37. Holding Hands

HOLDING HANDS

I t wasn't the sound that woke her, or the light. It was the rush of cold air.

And the feeling that someone was looking at her.

But when she opened her eyes…

Was she dreaming?

"Mr.—" Her voice sounded more like a croak. She tried again. "Mr. Beckworth?"

Dark eyes softened, and in them, she saw everything she ever wanted.

She was definitely dreaming.

"Amelia."

But wait. Amelia blinked in confusion. She was still lying in the back of the farmer's cart that Lord Winterhope had tucked her into. And it hadn't left The Goat's Tail's stable yet. Against her belly, there was a warm circle of fluffy warmth. Margie. Margie had climbed into the cart with her and was resting her soft little chin on Amelia's bent arm.

"Meow."

Amelia blinked. "I?—"

But if she wasn't dreaming. That meant…

"What are you doing here?" Her greeting didn't really express anything of what she wanted to tell him. She wanted to throw herself into his arms. Hold him. Kiss him. Beg him to…

Love her.

"What are you doing in there?" The corner of his mouth hitched up in that teasing smile that never failed to make her swoon just a little.

"I was going back to Smuggler's Manor." To prove how much he meant to her . But she couldn't have this conversation properly while curled up with her cat, with him staring down at her.

She couldn't even begin to throw herself in his arms from this position.

Grunting and twisting, Amelia went to sit up. When Mr. Beckworth reached in to help her, taking his hand felt like the most natural thing in the world.

His touch felt like home.

"Maybe I should just throw you over my shoulder again. I cannot believe you would try something like this." Mr. Beckworth seemed to be mumbling to himself more than to her.

And then he literally hauled her out of the cart.

Not for the first time, she marveled at his strength while Margie scurried off so fast that a person could hardly distinguish her as a cat.

Knowing this wasn't a dream, but still feeling like it ought to be, Amelia kept hold of his hand, running her thumb over one of his scars.

With a million words running through her head, she couldn't put any of them together. Love. Here. Those dark-as-night eyes. So beautiful.

Mine.

But he was staring at her, waiting for an answer.

"I was following rule number one." In the end, it was the easiest confession to make.

"No, I was following rule number one." His throat moved and his voice sounded full of emotion.

Amelia took hold of his other hand, staring down at both of them.

She.

Was.

Holding his hands.

He. Was. Here.

She licked her lips and tipped her head back to see his eyes again. Rule number one: you come to me. Amelia smiled teasingly. "Well, there's where you went wrong. That rule's for me, not for you."

He chuckled, but his eyes were swirling with some deeper emotion, almost a darker black than usual. "We'll have to make an exception, then. I… needed to talk to you." His chest rose and he winced a little. His hand twitched, and she instinctively knew he would have combed it through his hair if she hadn't been holding it.

"Yes," she agreed. "We should have talked—before."

He shook his head. "I meant to, but then…"

She nodded. "Everything happened so fast."

And by everything , she meant everything since the moment they'd met. Going from thinking he was a person to fear, to trusting him, to wanting him, and now loving him.

And still, she couldn't be sure that he felt the same.

But he was here now, and he was right. They needed to talk. But first…

"Kiss me?" she asked, rising onto her toes to meet him halfway.

She didn't have to wait for an answer, because he was already there.

"Hell yes." He growled the words against her mouth right before his tongue dipped between her lips. Nothing about this kiss was tentative or rushed. And although his taste was more exciting than ever, it was also delicious and familiar.

He was her home.

She squeezed his hands, humming a little, straining to be closer.

She could never get close enough. His calloused fingers squeezed right back, and every inch of her skin felt like singing. Mr. Beckworth .

There was nothing proper about her feelings for this man. She wanted to climb him—cling to him with her arms and her legs.

She would have been scared of these feelings if she'd had them for anyone else.

She couldn't imagine feeling these feelings for anyone but him.

One of the horses nearby let out a sharp whinny, reminding them where they were. In public.

Mr. Beckwith stilled, breaking the kiss. Amelia relaxed and dropped her forehead onto his shoulder. She felt the rise and fall of his chest as they breathed in tandem.

Talk. They were going to talk.

"I can't believe you're here," she said. And then she forced herself to stand on her own. She met his gaze directly.

Staring back, he seemed as determined to keep hold of her hands as she was to never let go.

He narrowed his eyes a little, not in a suspicious way but in the way that she knew meant he was thinking. "Come with me," he finally said.

He dropped one of her hands but maintained his grip on the other, leading her out of the carriage house.

