The day passed in a blur of forced civility, each hour a tightrope Eleanor walked between defiance and decorum. Breakfast had been a strained affair—Reginald prattling about crop yields, Beatrice fluttering her lashes at Julian, and Julian himself sitting across from Eleanor, his presence a silent taunt. He'd said little, but his eyes had followed her, sharp and unyielding, as if cataloging every bite she took, every word she didn't say.
By afternoon, she'd escaped to the library, seeking refuge among the dusty shelves and leather-bound tomes. Ashwood Manor's collection was a relic of her grandfather's time—histories, poetry, naval logs yellowed with age. She traced her fingers along the spines, her mind still churning from the morning's encounter on the cliffs. Julian's words echoed: I want you willing, not broken. Arrogant, presumptuous man. As if she'd ever bend to his will, fortune or no fortune.
A creak of floorboards snapped her from her thoughts. She turned, expecting Pippa or a servant, but it was Julian who stepped into the room, his broad frame filling the doorway. He'd shed his naval coat for a simpler waistcoat and shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and faint scars. The casualness of it unsettled her—he looked less like a captain and more like a man who'd just walked off a ship's deck.
"Skulking about already?" she said, crossing her arms. "I'd have thought you'd be plotting your conquest of the harbor by now."
He closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound reverberating in the quiet. "I've time for both," he replied, strolling toward the shelves. "Though I'll admit, I didn't expect to find you hiding here."
"I'm not hiding," she shot back, her chin lifting. "I'm avoiding you."
"Poorly, it seems." He stopped a few feet from her, his gaze flicking to the book in her hand—a weathered volume of naval tactics. "Planning to outmaneuver me?"
She set the book down with a thud. "If I must. You're not the only one who can read a map or wield a strategy, Julian."
His name slipped out before she could catch it, and she cursed herself inwardly as his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Progress," he murmured. "Yesterday it was 'Captain.' Tomorrow, who knows?"
"Don't flatter yourself," she said, stepping around the table to put distance between them. "I'm still five days from deciding whether to tolerate you, let alone call you anything else."
He followed her movement with his eyes, not pursuing but tracking her like a predator sizing up its prey. "Five days is an eternity in a game like this. Tell me, Eleanor, what's your next move?"
She bristled at the question, at the way he wielded her name like a weapon. "My move? Perhaps I'll dig into your past, Captain Harrow. See what skeletons you've buried beneath that heroic façade."
"Go ahead," he said, leaning against the table, arms crossed. "I've nothing to hide that a clever woman like you can't find. But be warned—dig too deep, and you might not like what you uncover."
The challenge hung between them, thick and electric. She narrowed her eyes. "Is that a threat?"
"A promise," he replied, his voice dropping. "I'm not a saint, Eleanor. The war made me what I am—ruthless when I had to be, cunning when I chose to be. But I'm no liar. Ask your questions. I'll answer."
She hesitated, caught off guard by his candor. It was a trap, surely—a lure to draw her in. And yet, the temptation was too strong to resist. "Fine," she said, stepping closer, her voice steady. "The smuggling. You said you hunted them. Did you ever join them?"
His jaw tightened, the scar along it catching the light. For a moment, she thought he'd deflect, but then he met her gaze head-on. "Once," he admitted. "Early in the war, before I had a commission. I was nineteen, desperate, and the navy hadn't yet claimed me. Ran brandy from Brittany to Dover for a season. Made enough to buy my first ship, then turned on the bastards I'd sailed with. That's how I got this." He tapped the scar. "A parting gift from a man I betrayed."
The confession stunned her into silence. She'd expected evasion, not this raw slice of truth. "You're a turncoat, then," she said at last, her tone biting. "Loyalty means nothing to you."
"Loyalty means everything," he countered, his voice hardening. "But survival trumps it when you're starving. I made a choice, and I've spent years atoning for it. Judge me if you like—I've judged myself harsher."
She studied him, searching for a lie, but found only a man stripped bare by his own words. It unnerved her, this glimpse beneath his armor. "And now?" she pressed. "What are you loyal to now?"
"The sea," he said simply. "And what I can build from it. Ashwood's part of that. So are you, if you choose to be."
Her breath caught at the implication. "I don't choose to be anyone's pawn."
"You're no pawn," he said, pushing off the table to close the gap between them. "You're a queen on this board, Eleanor. The question is, will you play, or will you forfeit?"
He was too close again, his heat radiating through the narrow space. She could smell the faint tang of salt on him, the leather of his boots, and it stirred something reckless in her. "I'll play," she said, her voice low. "But I'll not be your piece to move."
"Then move me," he challenged, his eyes locked on hers. "Show me what you're made of."
The air crackled, taut with unspoken dares. She could have stepped back, broken the spell, but instead, she held her ground, her pulse racing. "Careful what you wish for, Julian. I've toppled men bigger than you."
"I'm counting on it," he murmured, and for a fleeting second, she thought he might reach for her again. But he didn't. He stepped back, breaking the tension with a nod. "Enjoy your books. I'll see you at dinner."
He left as abruptly as he'd come, the door swinging shut behind him. Eleanor exhaled, her knees trembling beneath her skirts. Damn him. Damn his honesty, his intensity, his infuriating way of turning her own weapons against her. She sank into a chair, her fingers digging into the armrests. Five days. She had five days to outwit him, and already he was slipping under her skin.
That evening, dinner was a battlefield of its own. Reginald had invited the vicar, Mr. Penrose, a dour man with a nasal voice who prattled on about the wedding as if it were a foregone conclusion. Beatrice simpered, Julian listened with polite detachment, and Eleanor stabbed at her roast pheasant with more force than necessary.
"Lady Eleanor," Mr. Penrose said, peering at her over his spectacles, "I trust you're preparing your heart for this sacred union?"
"My heart's well-prepared," she replied, her tone dry. "It's my patience I'm worried about."
Julian coughed into his wine, masking a laugh, and she shot him a glare. He met it with a raised brow, utterly unrepentant.
As the meal dragged on, she caught him watching her again, his gaze lingering on the curve of her neck where her hair had fallen loose. It was a small thing, but it set her nerves alight, a silent promise of the war they'd yet to wage.
Later, as the household slept, she found another note beneath her door:
"Eleanor,
Midnight. The east wing attic. Bring your courage—I'll bring the truth.
—J.H."
She stared at the words, her heart pounding. Another summons, another dare. The attic was a maze of shadows and secrets, a place she'd avoided since childhood. What was he playing at now?
She crumpled the note, resolve hardening in her chest. Midnight it would be. Let him show his hand—she'd be ready to call his bluff.