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6. Too Many Questions

TOO MANY QUESTIONS

A melia stared outside. The sun was shining again, something she'd normally appreciate, but after her dismal failure of an escape attempt, she didn't feel much like appreciating anything. To make matters even worse, her gown was now covered in mud and other unmentionable substances, and those dratted poofy bell sleeves had become soaked and heavy.

Blasted Mister Beckworth!

She'd never been a rebellious sort—at all—in fact she was more than accustomed to following orders. But this was different. He was a highwayman!

What else could she do but assume the worst? With that in mind, when she'd seen the opportunity, she'd taken it. She rubbed her arms and stretched her ankles, both sore and scraped up, but not really injured. Yes, she'd fallen hard, when she'd landed on the road and then again in the meadow.

The second time had been worse. Even now, heat ebbed up her neck.

Of course, he'd come right after her. Caught up with her, thrown her to the ground, and then… landed on top of her. It had been degrading and humiliating.

"Don't even think about trying to escape again." Mr. Beckworth lifted his feet to rest on the opposite seat, effectively blocking her exit if she decided to throw herself out the door again.

"I didn't think about trying to escape the first time." Which was true…

"Obviously," he answered dryly.

"You're very rude, you know."

"Don't expect anything different."

Amelia's mouth dropped open. He wasn't apologetic at all—the uncouth, beastly, unfairly handsome villain!

He chuckled at her lack of a retort, but when she ought to feel insulted, instead, the husky sound of his laugh struck her differently.

He wasn't pretentious, that was for sure. And he might be unsophisticated… Could she use this to her advantage somehow?

But then he changed the subject.

"Your Season doesn't kick off for nearly a month," he mentioned casually. Too casually ? He wasn't a member of the aristocracy or even a gentleman. "Odd, isn't it, that you'd travel to the city so early."

She paused before answering.

She didn't trust him, but maybe if she cooperated, he might tell her something, provide her with some explanation for why all this was happening.

Or even let her go!

"My father had urgent business," she answered.

"With Crossings?"

Again, she paused, deciding how much she should say… "They have a partnership of sorts. Are you working for him?"

Rather than answer, he asked, "You know about their arrangement, then?"

Amelia rolled her lips together. "The duke has come to Cherrywood Park a few times." She shrugged. "My father was right, then? You are working for him?"

"Possibly."

"Did he hire you to stop us?"

His gaze homed in on her. "You ask too many questions."

"Of course I do!" The backs of her eyes burned. She wanted to insult him somehow, but insults didn't come naturally to her. Ladies don't hurl insults.

Besides, what good would it do?

It might make you feel a little better , a little voice whispered from within. Of course, she ignored it.

Because she needed to keep her wits about her.

In the ensuing silence, Amelia thought back to the few times she'd met the Duke of Crossings. He'd seemed rigid and uncompromising, but he was the only duke she'd ever met. Weren't they all that way?

She hadn't thought much of it at the time.

But then Dashiell's image jumped into her mind. Her father's only son and heir, and Amelia's brother, Viscount Warbane.

He'd been home that same week the duke had visited. When she'd asked Dash to tell her about his endeavors—about their father's plantation—he'd brushed her off.

Following Dashiell's and the duke's departures, however, Amelia had overheard her mother complaining about some payments…

It was a puzzle, one for which she'd only been given a few of the pieces.

But she knew her father all too well and, unfortunately, when it came to his position in society, her father believed the ends justified the means.

Not that he wasn't a decent man—or the best father he could be—but as she'd grown older, she'd come to see him for who he was: a man who valued appearances almost more than life itself. And in order to keep up appearances, he needed deep coffers.

And he needed his daughter to marry well.

Which was her duty—a duty she'd always known she would uphold. Even if that meant marrying a man she could never love—a man like Lord Northwoods.

But would she have? The thought made her insides flip.

"How much do you know about your father's business?" Mr. Beckworth asked.

Amelia blinked. This had nothing to do with her—she was only a pawn—but it was her move, and she needed to focus on the issue at hand.

"He…respects the Duke of Crossings, of course. Doesn't everyone?" If this man was reporting back to the duke, it might be wise to ensure his report showed her father in the best light possible. This might be some sort of test, and as long as her father passed it, she was safe, wasn't she?

She would be a fool not to exercise some caution, but despite what she knew logically, she was almost inclined to believe that Mr. Beckworth hadn't been lying when he'd said he wouldn't harm her—not intentionally anyhow.

Without meaning to, Amelia recalled her mother's outrage as she'd watched a strange man carry Amelia away. Everyone knew that being unchaperoned with a gentleman for a significant period of time could prove ruinous.

It was nearly a certainty, actually.

And already… several hours had passed. From what Mr. Beckworth had said, she'd be gone days, if not longer.

Not even Northwoods would overlook her being alone with a strange man for such an extended time.

Ironic hope lifted her heart momentarily. If there was one consolation to this unexpected turn of events, it was that missing the Season might be a distinct possibility.

