The sky was a bruise of purple and gold when Eleanor slipped out of Ashwood Manor, her boots crunching against the frost-kissed gravel. The storm had spent itself in the night, leaving the air sharp and cold, her breath curling in wisps as she made her way to the cliffs. She'd barely slept, her mind tangled with Julian's note and the audacity of his challenge. Dawn by the cliffs. Bring your sharpest tongue. The man had nerve, she'd give him that.
She'd dressed for battle—riding breeches beneath a heavy wool skirt, a fitted jacket buttoned to her throat, and her auburn hair pinned tightly beneath a cap. No delicate silks or fluttering ribbons today. If Captain Harrow wanted a duel, he'd get one, and she'd not be hampered by frippery.
The cliffs loomed ahead, jagged and wild, the sea below a restless murmur. She spotted him before he saw her—his silhouette stark against the rising sun, his naval coat flapping in the wind. He stood near the edge, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the horizon as if it held answers she couldn't fathom. For a moment, she hesitated, struck by the solitude of him. Then he turned, and the spell broke.
"Lady Eleanor," he called, his voice carrying over the wind. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
She strode forward, stopping a few paces from him. "And miss the chance to skewer you with my tongue? Never."
His lips twitched, that maddening half-smile she was beginning to recognize. "Good. I'd hate to think I misjudged you."
"You have," she said, planting her hands on her hips. "You think a week will bend me to your will? I've broken stronger men in less time."
"Stronger, perhaps," he replied, stepping closer. "But not smarter. You're not dealing with a fop or a fool, Eleanor. I've faced cannon fire and mutiny. Your barbs are child's play."
Her name on his lips—stripped of title, raw and intimate—sent a shiver down her spine. She masked it with a scoff. "Bold words for a man who's yet to prove himself. Tell me, Captain, what's your game? You spoke of strategy last night. What's Ashwood to you, truly?"
He studied her, his gray eyes piercing. The wind tugged at his hair, revealing the scar along his jaw more clearly—a thin, silvered line that spoke of violence survived. "You want the truth?" he said at last. "Or a pretty lie to soothe your pride?"
"The truth," she snapped. "I'm no delicate flower to be coddled."
"Very well." He turned back to the sea, his voice dropping. "Ashwood's harbor is deep, sheltered. During the war, it was a smuggler's haven—French wine, Spanish gold, secrets traded under the navy's nose. I hunted those bastards for years, lost good men to their ambushes. Now the war's over, but the game hasn't ended. There's power in this coast, Eleanor, and I mean to claim it."
She stared at him, her mind racing. "You're no hero, then. You're a profiteer."
He laughed, a low, rough sound. "Heroism's a myth for poets. I'm a pragmatist. The navy gave me a title and a pension, but it's the sea that made me rich. Ashwood's my foothold—a base to control what's left of the trade routes."
"And I'm your key to it," she said, bitterness lacing her words. "A convenient bride to legitimize your schemes."
"You're more than that," he countered, facing her fully now. "You're a wildcard. I could've bought land elsewhere, wed a meek little heiress who'd nod and simper. But you—" He paused, his gaze raking over her, bold and unapologetic. "You're a fire I can't predict. That's why I gave you a week. I want you willing, not broken.
Her breath hitched, caught between fury and something dangerously close to intrigue. "You'll wait a lifetime for that, Captain."
"Julian," he corrected, stepping closer still. The space between them shrank to a heartbeat. "If we're to spar, use my name. I'm not your superior officer."
"Yet you act like it," she shot back, refusing to retreat. "Ordering me here, setting terms—"
"You came of your own accord," he interrupted, his voice a velvet blade. "And you're still standing here, aren't you?"
She glared up at him, her pulse pounding. He was too close—close enough to smell the salt and leather on him, to see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw. His eyes held hers, daring her to flinch, to run. She wouldn't. Not yet.
"Why the cliffs?" she demanded, shifting the ground beneath them. "Why meet here?"
He gestured to the edge, where the earth dropped away to the sea. "This is where it started. Five years ago, I chased a smuggler's sloop into that harbor. Lost my first mate to a musket ball, nearly lost my ship to the rocks. I swore I'd never let this coast slip through my fingers again."
The confession disarmed her, if only for a moment. She followed his gaze to the water, imagining the chaos—the cannon smoke, the screams, the blood staining the waves. "And now you're back," she said quietly. "To conquer it."
"To claim it," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" She turned back to him, her voice hardening. "Because from where I stand, it looks like you're conquering me along with it."
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of her cap where a stray curl had escaped. The touch was fleeting, deliberate, and it sent a jolt through her she couldn't suppress. "If I wanted to conquer you," he murmured, "I wouldn't be standing here talking."
She slapped his hand away, her cheeks flaming. "Don't touch me."
He stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his eyes glinted with amusement. "As you wish. But you'll have to get used to me, Eleanor. Six days left, and I'm not going anywhere."
"We'll see about that," she retorted, turning on her heel. "Enjoy your cliffs, Julian. I've better things to do than freeze for your amusement."
She marched back toward the manor, her heart hammering against her ribs. His laughter followed her, low and infuriating, carried on the wind. She didn't look back, but she felt his gaze on her every step of the way.
By the time she reached her chamber, the sun had fully risen, painting the room in soft light. Pippa was there, fussing with a tray of tea and scones, her round face creased with worry. "Milady! Where've you been? You're half-frozen!"
"Out," Eleanor said curtly, peeling off her cap and shaking out her hair. "And I'm fine."
Pippa clucked her tongue. "Out with that captain, I'll wager. He's a bold one, isn't he? Handsome, too, if I may say."
"You may not," Eleanor snapped, but her mind betrayed her, replaying the moment his fingers grazed her hair. She sank into a chair, staring at the steam rising from the teacup. He was bold, yes. Dangerous, too. A man with secrets and a past stained with blood. And yet, there was something in his honesty—his raw, unpolished truth—that gnawed at her.
She had six days to unravel him. Six days to decide if she could outwit him, outlast him, or—God forbid—bend to him. The thought made her stomach twist, but beneath it, a spark flickered. A challenge accepted.