from her father against her will. One would think a man on this side of the law would be ruthless and dangerous.

One would imagine he'd be greedy and mean.

And true, he likely possessed a few seeds of those characteristics; he was a man, after all. But…

He'd also been kinder to her, more considerate, than even her own parents.

And he gave her choices .

"What the devil are you doing out here?" The sudden sharp voice startled her, though it really shouldn't have. She'd been absorbed in her own thoughts, not paying attention to her surroundings, but Mr. Beckworth had made no attempt at stealth. His footsteps pounded against the ground as he came up behind her.

It was almost as though she'd summoned him with her mind. Or perhaps that dream…

She glanced over her shoulder, determined not to apologize or provide any excuses. "I'm not running away—" Her voice gave out, because her heart had suddenly lodged itself somewhere in her throat.

And later, she wouldn't remember whether or not she'd gasped.

"Don't move!" he yelled, and he held out one hand as he approached. Shirtless. Barefoot. His dark-as-night eyes were as intense as she'd ever seen them.

A fob watch dangled from the top of his breeches, which weren't fastened at the top, and his hair, which looked almost blue-black in the morning light, stood up, crumpled and untamed. Had he jumped right out of bed to make his mad dash to this very spot?

He ought to look obscene. But he didn't. He looked… perfect. Better, even, than one of those Greek sculptures displayed in the British Museum.

Ignoring his threatening scowl, Amelia licked her lips, her gaze pulled to his bare skin.

Black hair smattered across his chest, trailing a line to the indent of his navel. It was thicker and fanned out before disappearing into those breeches, which were more fitted than his usual trousers. With each step, the muscles in his shoulders and arms pulsed beneath smooth skin, taunting her fingers to trace all those valleys and ridges. Goose flesh ran all the way down to her toes, and afraid he might read her thoughts, she blinked a few times and swallowed hard.

But she couldn't stop staring, fascinated, noting the taut ripples that made up most of his middle, displaying a patterned detail of sinew and strength.

No wonder he'd felt hard when he'd pressed against her back.

She lost all sense of time, and was almost surprised to find him standing just a few feet in front of her.

"I wasn't running away." Had she told him that already? "I wanted to see the view." She jerked her chin up.

"But you were running. I thought you were…" He turned his head toward the sea, then back, and combed one hand through his hair, making it look even more wild than it did before. "The ground gives way sometimes. It isn't safe to stand so close to the edge."

She turned a pointed stare to the yards of ground between her and the drop-off. And then back, feeling bold. "You said I wouldn't be trapped in a tower…" she reminded him.

"Right." He exhaled.

The only indication of his sprint was a subtle rising and falling of his chest.

"You do trust me, don't you?" she asked after a short pause.

It was a little ironic. A while back, he'd asked her to trust that he would never harm her, and she'd given him her word, but at the time she hadn't really meant it.

At the time, she hadn't really trusted him. How could she have?

He grimaced and shifted on his feet. "Your attempt to escape during the ride over was one of the most bungling efforts I've ever seen," he said. Amelia blinked. Just what did that have to do with…? "It isn't that I trust you, I just don't believe you could actually get away." The hint of a smile danced on his mouth.

He was teasing her!

That, paired with the absence of most of his clothing, had her insides humming. But that playful expression faded as quickly as it had appeared.

"But you can't be out here alone." His jaw flexed, he was all seriousness now. "You aren't safe."

But why? "I am not safe? This is your estate, isn't it?"

"It is," he replied with a crisp nod. "But the stone hedges are about four feet high." He widened his stance, drawing her stare to the tops of his feet. A few miniscule hairs dusted his toes, but his feet, like everything else exposed this morning, were oddly… delicious.

Delicious? Really, Amelia?

When he'd tackled her in that meadow, she'd obviously hit her head. Because while discussing the dangers posed by these ancient cliffs, and also some unknown danger to her person, she was ogling his feet.

Ogling.

His feet!

Amelia forced herself to meet his eyes again. "Are there other smugglers? Is that why?"

When he looked away without answering, she assumed that must be the case. Even here, where she'd thought she was free, she really wasn't. It didn't seem fair.

Her nose burned, and tears started to gather in her eyes. "Very well." Her concession came easily. She'd spent her whole life perfecting it, after all.

Still, it felt like donning an old pair of shoes—a pair she'd outgrown.

"I'm not saying you can't explore—just not alone."

It wouldn't be the same. But she offered him a resigned smile.

He stretched his shoulders, drawing her attention back to his lack of attire.