Amelia pinched her mouth together to keep from giving her thoughts away.

Because she wouldn't mind missing the Season—or Lord Northwoods' proposal—or any other demands her parents might make.

No, she wouldn't mind it at all.

As long as this highwayman didn't decide to kill her. Or worse!

Dizzy at all her thoughts, she slanted him a suspicious glance.

He answered with an equally suspicious smirk, but then crossed his arms over his massive chest, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.

In the ensuing hours, Amelia stared out the window, fairly certain they were travelling south, but to where? It was an endless patchwork of stone fences, meadows, and trees. And more sheep than she could count.

Would one really have attacked her? Unwilling to entertain that possibility, she dragged her stare to the food basket resting innocently on the opposite bench.

She hadn't eaten anything that day but a single slice of toast and a cup of tea. And, as much as she hated admitting Mr. Beckworth was right, she did, in fact, need to keep up her strength. Doing otherwise would be foolish.

So, careful to make as little noise as possible, she opened the lid and downed as much food as her stays allowed. When she caught him watching her for a second, she ignored him. But even though he'd closed his eyes, it was a reminder that she was still his prisoner.

Her hands were scratched from falling in the meadow, her knees likely bruised, and her gown torn and soiled. She refused to believe the stains were anything other than mud.

None of this was fair.

Something deflated inside of her, and tired of the passing scenery, she gave in to the urge to study this man beside her.

He had no business looking so attractive.

Even at rest, he appeared hard and unyielding. No wonder her knees ached!

How did he get those scars? And why did they only add to his appeal? Unlike most gentlemen, his nose was slightly crooked. She suspected he'd broken it more than once, or had it broken for him. Even so, his face was uniquely beautiful. Distinctive. Reflecting a map of his past.

Again, she marveled at the unfairness of this entire situation.

As the day wore on, they stopped a few times. Mr. Beckworth was "kind" enough to allow her to relieve herself behind some shrubs or a bush. He'd issued a stern warning each time, however, not to try anything stupid.

Which wasn't really necessary, considering she was quite unaccustomed to managing the task without assistance, what with her elaborate skirts and petticoats—not to mention fighting the grip of her corset—an undergarment she would have left off while traveling if not for her mother's insistence.

Those stops were short and few, and just as she feared he intended to travel through the night, the glow of an inn beckoned. Amelia barely contained an exclamation of relief when the coach rambled to a stop in their stable yard.

A coaching inn would be filled with other people. She could find help here, couldn't she? From the inn keeper, his wife, or even one of the other guests?

The perfect scenario would be to escape, and then take refuge there until the end of the Season.

But the idea was squashed before it could fully form when, gripping her elbow, Mr. Beckworth marched her past the entrance to the lively pub, across the muddy yard, and around the corner to a small but steep staircase that was attached to the exterior of one of the buildings. Obviously familiar with the establishment, he'd apparently planned ahead.

They climbed to a small landing, where he unlocked a door and preceded her inside. With no fumbling whatsoever, he found several candles and illuminated a large chamber with a vaulted ceiling—and a canopied bed up against the far wall.

The massive bed set off an altogether different sort of panic. "No!" she said. "Absolutely not." If he thought for one minute that she would?—

"Don't flatter yourself," he said, a smirk hiding on one corner of his mouth as he backed toward the door. "I don't bed unwilling women."

So he didn't?—?

"Oh." She was too tired to feel relief.

"Go to bed, Lady Amelia," he mocked. "Be ready to leave at first light."

"Good night." But she was talking to the door; he'd already gone. Alone now, she rushed forward, only to discover he'd locked it behind him.

Of course he had. She was a prisoner, after all.

And she was alone—for the first time all day. Really, for the first time in… years.

Testing the unexpected solitude, she stepped quietly across the room, dragging her fingertips over the gleaming wardrobe, then the table, and the back of one of the two chairs. A small desk and chair took up one corner, and two small end tables sat like book ends at the head of the bed. A subtle scent of lemon oil teased her senses. The room was clean. She was grateful for that, at least.

All in all, the chamber was, in fact, fit for nobility.

Emboldened, she climbed onto the tall bed and bounced a little on the mattress, confirming that it was thick and firm. From what she could tell, the counterpane was freshly washed.

This room was nice. Better than the ones her father rented.

But the stillness was oddly unsettling. For as long as she could remember, a nurse or governess or, more recently, her maid had accompanied her. Even when she was alone, there was always someone nearby.

Her favorite companion had been her cousin, Clementine, until Clem…

But she didn't want to think about that.

A knock at the door broke the stillness. The subsequent turning of the lock had her jumping off the bed in case it was Mr. Beckworth returning.

But it was an older woman instead.

Amelia was definitely not disappointed when an older woman appeared instead. That little drop of her stomach was something else.

Right. Because Mr. Beckworth was a beast.

Amelia blinked, confused.

