Chapter 16
AMBROSE
Ambrose couldn’t stop grinning as he walked back from the magical, snow-filled markets. It had taken him a good two hours to find the right gift, but he held it in his hands, and he knew it was perfect.
As he walked back to the inn, he replayed every moment with Imelda. He could hardly sleep for the sensation of lying beside her. Her wild hair got everywhere, tickling his skin. In sleep, she kicked a bit. Sometimes she’d nuzzle against him, other times roll into a tight, furious ball. She stole the covers. She drooled a bit. And Ambrose felt an ache rising up in his heart because he couldn’t wait for every night to follow. He couldn’t wait toknowher. To know how she took her tea. What flowers made her sneeze. Whether she would always laugh a little after lovemaking, as if she were amused by her own happiness.
And it was that thought that had sent him out into the market without a cloak, his whole body flaming at the promise of today and the next day, and the day after that. He tried practicing what he would say.
“Imelda, will you be my wife…still? No, that’s awful. Imelda, could we have another go at this? Far too casual. Imelda, would you—”
“Excuse me, sir?”
Ambrose turned around to see the porter at his elbow. “There’s a raven message for you, sir.”
Ambrose frowned, looking down at the parcel in his hand. He wanted to rush upstairs, wake Imelda, tell her everything that weighed on his heart, and then spend the rest of the morning and afternoon in that bed with her while they waited on the witch.
But that wouldn’t do.
“I’ll…I’ll be right there. Just let me, ah, put this away.”
Ambrose headed up the stairs, his heart still light. He could picture it perfectly: their place of power restored at Love’s Keep, the white tree in bloom, the shocked look on his brothers’ faces. Imelda smiling freely. The life they should have had from the start finally resuming course.
Ambrose pushed open the door to his room. Imelda was still fast asleep. In the armoire, the horse cloak flapped ineffectually at the wood, and Ambrose went to open it.
You locked me in here all night! I couldn’t hear a thing!
“That was the point.”
How would I have defended you from intruders?
“We were quite fine.”
I thought I heard someone scream once.
“Definitely more than once.”
Ambrose placed the snow-white box beneath the cloak.
“Watch this for me, will you? It’s for Imelda.”
I am a noble steed! Not a watchdog!
Ambrose patted the cloak, then headed for the door. He didn’t trust himself to do more than glance at Imelda. But that single glimpse of her—soft and wild at once—felt like he’d lifted a corner of his future, and he wanted to run headlong toward it with his hand in hers.
As Ambrose raced down the staircase, he briefly wondered what message was waiting for him. But the thought fled his mind the moment he reached the bottom of the steps. There, standing in an extravagant fox stole and white gloves, was the witch herself.
“You look…well rested,” she said knowingly.
Ambrose flushed. “I—”
“How was your little quest?”
“Good, my lady. We procured the potion you asked for.”
“Find anything else?”
Ambrose thought of Imelda kissing him with such ferocity that he nearly lost his balance.
