But then?—
The door slammed open behind her, sharp as a pistol crack.
She didn’t need to turn to know it was Mr. Beckman. She just… knew. And with his presence came a very simple solution, one she was sure he would be willing to go along with, no matter how short their acquaintance had been.
“Why don’t you pose that question to my husband?” she said coolly, lifting her chin and turning just enough to meet Mr. Beckman’s eyes. She swept out her hand as though she were introducing him, making it clear to both men who she was referring to.
Mr. Beckman tilted his head slightly, questioning but not at all concerned. “Darling,” she added pointedly, “this gentleman was just asking what a woman like me might offer in exchange for a bit of bread and cheese.”
Mr. Beckman’s mouth popped open slightly with a little “ah”, and in that moment, Ambrosia noticed something in his expression darken.
He stepped to Ambrosia’s side, and as though he’d done it a thousand times, slipped a strong arm around her waist, drawing her protectively to him. Not ostentatiously. Just firmly. Possessively. As though she were truly his.
“Oh?” he asked the innkeeper, tone overtly polite. But biting. “Well, go on then, my good sir. What was it that you wanted from my wife?”
The fellow behind the counter blanched.
“Oh, I—I didn’t mean anything by it, sir. The missus—she must’ve misunderstood me is all. You know how sensitive women can be… dramatic, even, at times.” He gave a weak, short little chuckle and then shrugged uncomfortably when Mr. Beckman did not respond in kind. “It was just a bit of jesting, sir, no harm done?—”
“That,” Mr. Beckman drawled, “has yet to be determined.”
Going off of his tone, Ambrosia was almost certain he was no longer referring to her being harmed. In fact, it sounded like a threat.
The innkeeper appeared to come to the same conclusion; his already pale face twitched, and he seemed to shrink before her eyes, glancing around like a cornered animal. “There’s—there’s no need for trouble, I assure you.”
“Are you the owner of this inn?” Mr. Beckman didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “What is your name?”
“The name’s Jeffries, and I—I am, yes.”
“I see.” Mr. Beckman slid his gloves into his coat pocket and scanned the taproom with a disdainful flick of his eyes. “Well, Monsieur Jeffries, I have friends. Magistrates. Publishers. Landowners—all of whom enjoy a warm fire and a good meal when traveling through this region.”
He smiled then—just slightly. But the look in his eyes was sharp enough to cut glass.
“The sort of gentlemen, Monsieur Jeffries, who would be deeply interested in knowing where their wives, sisters, or daughters are likely to be treated with… disrespect. Or propositioned in exchange for a loaf of bread.”
Mr. Jeffries swallowed hard, his mouth opening, then closing again.
“Sir, I—I meant no harm, truly?—”
“Apologize,” Mr. Beckman said softly. Dangerously.
“That’s not necessary,” Ambrosia broke in. Her voice quivered, an unexpected attack of nerves. She had not expected Mr. Beckman to go quite this far with their little ruse—not that she felt she was undeserving of an apology, per se, but she was unaccustomed to… actually receiving them.
From men especially.
No one had defended her, in fact, since her father died.
“But it is,” Mr. Beckman said, eyes still locked on the innkeeper. “You will apologize to my wife.”
Mr. Jeffries hesitated—until he saw something in Mr. Beckman’s expression that had him lowering his gaze. Then, awkwardly, he gave a short bow in Ambrosia’s direction.
“My apologies, madam.”
“Thank you,” Ambrosia murmured.
Not to be left out, Mr. Dog lifted his head just then, and a low, rumbling growl issued from his throat, unmistakably menacing.
It wasn’t a bark. It was a warning.
