“Madame Bloomington.” His voice was a low, velvet rumble. “While I regret being separated from Guinevere, I cannot say I’m entirely sorry—not if it led me to make your acquaintance. For that, I am... truly grateful.” His gaze held hers for a moment. “You, ma petite, are sweet and disarmingly innocent. There’s a lightness in you—a surprising optimism, especially for someone who, from what I gather, was so carelessly mistreated by the very man who should have treasured you most.” He gave a small shake of his head. “Monsieur Bloomington did not deserve you.”
“God rest his soul,” Ambrosia murmured out of habit.
“God rest his soul,” he repeated after her, albeit with more than a little amusement in his voice.
Ambrosia set her fork down, blinking away the stinging in her eyes. Stinging that had nothing to do with Harrison Bloomington’s passing.
“Thank you, Mr. Beckman.”
“You are welcome. However…if you insist upon making those sounds while eating off of my plate, I may not uphold the promise I made to you.”
The promise that he wouldn’t kiss her. Last night. He’d only promised not to kiss her last night.
Ambrosia smiled to herself and deliberately took another bite from his plate, closing her eyes and letting out a tiny sigh as the flavors hit her tongue once again. When she opened her eyes, there was no laughter in his. And then he growled.
This time, it was Ambrosia who laughed.
Having tidied her things and packed after breakfast, Ambrosia stepped out of the inn just as the sun broke through a low bank of clouds. The air was brisk and bright, and might have felt invigorating were it not for the smell wafting over from the stables. Wrinkling her nose, she descended the front steps, valise in hand, wearing the freshly polished boots she’d discovered waiting for her upstairs—a small service she hadn’t expected, but appreciated all the same.
Just then, the familiar creak and clatter of the carriage announced Mr. Daniels’ arrival. Today, thankfully, he looked far more like the capable man who’d driven her out of Rockford Beach on the first day of her journey, his stout frame wedged confidently on the bench. And although his skin had a lingering greenish tinge, his eyes were definitely sharper than they had been the night before.
“Good morning, Mr. Daniels,” she called as he climbed down.
Landing with a little thud, he turned and tipped his hat with a flourish. For a man who’d behaved so badly the day before—and who ought to have been suffering with the consequences of that bad behavior still—he looked ridiculously chipper. “Morning, ma’am.”
Ambrosia opened her mouth to reply, but caught herself when the inn’s door swung open and Mr. Beckman emerged.
He offered a lazy smile and clapped the driver on the shoulder. “See? I was right, no?”
“Right about what? What are you on about?” Ambrosia asked.
“My cure for La gueule de bois—raw egg whisked with black pepper, vinegar, and just a pinch of feverfew. Works every time.”
Daniels grimaced. “Aye, so long as it doesn’t kill you, it would seem it does. Damn near chucked it all up though.” A second later, apparently just realizing what he’d said and in front of whom, he turned to Ambrosia with a sheepish look. “My apologies, madam.”
Mr. Beckman waved the apology off, catching Ambrosia’s eye with a twinkle of mock solemnity. “It will take more than a little bluntness to rattle Madame Bloomington’s fortitude.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I, on the other hand, am but a delicate flower and shall require far more than an apology to soothe my sensibilities.”
“A delicate flower, eh? I see how it is,” Daniels muttered, chuckling, leaving Ambrosia just standing there, not quite sure if she ought to be annoyed or pleased.
Mr. Beckman strode toward the horses, and as he’d done with Guinevere, he brushed a gloved hand along the nearest gelding’s neck.
“Mon brave,” he murmured, low and affectionate. “Tu es prêt pour une autre aventure, n’est-ce pas?” You’re ready for another adventure, aren’t you?
He moved to the second horse, adjusting the bridle with practiced hands.
“Doucement, mon ami,” he said, soothing the restless animal. “On y va bientôt.” We’ll be off soon.
His voice held a kind of reverence, his posture relaxed, the corners of his mouth turned in a private smile. With the horses, he was unguarded, instinctively kind.
She remembered wondering the day before, while she’d been watching him with Guinevere, what it might feel like to experience that sort of quiet devotion.
The wondering returned, gentle but persistent.
Listening to Mr. Beckman murmur in that low, lyrical French, a disorienting hitch fluttered in Ambrosia’s chest. There was something unsettling—yet wholly mesmerizing—about watching a man that powerful soften with such ease.
She’d never known anyone like him.
A little off balance, but distantly aware of Mr. Daniels tightening the trunks at the rear, Ambrosia climbed into the carriage unassisted, her valise tucked securely in her gloved hand. The interior was cool and familiar, but in addition to the scent of worn leather and dust, there was also a trace of gin.
