“That hellion of a wife could do with some tendering—”
“She’d be awful in a cake.”
“A slow boil maybe…like a stew.”
“Shrew stew!”
Then they were chanting: “Shrew stew! Shrew stew!”
Imelda looked about, ready to bash their heads in with the torch.
“Come on!” Ambrose whispered loudly.
But Imelda wasn’t looking at him. She was muttering “shrew stew” under her breath and adjusting her grip on the torch.
The door flung open, and the innkeeper and his crew of cannibals trundled inside. They took one look at the crimson bed, huddled in a corner, and had approximately two seconds to frown before Imelda swung back her torch and caught the innkeeper right in his teeth.
Imelda was alarmingly proficient with a torch in her hand. She spun it, sweeping someone’s feet out from under them. Then she rammed the butt of the torch into the stomach of another, who fell with a grunt. In a few moments, she’d made quick work of them, and when she turned to Ambrose, there was a vicious grin on her face.
“How’s that for tender?” Imelda spat breathlessly.
Ambrose realized that he was rather limply holding his sword in his hand.
“Not bad.”
Imelda’s grin widened, but it was cut short by the sound of more footsteps on the stairs. The din of voices grew louder.
And angrier.
Ambrose grabbed her arm. “Time to go!”
“But—”
“That torch took them by surprise, but they’ll be conscious soon.”
Ambrose climbed out the window, tugging once to make sure the horse cloak was secure.
That was my tail!
“What are you doing?” Imelda demanded.
“Escaping.” Ambrose tugged the knotted cloak again just to be sure, then he looked up at her. “With you.”
Imelda crossed her arms. “I amnotjumping out a window—”
Behind her, the door swung open.
“You’re quite right, princess.” Ambrose wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close. “Weare jumping out a window.”
“Wait!”
Ambrose wrapped his free hand around the horse cloak, then leapt. Cold air hit his face. Imelda turned hers to his chest. Her dark hair nearly blinding him, he held her tight. Maybe it was the fall, that weightless lurch in his stomach, that heightened every other sensation. For one brief moment, he was painfully aware of Imelda’s body clasped against his own. Her leg wrapped around his, the satin of her dress clinging to the lush contours of her body. And the scent of her…
Imelda smelled like smoke.
Like the aftermath of a lightning strike. And just beneath that scent, something faintly sweet. Like burnt sugar beneath a dollop of cream.
It was utterly jarring.
