28. The Cellar

THE CELLAR

B urrowed under the counterpane, Amelia was only vaguely aware of the sound of a door closing. It was the shuffling that actually pricked her awake.

She opened her eyes just enough to see Fanny glancing over at her as she set a large tray on the table. "Apologies, I didn't mean to wake you, my lady."

Blinking the haze of sleep from her sticky eyes, Amelia was surprised to see bright sunlight streaming in through the window. Was it already afternoon?

It was odd… Amelia hadn't slept late since Mr. Beckworth had kidnapped her.

Mr. Beckworth!

Recalling the previous night's events had her opening her eyes all the way and sitting up with a new urgency. "What time is it?"

"Nearly three."

"Three?" Throughout the course of a proper Season, sleeping late into the afternoon was essentially expected. But here, at Smuggler's Manor, it felt indulgent.

Even if she had sat up for most of the night.

"Yes, my lady, but not to worry. Here, I've brought up some of your favorites: eggs, sausages, a few pastries. Cook was concerned when you didn't come down at your usual time. You aren't ill, are you?"

Imagining the elegant breakfast set out daily, Amelia felt horrible. It wasn't something she'd ever have considered before. "I'm so sorry. I hope it didn't go to waste."

The savory scents coming from the tray were tempting, but Amelia needed to check on Mr. Beckworth first.

"It never goes to waste, and it didn't today. After Mr. Beckworth finished, we all made good work of it." Fanny winked.

"Oh, that's good—wait! Mr. Beckworth what…?" Amelia frowned. He could not have gotten out of bed, let alone dressed and gone downstairs on his own. "He took breakfast already?"

Fanny gave her a funny look. "Just as always, my lady. Although, he was a little banged up after falling off the boat last night. Boss is tough as an ox, though, that man."

She'd asked him what happened—more than once—but he'd never answered. "He fell off of a boat?"

"One of those runners knocked him with an oar. The whole crew thought he was dead. Everyone's talking about it. And then he turns up, right as rain, just like always." Fanny smiled and fisted her hands on her ample hips. "I best be getting on. Can I bring you anything else right now? I can run the bath for you, if you'd like."

Amelia would have liked a bath. She certainly needed one. "Later, perhaps?" Because her need to find Mr. Beckworth was even greater.

Both of her new gowns needed laundering. Amelia glanced around the room, she would have to make do with one of the dresses left behind in the wardrobe.

"Don't be afraid to use the bell." Fanny pointed to the corner. "If you pull it, one of us will come."

"Oh, thank you." But Amelia wasn't thinking about the bath. "Do you know where he is now? Mr. Beckworth, that is?"

Fanny, who'd been on her way out, turned and paused at the open door. Again, she had a curious look in her eyes. "If he's not in his office, he'll be down in the cellars. Most likely."

She made no move to leave.

"Is there something amiss? Would you like me to send for him?"

"No. That won't be necessary." Fanny still hesitated, so Amelia added, "I would actually like that bath later this afternoon. Perhaps after I've eaten…" And after I've ordered Mr. Beckworth back into bed…! "Thank you, Fanny."

Once the maid was gone, Amelia poured water into the basin and did her best to wash up. Feeling slightly more refreshed, she then opened the doors to the wardrobe and rifled through the abandoned gowns.

The gowns, which had been surprisingly well preserved, were at least a decade old. The previous owner would have been married, as the colors were all dark and bold. Not a single pastel in sight.

The one she selected had short, puffed sleeves, and was made of royal blue muslin. Navy embroidery decorated the bottom of the skirt. Although the high waist had long gone out of style, that wouldn't matter here at Smuggler's Manor.

Nor would it matter that the hem came up higher than Amelia would have preferred, swishing around the tops of her ankles.

Only after she'd pulled it over her head did she realize she had a problem. Unfortunately, the fasteners were all in the back, and she couldn't reach the last two. But the bodice was snug, and likely, no one would notice.

She really didn't want to use the bellpull. She didn't want to be a burden.

Furthermore, she'd already wasted nearly half an hour and she needed to find Mr. Beckworth and send him back to bed.

Admittedly, she was a little embarrassed about certain things she'd done the previous night, such as waiting in his room in that silly nightrail, and then practically ogling his manhood, but her embarrassment didn't outweigh her concern.

He might be passed out on a floor somewhere! She needed desperately to see that he was well.

She knew that he'd push himself. To instill confidence in his servants—his team.

But she'd witnessed his condition firsthand. He might be fevered. Any of those wounds could easily putrefy and if that was the case, she'd insist upon calling a physician.

Her anxiety came accompanied with more than a little frustration.

Stupid, stupid man!

Thoroughly worked up, Amelia glanced in the looking glass. She'd forgotten all about her hair, but her braid had held up surprisingly well overnight.

Twisting and turning, she decided she looked proper enough—from the front, anyhow. So she slipped on her shoes and rushed out of her chamber.

He was not in the study, nor was he in either of the drawing rooms or the dining room. Coming to the conclusion that he must be in the cellar, she stared at the entrance with a grimace.