Amelia bit her lip, flicking greedy eyes over so much undisguised… maleness. "Why are you…dressed like that?"

Or undressed, rather.

He raised one hand, rubbing it down his bare chest—and she realized he wasn't at ease.

And yet she knew he wasn't embarrassed about being half naked. He was embarrassed about the reason for it—whatever it was that sent him out here half naked.

"I was… concerned."

Concerned? Amelia latched onto the word. She willed him to say more—to admit he had feelings behind that concern. For her . She wanted to hear that it wasn't because of her father, or Crossings, or whoever was behind all this.

Instead of explaining, he tilted his head. "I think we could both use a good cup of coffee, don't you?"

"I prefer tea." She sounded more than a little churlish.

"I hate tea," he said. "But I'm sure cook will provide both."

She still didn't move.

He beckoned with one hand. "Come on. Toast and sausage is being cooked as we speak. And you don't eat nearly enough."

It was another sort of truce.

Amelia reached out and his hand swallowed hers. When he threaded their fingers together, her frustration melted like the sugar she added to her tea.

And then, of course, he waited for her to turn toward the house before moving—letting her lead.

Trying to ignore the pleasant buzzing feeling that was shooting up from where their hands joined, Amelia stared at the ground.

When the silence became too unnerving, she resorted to simple, pleasant conversation. "It's beautiful out here. I love when the sky is pink like this."

Mr. Beckworth tilted his head back as though to confirm her description.

"Is it?"

"Absolutely."

Glancing around, he grunted. "I never thought of it like that. But it is, I suppose. Just a hint."

His thumb softly stroked the back of her hand. Was he doing it intentionally?

"I like it—the pink." Her voice came out low and breathy. She kept her eyes firmly focused on the ground. "Don't the rocks hurt your feet?"

He brought them to a halt and lifted one up, brushing at the bottom. But then quickly continued on.

"It's not as bad as going without shoes in the city."

Amelia realized that was all he would say about it, but that didn't stop her from wanting to know more. If he had gone without something as simple as shoes regularly enough for him to speak of it so casually, what else had he been forced to live without? She already knew he'd not had consistent access to shelter. Had he gone hungry often? Who had cared for him whenever he'd fallen ill—for surely he must have, living in those sorts of conditions. How did a child survive on their own?

Amelia couldn't help but notice that, as a man of means now, he typically wore sturdy boots.

She squeezed his hand, and after a moment, he squeezed back.

They lapsed into another silence, and she sensed he had more that he needed to say. His tension vibrated beside her.

"I was afraid for you." His words hung in the air. "When I saw you outside." Amelia's entire body thrummed. From him, this felt like a grand admission.

She turned so she could watch his expression. "You aren't starting to care for me, are you, Mr. Beckworth?" Flirting was a skill every debutante practiced, and Amelia had considered herself rather good at it. But she'd only ever flirted because it was expected.

On this particular morning, with this particular man , it came naturally.

His mouth tightened, but his eyes, usually so dark and stormy, managed to twinkle down at her.

"We all have our weaknesses," he answered.

Weakness. She was a weakness?

But they'd arrived back at the manor, and he dropped her hand so he could pull the door open for her to enter.

Inside, without the sky and the grass and the sea, his state of undress suddenly seemed positively scandalous. People only ever disrobed in their bedchambers.

Was his chamber as stark as the rest of the manor, or did he decorate it with personal effects? And, as a man who'd lived a childhood of poverty, what would those be?

She determined that if she couldn't go explore outside by herself, she'd explore every inch of this ancient manor. Prison? Fortress?

And, if she stumbled upon the opportunity, she'd be sure to include Mr. Beckworth's chamber.

She followed him up the stairs, and when they arrived at the landing, he shuffled his feet. "You can go down to the dining room whenever you want. You don't have to wait for me." He ran a hand down his torso, and Amelia's gaze followed the motion. There was that heat again!

But he was giving her another choice. To anyone else, it might feel meaningless, but to Amelia, it felt like a gift.

She'd never realized how precious choices could be.

"How much time do you need?" She couldn't meet his eyes.

"Half an hour—" He shook his head, his hand splayed on his chest again. "No, give me twenty minutes."

"We can break our fasts together, then."

His mouth twitched, and acting in silent agreement, they each went in opposite directions.

But upon slipping into her chamber, Amelia left the door open just enough to see out. And she didn't close it until he'd disappeared.

His room was exactly where she expected it to be. He was the master of the manor, after all.