The woman who entered was small and sturdy-looking, but not quite elderly. She wore her gray hair in a messy knot at the back of her head, and her blue eyes were watery, her skin rough and lined.

She had not come empty-handed. A large tray was balanced on one hand, and from it rose the scent of fresh baked bread and something savory enough to make Amelia's stomach grumble.

"Welcome to the King's Inn," the woman offered, her voice rough.

"Thank you," Amelia answered. But now wasn't the time for pleasantries. The door had closed behind the maid, but it wasn't locked. Contrary to Amelia's earlier leap from the carriage, this moment might, in fact, be a very real opportunity for escape.

Even if she was without money, transportation, and had no idea where they were…

"There are two large fellows guarding the bottom of the steps, miss."

Rather than lurch for the door, Amelia decided to try a different tactic. She widened her eyes pitifully and pursed her lips into something of a pout.

"Won't you help me?" Amelia asked.

She was a young lady in considerable danger; it should be a simple matter to engender some sympathy.

"I'm sorry, miss."

"It doesn't bother you that I'm here against my will?"

Seemingly unaffected, the woman turned her back and placed the burdensome tray on the table. She lifted a cover off one of the plates and, although Amelia hadn't thought she would be hungry, she felt her stomach growl. It looked to be some sort of meat stew with cooked vegetables and a dark gravy. There was also a decanter half-filled with wine and gleaming utensils, a fork and a spoon, but no knife.

When her would-be rescuer turned around to face Amelia, she brushed her hands together impatiently. "I'm paid well enough not to be bothered."

"But—"

"When I say this is the King's Inn, I'm referring to Mr. Beckworth. If he's taken you into his protection, rest assured, it's for your own good. Now. You've fresh water in the pitcher on the dresser. Wine and dinner. Unless you have need of anything else, I've a pub filled with hungry travelers to tend to."

Amelia blinked, not quite believing her ears. "You are aware, aren't you, that addressing Mr. Beckworth as king is treasonous?"

"For your lot, perhaps. But for us commoners, the one who pays our wages is king." Obviously eager to get back to her other patrons, the woman, who was already halfway out the door, paused for just a moment. "He is a good man, mostly. You've nothing to fear."

"Right." Amelia pinched her mouth together. A good man would never accost an innocent lady. A good man would never have slapped her on the bottom.

Twice.

Catching Amelia's skepticism, the woman frowned. "Do as he says, and you've nothing to worry about. I'll have tea sent up before dawn. He's not one to tolerate delays."

On the heels of that, she closed the door, and Amelia wasn't surprised when she heard the locks slide back into place.

Badgers and bollocks! The words, uninvited, slipped into her thoughts. She'd heard her brother mutter them on more than one occasion but hadn't dared voice them herself.

Ever.

Only… perhaps her present circumstances merited a little vulgarity.

"Badgers and bollocks," she whispered.

The sky didn't fall, nor was she transported to hell. Instead, she experienced a noticeable amount of satisfaction.

She cleared her throat. "Badgers and bollocks." This time her voice echoed around the chamber.

"Badgers and bollocks!" she yelled.

There was no one to hear her. No one to even care.

No one to admonish her and no one to aid her.

Amelia sighed, as much as she was able to with the pressure around her ribs.

Straightening, she paced across the room and then back to the table, trying to remember other curses that might be equally satisfying. None came to mind.

She glanced from the food the maid had brought up, to the bed, and then down at her gown, soiled from the day's events. After the day she'd had, Amelia wanted nothing more than to climb under the counterpane and bury her head under the pillow, but not like this.

And she should eat first, but that too would be far more comfortable without the constraint of her?—

Her corset! It tied in the back.

A fluttery breath escaped between her lips.

She had never undressed herself—she'd never needed to—but that didn't mean she couldn't do it now, did it?

Optimistic at first, she reached around to her back to unfasten her gown. It was a fumbling, frustrating, and unsuccessful attempt as the hooks eluded her grasping fingers. The muscles in her arms burned from one failed attempt after another, and she felt panic rising in her throat.

This wasn't working. Perhaps…

Gathering her skirts and reaching up underneath them, Amelia tried to get at the strings of her corset instead, feeling foolish. The puffy sleeves were unwieldy, and the stays obstructed her movement far too much, keeping her spine unhelpfully rigid.

She could not do this. There was no possible way.

All the while, the woman's parting words taunted her…

"Unless you have need of anything else…"

But the inn keeper—or barmaid or whatever she was—was long gone.

The hour was late. Amelia was locked in a room alone. And in the end, her arms simply gave out. She had no choice but to sleep in this stupid gown, squeezed into her stupid corset, in this stupidly beautiful chamber!

Even worse, the food on the table mocked her. Because, if she ate, or even drank, the corset would be only more uncomfortable.

It was the final straw.

Defeated and broken, she threw herself face down onto the comfortable mattress. She then buried her face in the coverlet and sobbed.

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