The morning dawned gray and heavy, the sky a shroud over Ashwood Manor as Eleanor stood at her window, her fingers pressed against the cold glass. Sleep had eluded her, chased away by the echo of Julian's voice—I'd rather drown in you than sail alone—and the memory of his skin beneath her touch. Two days remained, and the weight of her choice pressed down like a millstone. Trust him, fight with him, or let him sink and take Ashwood with him.
She dressed mechanically, her hands moving through the motions of lacing her gown—a simple blue muslin, practical yet soft against her restless nerves. The manor was stirring as she descended, servants bustling with trays, Beatrice's laughter drifting from the drawing room. But Eleanor's focus was singular: Julian. She needed to see him, to test the truth he'd laid bare last night, to decide if she could leap into the storm he offered.
She found him in the courtyard, his back to her as he adjusted the saddle on his bay. The satchel hung at his side, a constant shadow, and his movements were brisk, purposeful. He was leaving—where, she didn't know, but the sight of it twisted something sharp in her chest.
"Running already?" she called, stepping into the open air.
He turned, his gray eyes catching hers with that familiar intensity. "Not running," he said, tightening a strap. "Riding. I've business in the village—letters to send, terms to renegotiate. Kell's deadline's breathing down my neck."
She crossed her arms, the wind tugging at her skirts. "And you didn't think to tell me?"
"I'm telling you now," he replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Unless you'd rather I'd slipped a note under your door again."
Her cheeks warmed, but she held his gaze. "I'd rather you didn't slip away at all. Not after last night."
His smile faded, replaced by something rawer, more searching. He stepped closer, the horse forgotten. "Last night changed nothing," he said, his voice low. "The choice is still yours. I'm not forcing it."
"And if I asked you to stay?" The words slipped out before she could stop them, soft and unguarded.
He stilled, his breath catching. "Do you mean that?"
She hesitated, her heart pounding. Did she? The question hung between them, a thread pulled taut. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I'm not ready for you to go. Not yet."
He studied her, his eyes tracing her face as if memorizing every line. "Then I'll stay," he said simply. "For now."
Relief flooded her, sharp and unexpected, but she masked it with a nod. "Good. Because I've questions, and you're not dodging them on horseback."
He chuckled, the sound easing the tension. "Ask away, then. I'm yours for the morning."
They walked back to the manor together, the horse tethered behind, and settled in the library—a neutral ground, its shelves a buffer between them. She sat by the window, the ledger from her father's past resting on her lap like a talisman, while Julian took the chair opposite, his long legs stretched out, the satchel at his feet.
"Tell me about these investors," she said, her tone firm. "Who are they, really? And what happens if you can't pay?"
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. "They're a syndicate—old money, new greed. Names you'd know if I spoke them, but I won't. They bankrolled my fleet because they saw profit in the Indies trade—sugar, rum, tobacco. When the storms hit, they lost patience. If I don't deliver by week's end, they'll claim my ships, my warehouses, everything I've built. I'll be a captain without a command."
Her stomach tightened. "And Ashwood's your shield."
"It's my anchor," he corrected, his voice steady. "The harbor's worth more than they know—trade routes, not smuggling. With it, I can rebuild, pay them off, keep my freedom. Without it…" He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "Without it, I'm done."
She traced the edge of the ledger, her mind racing. "And me? Where do I fit in this grand plan?"
"You're the heart of it," he said, his eyes locking with hers. "Not just your name, Eleanor. You. I've seen you ride, fight, stand up to your uncle. You're not some wilting flower—I need that strength. Ashwood's yours, not mine, unless you say otherwise."
Her breath hitched, his words sinking deep. "You're asking me to gamble everything—my home, my future—on a man I barely know."
"I'm asking you to gamble on yourself," he countered. "With me. I'm not here to take, Eleanor. I'm here to build. Together, if you'll have it."
The room seemed to shrink, the space between them charged with a current she couldn't ignore. She stood, pacing to the window, needing distance to think. "And if it fails?" she asked, her voice tight. "If your investors come anyway? What then?"
"Then we fight," he said, rising to join her. He stopped a step behind, close enough that she could feel his warmth. "I've faced worse odds—cannons, storms, mutiny. I don't run, and I don't break. Neither do you."
She turned, her back to the glass, and found him closer than she'd expected. His eyes were a tempest, gray and fierce, and her pulse raced under their weight. "You're too sure of me," she murmured.
"I'm sure of what I see," he replied, his voice dropping. "A woman who'd rather burn than bend. I'd stake my life on that fire."
Her lips parted, a retort dying on her tongue as his words wrapped around her. He was too close, too real, and the air between them hummed with a need she couldn't name. She could step away, break the spell, but her feet stayed rooted, her body betraying her mind.
"Julian," she said, her voice a warning, a plea.
"Eleanor," he answered, his hand lifting to hover near her cheek, not touching but near enough to feel the heat. "Tell me to stop."
She didn't. She couldn't. Instead, she leaned into the space, her breath mingling with his, her resolve fraying at the edges. "I hate you," she whispered, the lie trembling between them.
"No, you don't," he murmured, and then his hand brushed her jaw, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver through her.
The contact broke something in her—a dam she'd built against him, against herself. She surged forward, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer as her lips crashed against his. It wasn't gentle, wasn't soft—it was a collision, a storm of anger and want and everything she'd held back. He met her with equal force, his arms wrapping around her, one hand tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss.
She tasted salt and heat, felt the roughness of his stubble against her skin, and it ignited her. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, anchoring her as the world tilted. He pressed her back against the window, the cool glass a shock against the fire building in her veins, and she gasped into his mouth, her body arching toward him.
But then she pulled back, breathless, her hands still clutching his shirt. "Wait," she panted, her voice ragged. "Not like this."
He froze, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with desire but steady with control. "Eleanor—"
"Not yet," she said, stepping out of his grasp, her hands trembling as she smoothed her gown. "I need… I need to think."
He nodded, his jaw tight, but he didn't push. "Take your time," he said, his voice rough. "I'm not going anywhere."
She turned to the door, her legs unsteady, her mind a whirl of heat and doubt. "Tonight," she said over her shoulder. "We'll talk tonight."
"Tonight," he agreed, and she fled before she could change her mind.
Back in her chamber, she sank onto the bed, her lips still tingling, her heart a wild drumbeat. She'd kissed him—kissed him—and it had shaken her to her core. Two days left, and the line between fight and surrender was blurring. She didn't know if she could trust him, but God help her, she wanted to.