Back at Cherrywood Park, Amelia's father's cellars had once been filled with her grandfather's pride and joy—an impressive stock of brandy and wine. But when times turned hard, the collection had been sold off.

In the years that followed, that wine cellar had been neglected. Amelia had ventured down only once, and that had been more than enough to satisfy her curiosity. It had been musty and damp, not to mention home to a significant spider population and perhaps a few other critters.

Squaring her shoulders nonetheless, she reached for the doorknob and, as she pulled it open, was surprised to feel a cool salty breeze.

An iron sconce, bearing a burning torch, was attached to the stone wall.

Not dark and musty after all…

Illuminating the winding stairs, the flickering light immediately dispelled most of her fears. Even if she hadn't needed to find her ‘patient', she would have been intrigued.

She didn't even mind when, after she'd descended a few steps, the heavy door closed behind her.

"Mr. Beckworth?" she called out. "Are you down here?"

Although she heard a few clanking sounds in the distance, that might have been footsteps, no one answered.

"Mr. Beckworth?" A few more steps and she was at the bottom.

Although the cellar felt a little damp, the air was surprisingly fresh. A handful of identical sconces lit the space evenly.

Tables lined most of the area, but an arched opening split one wall. If she was not mistaken, she could barely make out sounds of crashing waves in the distance.

She lifted her brows.

This was, in fact, Smuggler's Manor. Was this a secret tunnel to one of the coves?

Amelia shivered, not out of fear, but rather a tingling sort of excitement. She'd walked into Mr. Beckworth's secret domain.

She'd come this far. She might as well see where the tunnel went.

"Mr. Beckworth?"

Not really expecting an answer this time, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a familiar weight landed on her shoulder.

"Amelia?" He gave her a little squeeze. "I didn't mean to scare you."

With her heart still recovering, she slowly turned around.

If anything, the bruise on his face looked even worse today. His hair looked slightly more wild than usual and dark shadows were etched beneath his tired eyes, but other than that… "You aren't in bed." She pointed out the obvious.

"No." He laughed. "I'm not in bed."

His eyes, which had softened just a little, locked with hers.

They didn't look right through her, nor did they mock her.

She imagined stitches tying the two of them together now, rather than two separate spools of thread.

Even as she experienced that connection, an overwhelming sense of belonging warmed her insides. It was impossible to remember ever being afraid of him. Not when she felt safer with him than anywhere else.

"You should be," she finally managed, and then cleared her throat. "In bed, that is."

He shook his head. "You came to my chamber. Last night. You were waiting for me."

"Yes." Amelia licked her lips. "I wasn't sure you'd remember."

"I doubt I'll ever forget."

Her heart, which had barely recovered from being startled, was racing again. She had undressed him. She had touched him all over. "You needed someone to help you."

"I would have managed." But then he tilted his head, an enigmatic look in his eyes. "But I'm glad it was you."

Amelia swallowed hard. "Fanny told me you were up early. That you took breakfast in the dining room. Contrary to what you like to believe, you are flesh and blood like the rest of us. What were you thinking? Working as if nothing happened? Surely Mr. Fitzgerald can handle anything that comes up. Fanny told me about the accident." Her voice faltered for a moment. "That you nearly drowned." She gulped. "And I saw all those cuts and bruises. I was… worried."

Silence followed her tirade, and when she finally looked up, he was smiling.

And although she'd wanted to strangle him a few seconds earlier, she was suddenly struggling to resist his smile. Oh, how she loved his smile.

"I still am," she added, nonetheless, feeling stubborn.

With his hand still resting on her shoulder, he took a step toward her, so close that she could smell that spicy soap on him.

"You don't have to worry about me," he said.

"Someone does."

He didn't argue with this, but just stared at her, caressing her with his gaze.

She drew upon all her self control not to fall into his arms. For reasons she didn't quite understand, she felt like weeping. From relief?

But was it relief at finding him safe? Or something more than that?

Was she relieved because she'd finally found what she'd been looking for? Something she'd given up on ever finding?

"I've underestimated you, Amelia. Over and over again." His voice was gruff. "I won't do that again."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He smoothed his hand from her shoulder to her wrist, his other landing on her waist. "I haven't seen this one before." It took her a moment to realize he was referring to the dress.

"It's one that was left behind." There was that breathy voice again. By now, it sounded almost normal. "It's not even close to being fashionable," she explained nervously. Then, she stretched out one foot, showing her exposed ankles. "Not to mention it's a little short on me."

So scandalous. There was no way she could ever return to society. There was no turning back. She was utterly ruined.

He moved even closer, using the hand on her waist to guide her steps backwards with him. She didn't mind, though. She trusted him, and kept going until he had her back pressed against something hard. A table.

Without warning, he lifted her to sit on it.

What was he doing?

He took a moment to adjust her skirt, loosening it from around her legs, and stepped into the space between her thighs.

Thoroughly ruined indeed.

"I like it," he said, and she felt his fingertips skim over her bare back.