8. Undergarments and Breathing

UNDERGARMENTS AND brEATHING

A melia didn't want to rely on this man, and yet she didn't have much choice in the matter. Her body felt so heavy, black spots still danced and flickered in her vision, and her head was spinning with the sudden rush of oxygen into her lungs.

He was holding her, one arm around her shoulders as his hand rubbed circles on her chest—as though he could coax more air into her lungs.

Her thoughts switched between bewilderment and awareness, listening to that gruff voice murmuring soothing words.

Mr. Beckworth. It could only be him… the King .

"Breathe. Just breathe. I've got you…" And other things, words people didn't dare speak out loud in her presence but that were oddly soothing, nonetheless.

"My damn fault… I'm an ass… a bloody idiot…"

His rambling almost made her smile.

Instead, she did as he said, gulping in the air she'd been denied overnight.

Following her bout of tears, she'd made a few more attempts to undress. The few times she'd gotten hold of the laces, she swore she'd unintentionally tightened them… which seemed impossible, but unable to move freely to check for herself, she couldn't be sure.

As the night wore on, she'd grown more and more uncomfortable, alternating between lying down and sitting at the table. Unfortunately, Amelia had found that it was easiest to breathe while standing.

She'd gone from angry, to irritated, to frantic, and by the time a maid delivered tea very early in the morning, it was too late to be unlaced.

She would be fine, Amelia told herself. Besides, if she wasn't wearing the stays, she wouldn't fit in her gown. Best to simply endure.

She would be fine.

But then she'd climbed into the carriage where she could not stand or stretch out easily, and the corset squeezed her lungs even tighter.

It was an unexpected and pathetic kind of torture.

All because of this man. The one holding her.

But it was also her own fault.

If she'd only stopped to think before that woman had left her alone. If she hadn't been thinking of weapons and escape and what her father may or may not have done, she might have considered her practical needs.

"It was my fault," she said. How hadn't she realized how helpless she was?

The hand, warm against her chest, halted.

"That's bollocks." The mesmerizing massage resumed.

She didn't have the strength to argue, and for some amount of time—she didn't keep track of how much—both sat silently, Amelia catching her breath, Mr. Beckworth supporting her, as the coach rambled on.

There was nothing but meadows and trees and stone hedges for miles. When a few farmhouses began to appear along the road, Amelia shifted, and Mr. Beckworth's hands fell away.

She couldn't meet his eyes. Likely, she never could again. This man had cut the laces of her gown. He hadn't only seen her chemise, he'd seen her at her lowest, which was even lower than she'd been the day before.

Having regained some amount of her wits, she became aware of her own stench. Good heavens, what had become of her?

"Better?" He sounded stiff, more like the man who'd chased her in the meadow.

"Yes."

When she felt his fingertip on her chin, she had no choice but to look up.

"Look at me," he said and, out of habit, she obeyed.

His face was only inches away, and she held his gaze, but for only a moment.

That black stare of his was too intense—too unnerving. He rubbed the corner of her mouth with his thumb as he seemed to be examining her.

"I'm fine," she insisted, resorting to study the short whiskers around his mouth, his chin, and along his jaw. His mouth was grim, and her fingertips tingled. Was his lower lip as soft as it looked? She'd seen him smile, but only at her expense. Did he ever smile for the sheer joy of it?

Those massive arms had soothed her. He was a criminal, wasn't he? How did he manage to seem good and bad at the same time? Hard and soft? Kind but mean?

Was there more to him than muscles and brutal practicality?

Even limp and exhausted, looking at him, she felt things she'd never felt before. Her heart squeezed a little, and as much as she'd like to, she couldn't blame it on the corset.

Which reminded her again that she was only half dressed—in a filthy gown. One might imagine she had a nest in her hair, and she would kill for a hot bath.

Up until now, she had taken those conveniences for granted. She'd even resented Miss Henrietta. The sudden insight into her character was unsettling.

She'd never considered herself to be selfish. Had her cousin viewed her like this? Was that why Clementine wanted to leave her?

While Amelia suffered this myriad of self-revelations, Mr. Beckworth had opened the window to address the driver, and a moment later the carriage came to a halt. From what she could see, they'd not quite arrived at the next village.

With some of her fear creeping back in, Amelia backed into the corner, hiding her back, holding her gown up. She needed…

She couldn't begin to catalogue all her needs in that moment.

Mr. Beckworth, however, had already opened the door, looking quite purposeful, really.

"That gown, I think, is done for," he said. He paused, the wind ruffling his black hair, looking momentarily torn. Standing just outside the door, fists on his hips, he tilted his head back and when he leveled it again, let out a loud breath. "Give me your word," he said. "That you aren't going to try anything stupid."

For most of her life, no one ever consulted her regarding… anything, really. So she oughtn't feel so untethered.

Except she was a prisoner. No matter how kind Mr. Beckworth might seem now, he'd taken her against her will.

