“Embarrassed to have me for a pillow, princesse?”
Although he hadn’t once mentioned the negligée he’d pulled out of her trunk, he apparently still delighted in teasing her.
“Not in the least,” she replied evenly, schooling her expression. “You make for a very comfortable bed.”
The word ‘bed’ came out too easily.
Well done, Ambrosia.
But although his smile could be felt from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, Mr. Beckman didn’t press the moment.
“Horses will need resting,” he said instead, leaning forward to peer out the window on her side. “So take your time doing whatever it is ladies like to do on these stops.”
The carriage slowed as Mr. Daniels turned into the yard of a roadside inn, its worn sign declaring it The Happy Pig. Before the wheels even stilled, Mr. Beckman had opened the door and leapt down into the dust. He turned back, hand extended. “I’ll check with the stable hands,” he said as he helped her down. “Ask if anyone’s heard anything about Guinevere.”
She nodded, about to reach back into the carriage for Mr. Dog—then hesitated.
“Mr. Beckman!” she called after him, just as he was turning away.
He pivoted, already several paces off, and began walking back to hear her better.
“I’ll purchase something for us to eat. Is there anything particular that you’d like?”
He grinned. “Surprise me.” And with a jaunty little shrug, he turned and strode toward the stables.
For a moment, Ambrosia watched him go. It wasn’t as though they were… together, and yet it felt as if they’d become something of a team.
Mr. Daniels had also stepped down and was walking around the horses, loosening a strap here and there, leaving Ambrosia to her own devices.
So she turned to Mr. Dog.
“I don’t trust you yet, not even a little,” she declared, scooping him into her arms and nuzzling her nose against his downy-soft head. “You’d love to go frolicking in manure again, wouldn’t you?”
The dog panted happily, then gave her chin a quick, slobbery lick—clearly unbothered by her accusation.
Still smiling to herself, Ambrosia entered the inn, the smell of roasting meat and bread warming the air. Her pleasant mood, however, was punctured by a sharp voice.
“No dogs,” said a ruddy-cheeked man behind the bar, snapping a damp linen cloth for emphasis. “You’ll have to leave that outside.”
She tightened her arms around Mr. Dog’s belly. “He’s freshly washed. And trained.” Or at least, she was pretty certain he was. “He won’t be any trouble.”
“Don’t care. No animals inside.” His eyes dipped pointedly toward the neckline of her gown, where Mr. Dog had snuggled beneath her chin. “You, on the other hand, are more than welcome.”
Uncertainty and… something else crawled over her.
Up until now, Ambrosia hadn’t met with difficulty at the coaching inns where they’d stopped. There had always been a kindly innkeeper’s wife or sister to assist her in finding a decent place to dine or take tea while Mr. Daniels took care of the horses.
No such luck this time. No, she was on her own.
She took a slow, steadying breath. “Very well. I’ll order something to take outside. Bread. Cheese. Cold meat.”
The man narrowed his eyes, showing a calculating gleam that she did not like at all.
He dragged his frayed cloth through his fingers. “If I do that for you, miss… what’ll you do for me?”
A surge of fear rose in her belly—recognizable but unwelcome. She despised the fact that a stranger’s leer could make her feel so helpless.
Not just helpless, but… unworldly. Exposed. Like she was just seven and ten once again, a foolish girl who ought to have known better.
