Dinner was a farce of normalcy, a brittle veneer stretched over the undercurrents swirling through Ashwood Manor. Reginald nursed his wine in silence, his eyes darting to Eleanor with a mix of guilt and resentment. Beatrice prattled on about a new bonnet, oblivious to the storm brewing, while Julian sat across from Eleanor, his presence a quiet thunderhead. He ate sparingly, his movements precise, but she caught the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers lingered on the satchel he'd tucked beside his chair.
She barely touched her food, her mind fixed on their meeting in the west wing study. Not smuggling. Not anymore. His words from the cliffs gnawed at her, a puzzle she couldn't yet solve. Who was Kell? What deal hung over Julian's head? And why did it feel like every step closer to him pulled her deeper into a web she hadn't woven?
As the servants cleared the plates, she rose, excusing herself with a curt nod. "I'm tired," she said, her voice clipped. "Good night."
Reginald grunted, Beatrice murmured something insipid, and Julian's eyes followed her, a silent promise in their depths. She didn't look back, but her skin prickled with the weight of his gaze as she slipped into the hall.
The west wing study was a small, shadowed room, its walls lined with books and maps, a single window overlooking the cliffs. A fire crackled in the hearth when she arrived, casting a warm glow over the worn leather chairs and the desk where Julian waited. He stood as she entered, the satchel open before him, papers spilling across the wood. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his hair slightly tousled, and the sight of him—so unguarded—stirred something reckless in her chest.
"You're early," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"I don't dawdle," she replied, closing the door behind her. She crossed to the desk, her arms folded. "Now talk. Who was that man, and what's this 'deal' he's threatening you with?"
He gestured to a chair, but she remained standing, her eyes locked on his. With a sigh, he leaned against the desk, his hands braced on the edge. "His name's Kellan—Kell to those who know him. He's a runner for a group of investors in London. Men I've dealt with since the war."
"Investors," she echoed, her tone skeptical. "That's a polite word for it. Smugglers?"
"No," he said firmly, meeting her gaze. "Not anymore. These are merchants, bankers—men with clean hands and dirty ledgers. After the war, I turned my ships to legitimate trade—spices, cotton, rum. Built a small fortune, enough to catch their eye. They funded my last venture, a fleet to the Indies. Risky, but it paid off."
She narrowed her eyes. "So why's Kell here, looking like a cutthroat with a deadline?"
Julian hesitated, his fingers tightening on the desk. "Because I owe them," he admitted. "The fleet hit storms—lost two ships, half the cargo. I covered most of it with my own coin, but there's a debt left. They want it settled, or they'll seize what's mine—ships, warehouses, all of it."
Her stomach twisted, a mix of suspicion and something sharper. "And Ashwood? Where does it fit in?"
"It's my leverage," he said, his voice low. "The harbor's deep enough for trade ships, not just smugglers. If I marry you, I control it—legally, cleanly. I can use it to rebuild, pay them off, keep what I've fought for."
She stared at him, the pieces clicking into place. "So I'm your collateral," she said, her voice cold. "A means to save your skin."
"No," he snapped, pushing off the desk to face her fully. "You're my chance. Not just for me—for us. This manor's dying, Eleanor. Your uncle's drowning in debt, your father's legacy is ash. I can turn it around—make Ashwood a hub, not a ruin. But I need you to do it."
"Need me," she repeated, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. "You mean my name, my title. A convenient key to your lock."
"I mean you," he countered, his voice rising. "Not your damn title. You're sharp, stubborn, fearless—I've seen it. You could run this with me, not just sit pretty while I do the work."
Her breath caught, fury and fascination warring within her. "You're mad," she said, shaking her head. "You think I'd throw in with you, a man who's one step from ruin himself?"
"I'm not ruined yet," he said, his tone fierce. "And neither are you. We're both fighting the tide, Eleanor. We can sink alone, or swim together."
The air between them crackled, taut with challenge and something deeper. She could feel the heat of him, the intensity radiating from his frame, and it pulled at her like the sea itself. "And if I say no?" she asked, her voice softer now, testing him.
"Then I'm finished," he said simply. "Three days, and they'll come for everything. I'll walk away, and you'll be left with a crumbling estate and a coward for an uncle."
She studied him, searching for the bluff, but found only a man stripped bare—vulnerable in a way she hadn't expected. It shifted something in her, cracked the armor she'd built around her heart. "Why tell me this?" she asked. "You could've kept it quiet, let me think you were the savior you pretend to be."
"Because I don't want you blind," he murmured, stepping closer. "I want you with me, eyes open. No lies, no games. Just us."
Her pulse hammered, his words sinking into her like a brand. He was close now, too close, his breath warm against her cheek. She could smell the faint salt on him, the leather and smoke, and it stirred a hunger she couldn't deny. "You're asking too much," she whispered, her voice trembling despite her resolve.
"I know," he said, his hand lifting as if to touch her, then dropping back to his side. "But I'm asking anyway."
For a moment, they stood there, locked in a silence that roared louder than words. She wanted to shove him away, to rail against the trap he'd laid, but her feet wouldn't move. His eyes held hers, gray and stormy, and she saw the man beneath the captain—the scars, the fight, the need.
Before she could stop herself, she reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of his shirt where it hung open at the collar. His breath hitched, but he didn't move, letting her decide. Her touch lingered, tracing the line of a faint scar across his chest, a relic of some battle he'd survived. "You're a fool, Julian Harrow," she said, her voice low.
"And you're a tempest," he replied, his hand finally rising to cover hers, pressing it against his skin. "But I'd rather drown in you than sail alone."
The contact sent a jolt through her, heat flooding her veins. She pulled back, her hand tingling, her mind a whirl of anger and want. "Don't," she said, stepping away. "Not yet."
He nodded, his jaw tight, but he didn't push. "Fair enough. Take your time, Eleanor. But know this—I'm not running from this fight. Or from you."
She turned to the door, needing air, distance, anything to clear the fog he'd stirred in her. "Good night," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
"Good night," he called after her, and she felt his gaze linger as she fled into the hall.
Back in her chamber, she paced, her heart pounding. The ledger, the debts, Kell's threat—it all spun together, a noose tightening around her future. But Julian's words echoed louder: I want you with me, eyes open. He wasn't offering a cage, but a lifeline—one she could grab or let slip away.
She sank onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. Two days left. Two days to decide if she could trust him, fight with him, maybe even—God help her—want him. The thought terrified her, thrilled her, and she knew sleep wouldn't come easy tonight.