But when she realized he intended to take her into the inn, she stopped, refusing to follow blindly. "My mother's inside."

"I know. I have private quarters, though. Downstairs."

Of course. He owned this inn!

And knowing they would finally have the privacy she'd craved the evening before, she practically skipped alongside him.

Passing through an entrance she hadn't noticed earlier, they strolled through a long corridor. He took a moment to unlock a door at the end and then ushered her into a clean and well-furnished chamber. Dropping her hand, he seemed to be waiting for her approval.

It wasn't luxurious, but it was practical. The chairs looked sturdy and comfortable, and the bed, big and soft.

If she were to choose the perfect place to have this conversation, it very well might be this room.

Strong and cozy. A little like this man. "I like it."

"Good."

Moving with purpose now, Mr. Beckworth pulled two chairs together, facing one another, and then asked if she'd like to sit.

He didn't order her to.

He asked.

"Thank you," she said, drinking in his graceful motions as he lowered himself onto the opposite seat.

After a moment of pregnant silence, he was the first to speak.

"I assumed you wouldn't want to stay at Smuggler's Manor—that you wouldn't want to stay with me. It was stupid. I could blame it on Winterhope and your mother, but it was me." He leaned forward, and his knees pressed into hers. "The first time I saw you wasn't the day I… kidnapped you."

"You didn't kidnap me," Amelia pointed out. "You were doing a favor for a friend."

He cocked one brow. "Winterhope and I aren't really…" But then he winced. "Maybe you are right. But I'd seen you before. And you were… The second I saw you, I wanted you. I'd never felt like that about anyone. But you were Lady Amelia Crowley and therefore, utterly untouchable. Completely out of reach. Up until then, I was all too aware that society believed itself above the likes of me, but I didn't care. I always knew where I stood. Their rules didn't matter to me. But that day, they mattered. I hated feeling like that. I hated that they mattered."

"I'm so sorry." Amelia took his hands again. "I don't remember."

"You wouldn't have. I'm rather good at making myself invisible. But what I'm trying to say is…" He dropped his gaze. She had never seen him so uncertain.

She didn't like it.

"Yesterday, when you came downstairs, you were her again. I believed that lie again. I believed that you were one of them. And you are, I know that, but I also know you are different." He smiled a little. "Hell, maybe Winterhope is too."

"I am different. That version of me, the one you saw, she was the daughter my parents expected me to be. She was rather like that corset, and I don't want to wear her again." Amelia didn't know how to say what she meant, but the words felt right. "I am… Amelia. And that's who I will be from now on." It was such a simple declaration, but one that had upended and rearranged her whole life in a frighteningly short amount of time.

Mr. Beckworth hummed, stroking the backs of her hands. She could practically see him turning her words over in his mind, examining them with care. "I don't pretend to understand Society," he said. "But if you come back to Smuggler's Manor—if you come with me—I'm not sure you can ever go back."

Amelia met his gaze steadily. "I choose to go with you. Society can hang." But suddenly she was nervous all over again. Because she needed to know. And she didn't want to play games.

Not with this.

"I want to return because I love you. But only—" She swallowed around a suddenly massive lump of emotion lodged in her throat. "Only if you love me too. Not in a general sort of way, but in a… forever sort of way."

She held her breath, meeting his gaze, hoping she didn't look as desperate as she was.

"Of course I love you." His nostrils flared. "And not just in a ‘forever sort of way', but in an I'd die for you, eternal sort of way."

Amelia's heart trembled. "Good." She could barely squeeze the word out past all the joy filling her up, head to toe.

And then, he did the one thing she had not expected, not in all of her imaginings of this moment, from anxious dread to hopeful optimism. He slid off the chair, kicked it out from behind him, and dropped onto one knee.

"Will you marry me?" His loving eyes had never looked more earnest.

"This isn't because I'm ruined, is it?" she asked. He had said he loved her—but she wanted to be sure. "You deserve a choice in this just as much as I do."

"Nothing could ruin you, love."

"Then my answer is yes." She burst into a smile. "Oh, yes!"

They had covered the important matters and had all the time in the world to discuss everything else. Aching for him, she needed something more tangible.

Mr. Beckworth seemed to feel the same. Because he ducked his head, wrapped one arm around her waist and lifted her out of the chair. Hanging over his shoulder, she grunted out a laugh. Was that his hand on her bottom again?

This morning, rather than carry her into the forest, he was heading for the bed.

"You aren't getting away from me this time," he said, his voice gruff. "My love."

She smiled to herself, so, so very happy.

"I didn't really want to before." And then she added, "My dear Mr. Beckworth."