He wanted her to promise she wouldn't try escaping again. In answer, she gulped out a very unladylike sound. She doubted she could walk right now, let alone run.

But he was serious.

He was speaking her language, so to speak.

So she slowly nodded. "You have my word." She held his gaze. She'd been raised to believe that honor meant everything. What did it mean now?

She rolled her lips together. She couldn't promise she'd never try running again, but for now, it seemed best to wait until she was feeling more herself.

And dressed properly.

After a few seconds, he winced, dipped his chin and then disappeared.

Outside, horses had gathered on the side of the road.

She'd known they weren't traveling alone, but knowing there were at least five riders shuffling a few yards away, plus the driver and possibly an outrider, she marveled that she'd been brave enough to even try getting away the day before.

She hadn't been acting bravely, or enacted any sort of plan. She'd simply had the thought of jumping out and acted upon it.

And Mr. Beckworth was not wrong. She was lucky she hadn't really hurt herself.

Luck! Was that what it was? She barely contained another gulp of what could easily turn into hysterical laughter.

Male voices drifted through the windows. It was odd, being surrounded by men when all her life she'd been protected from them. Even odder, she didn't really care.

Gravelly footsteps heralded Mr. Beckworth's return. When he appeared, he wasn't emptyhanded.

"It's the best we can do for now." He tossed some garments inside and then glanced sideways before turning back to explain. "I'd stop at the next inn so you could rest, but we don't have time." He managed to almost sound apologetic. "You should be able to get some sleep tonight, though." His black as night stare flicked to her gown, he shook his head, and then closed the door.

Momentarily stunned, Amelia realized he was allowing her privacy to change.

Time she was wasting.

Grappling with the pile of fabric, Amelia held up what looked to be a man's shirt and then a pair of breeches. They were too small to belong to Mr. Beckworth, but she'd still swim in them.

Without knowing how long he would give her, however, she forced her limbs, still heavy from her little breathing attack, into action.

In his urgency to help her, he'd ripped out not only the buttons, but also a few seams. As she wrestled her arms out of her sleeves, and then the rest of herself out of what remained of the gown, Amelia couldn't help but agree that it was, indeed, "done for." Even the pillows in her bell sleeves seemed deflated.

He'd done equal damage to her stays, which, with a little wiggling, she was able to peel right off her front.

Wearing nothing but her chemise, she tossed the rest onto the floor. Staring at the wretched mess, she found it oddly symbolic. Of the season. Of her future.

She quickly dismissed the notion, however, because Mr. Beckworth would return any moment.

After peeking out the window and seeing a few of the men loitering nearby, she donned the breeches and then, crouching on the floor, made a hasty switch into the shirt, not folding the chemise until she was sure she'd covered herself completely.

Only then did she crawl back onto the bench.

Shifting, she adjusted the men's garment around her middle, and then faced forward. Despite the foreign sensation of having fabric wrapped around her thighs, the ensemble was surprisingly comfortable.

"Are you presentable?" A voice rumbled from outside—Mr. Beckworth's.

"Yes." Amelia sat up straight and, keeping her eyes downward, stared at her knees, which were pressed together.

It was odd, seeing the outline of her legs individually. But for the first time since being abducted, she wasn't terrified, or embarrassed, or uncomfortable.

The door opened, and although Mr. Beckworth peered inside, scowling now, he made no move to join her.

His demeanor had changed. Was he angry that they'd had to stop? Annoyed that her little problem had inconvenienced them so?

Feeling a cold sort of tension, Amelia lifted her chin. She might be wearing men's clothing, but she was still a lady.

Always a lady.

Besides, if he was irritated about her presence, he only had himself to blame.

"Can't do anything about your shoes," he said, sounding the opposite of apologetic as he eyed her up and down. "A good fit, though. Fitz will never hear the end of it when the others see you, poor bastard."

"Fitz? As in Mr. Fitzgerald?"

"Fitzherbert, I believe." Lines appeared between his eyes. "Not sure, really. We've always just called him Fitz." He glanced away again, but then added, "My… associate." Another pause. "The original owner of the clothes that you're wearing."

She had noticed Mr. Beckworth speaking with a smaller man on a few occasions. "Why will he… never hear the end of it?"

The corner of Mr. Beckworth's mouth twitched. "Because they look so much better on you." But he was already glowering again.

He lifted his hands just then and, reaching inside, placed a rolled blanket on the seat beside her and then snagged the pile of her discarded clothing.

Was he afraid she'd don them by herself and make another attempt to run away? She didn't offer any protest, and although it was, in fact, "done for," she still winced at the demise of her only dress.

"We'll stop to change out the horses in the next village." He was all seriousness now. "You'll be allowed a few minutes to clean up." His gaze locked with hers. "Don't make me regret trusting your word."

Amelia was learning he had a particular type of disdain for the concept of honor, and even as he relied upon hers, he did nothing to hide his obvious doubt.

