The afternoon sun hung low over Ashwood Manor, casting long shadows across the lawns as Eleanor stood at the edge of the stables, her breath visible in the crisp air. She'd spent the morning avoiding everyone—Reginald's sullen silence, Beatrice's chatter, Julian's piercing gaze—but the walls of the manor felt like a cage closing in. She needed air, space, a moment to think. The stables offered that, their familiar scent of hay and leather a balm to her frayed nerves.
She was brushing down her mare, a spirited chestnut named Ember, when she heard the crunch of boots behind her. She didn't turn, but her hand tightened on the brush. Only one person moved with that deliberate stride.
"Found you," Julian said, his voice a low rumble as he leaned against the stable door.
She kept her eyes on Ember, her strokes steady. "I wasn't hiding. Just not in the mood for your games."
"No games today," he replied, stepping inside. He'd traded his coat for a simple jacket, the fabric worn at the elbows, and it made him look less like a captain and more like a man who'd spent years at sea. "I came to check on you."
She snorted, brushing harder. "Check on me? I'm not a ship taking on water, Julian."
"Aren't you?" He moved closer, stopping just out of reach. "You've been storming around since breakfast. I'd say you're listing hard."
She paused, her hand stilling on Ember's flank, and shot him a glare. "And you're the gallant captain come to right me? Spare me."
He chuckled, the sound warm and rough. "Not gallant. Curious. You tore into your uncle like a broadside—impressive, by the way. What's next?"
She turned to face him fully, the brush dangling from her hand. "Next? I figure out how to keep this place from sinking without selling my soul to you. That's what's next."
His smile faded, replaced by something sharper, more serious. "You think that's what I'm asking for? Your soul?"
"Isn't it?" She stepped closer, her voice rising. "You dangle my father's sins like bait, talk of partnership like it's some grand prize. But it all comes back to you getting what you want—Ashwood, the harbor, me."
He didn't flinch, but his eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them. "You're half right," he said, his tone even. "I want Ashwood. I want the harbor. But you? I don't want you as a prize, Eleanor. I want you as an equal."
The words hit her like a gust of wind, stealing her breath. She searched his face, looking for the lie, but found only that raw honesty that kept catching her off guard. "An equal," she echoed, her voice softer now. "You expect me to believe that?"
"Believe what you see," he said, closing the gap between them. He stopped an arm's length away, his presence a wall of heat and resolve. "I've shown you my cards—smuggling, scars, all of it. I'm not here to cage you. I'm here to build something. With you, if you'll have it."
Her pulse quickened, a traitor to her defiance. "And if I won't?"
"Then I walk away," he said simply. "Three days from now, if you say no, I'm gone. No debts paid, no harbor claimed. You'll be free of me."
She stared at him, her mind racing. It was a gamble—his fortune, his plans, all staked on her choice. And yet, there was no coercion in his voice, no threat. Just a man laying his terms bare, daring her to meet him halfway.
"Why risk it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "You could force this. Reginald would sign me over in a heartbeat."
"Because I don't want a forced hand," he replied, his gaze steady. "I've had enough of chains—navy orders, smuggler's oaths. I want a partner who chooses me, not one who's dragged to the altar."
The sincerity in his words shook her, and for a moment, she didn't know how to respond. She turned back to Ember, resuming her brushing, needing the rhythm to steady her. "You're a fool, then," she said at last. "I could ruin you with a word."
"You could," he agreed, a hint of amusement creeping back into his tone. "But you won't. You're too stubborn to let someone else win that easily."
She couldn't help it—a laugh escaped her, sharp and unexpected. "You're insufferable."
"So you keep saying." He stepped beside her, reaching out to stroke Ember's muzzle. The mare nickered, leaning into his touch, and Eleanor felt a pang of something she refused to name. "She's a beauty," he said. "Fast?"
"Faster than you'd think," she replied, watching him from the corner of her eye. "I've outrun half the county on her."
"I'd like to see that," he said, glancing at her. "Care to race me?"
She arched a brow. "You've a horse?"
"Borrowed one from your stables this morning," he said, nodding toward a sturdy bay tethered outside. "Thought I'd explore the cliffs. Join me?"
It was a challenge, casual but pointed, and she felt the spark of it ignite in her chest. "You'll lose," she warned, setting the brush aside.
"I'll take that chance," he said, his smile widening.
Ten minutes later, they were tearing across the fields, the wind whipping through her hair as Ember surged beneath her. Julian rode hard, his bay keeping pace, but she knew these paths—every dip, every turn. She urged Ember on, the thrill of it drowning out the chaos in her mind. For the first time in days, she felt free, alive, the manor's weight falling away with each stride.
They reached the cliffs in a dead heat, pulling up at the edge where the sea stretched out below, wild and endless. She was breathless, laughing, her cheeks flushed as she turned to him. "Told you I'd win."
"You didn't," he countered, grinning as he dismounted. "It was a tie."
"Only because I let you keep up," she teased, sliding off Ember and patting her flank.
He laughed, a full, unguarded sound that echoed over the cliffs, and she realized she liked it—liked the way it softened the hard lines of his face. They stood there, catching their breath, the tension between them shifting into something lighter, more dangerous.
"You're good," he said, his eyes on her, warm and appraising. "Better than good."
"I know," she replied, meeting his gaze. "Don't forget it."
"I won't," he murmured, and the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine—not of cold, but of something else, something she wasn't ready to face.
They walked the horses back in companionable silence, the sun dipping lower, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. But the peace was short-lived. As they neared the manor, a figure emerged from the shadows of the drive—a man in a dark coat, his hat pulled low. He carried a satchel, and his gait was hurried, purposeful.
Julian tensed beside her, his hand dropping to his side as if reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. "Stay here," he said, his voice low.
"Who is he?" she asked, ignoring his command and stepping forward.
"Trouble," he muttered, then strode toward the stranger.
She followed, her curiosity outweighing her caution. The man stopped as Julian approached, his face obscured until he tipped his hat back, revealing a weathered visage and a scar across his brow. "Harrow," he said, his voice gravelly. "You're a hard man to find."
"Not hard enough, apparently," Julian replied, his tone clipped. "What do you want, Kell?"
The man—Kell—glanced at Eleanor, then back to Julian. "Word from London. The deal's off unless you deliver by week's end. They're not patient men."
Julian's jaw tightened. "Tell them I'm working on it. They'll get their cut."
"They'd better," Kell said, handing over the satchel. "This is the last warning."
He turned and vanished into the dusk, leaving Eleanor staring at Julian. "What was that?" she demanded.
He didn't answer immediately, his fingers tightening around the satchel. "Business," he said at last, his voice flat. "Old business."
"Smuggling business?" she pressed, stepping into his path. "Don't lie to me, Julian. Not after all your talk of truth."
He met her eyes, a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—crossing his face. "Not smuggling," he said. "Not anymore. It's… complicated. I'll explain, but not here."
"Then where?" she challenged. "And when?"
"Tonight," he said, his voice firm. "After dinner. Meet me in the west wing study. No notes this time—just trust me."
She wanted to argue, to demand answers now, but the weight in his gaze stopped her. "Fine," she said. "But if you're playing me, Julian, you'll regret it."
"I know," he replied, and the ghost of a smile returned. "I'm counting on that fire of yours."
As he walked away, the satchel slung over his shoulder, she felt the ground shift beneath her. Three days left, and the game had just taken a darker turn.