Her word was going to have to be good enough.

For now.

"I won't make you regret it," she answered. Today.

"Good." And without waiting for her to respond to that, he closed the door, leaving her alone in the carriage, absent his sturdy legs blocking her escape, no lock to keep her from flinging the door open.

But they were both wiser now. He to her inclinations, and she to the limitations of her own abilities. She was outnumbered. And drat it all, she had , in fact, given him her word.

A few minutes later, the coach was moving again, and the remainder of the day proved to be… surprisingly restful, if not a little boring and a little lonely.

Twice, she was escorted into various inns and, judging by the reverence afforded Mr. Beckworth and his men, she could only assume he was their "King" as well.

Those stops were short but efficient and, a few curious looks notwithstanding, no one said anything to Amelia about her unusual ensemble.

Without Mr. Beckworth's huge body taking up half of the bench, she had enough room to lie down somewhat comfortably. She used the blanket as a makeshift pillow, and napped on and off as the miles passed.

Which was heaps easier while wearing breeches. In fact, everything she did was easier. Sitting. Lying down. She could even sit with her legs crossed.

They were so very… freeing.

Lulled by the motion of the carriage, and with no one to talk to, the time inevitably led her to contemplate how she'd come to be in this position.

Not only her status as a prisoner, but… her overall position in the grand scheme of things.

Born into the nobility, she had always been aware that she'd been afforded great privileges, far beyond anything experienced by the lower classes. She had always known this logically, as a fact, and she was grateful for all the benefits of that privilege.

But…

What would it be like to never wear stays again? To never have to sip tepid lemonade and smile at jokes that weren't funny? To not have to agree with gentlemen who spouted supposed wisdom she knew was mostly nonsense?

She was a privileged lady, but she was also a person .

Amelia rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling of the carriage and grimaced.

She had never once had to wonder where her next meal would come from. She'd never had to go without, well, anything, really.

All the same, however, her choices were so very, very limited. And having opened the door to this introspection, Amelia objectively considered her upbringing.

She'd been deliberately taught how to walk, how to talk, how to eat. And when her governess had found fault in Amelia's posture, she'd been forcibly taught how to sit!

Just after Amelia turned twelve, her least favorite governess—Mrs. Farnsworth—had convinced Amelia's mother to purchase a "steel back," insisting that wearing the metal contraption for a minimum of four hours a day would promote an elegant deportment and a swan-like neck in her daughter.

And if four hours was the prescribed length of time to see normal results, her mother had reasoned that six hours would prove even more effective.

At the time, it had felt like torture, but that wasn't the worst of it.

Amelia had been taught how to think. Or, more accurately, told what to think. And in some cases, told not to think at all.

If she had been born into the working class, she would have been expected to find some kind of employment—as a teacher, a governess, or perhaps a companion.

And that thought summoned bittersweet memories of the time she'd spent with the only companion she'd been allowed other than her maid: her cousin.

Clementine, who'd come to Amelia's parents when she'd had nowhere else to turn, had been more than a paid companion to her, she'd been a friend, or a sister even. In the time spent together, Amelia had confided in Clementine, shared secrets she couldn't tell anyone else.

Oh, how they had laughed! Amelia had learned how to have fun with Clementine.

And then Clementine ruined everything by seducing Amelia's intended, the Marquess of Winterhope.

Amelia rolled to face the back of the bench. The sun was low on the horizon; it would be dark soon.

It wasn't that Amelia had been enamored with Lord Winterhope, but he had seemed kind enough, and although he dressed more flamboyantly than she'd have liked, and had an unusual fascination with horses, he hadn't repulsed her. More importantly, he'd had an agreement with her father. He'd promised to propose to Amelia at his Autumn house party.

And then, he'd married Clementine instead.

Clementine, the person Amelia trusted more than anyone else, her one true friend—or so she'd believed.

Losing Clementine had hurt far more than losing Lord Winterhope.

Initially, Amelia had believed the betrayal was an innocent one, that Clementine had, in truth, fallen in love with the marquess. They were both mad about horses, after all, and Clementine was fun, and lively, and pretty.

Clementine had grown up working with her father in his stables, running around in breeches, doing whatever she'd pleased. Having Clementine come into Amelia's life had opened another world for her—for both of them, apparently.

But according to Amelia's mother, Clementine had been sneaking out at night to meet with the marquess. She'd said she'd warned Clementine to put an end to it more than once.

Amelia hadn't believed it at first.

But then Amelia and her parents were leaving the house party early.

And when Amelia asked, Clementine refused to turn over Margie, Amelia's cat—a somewhat feisty calico, left to Amelia upon her grandmother's death. True, Margie had proven more than a little difficult, but so had her grandmother.

And Amelia had loved her grandmother.

But she had much larger troubles to contend with presently.

Troubles she'd face later.

Amelia closed her eyes and didn't open them until the coach stopped for the night.