The innkeeper glanced between Ambrosia’s little guard dog and Mr. Beckman. “It will not happen again. You have my word.”
Mr. Beckman stared down the innkeeper a little longer before finally saying, “Your word means very little to me. But you are correct. It will not happen again.” He said it with such certainty that Ambrosia felt a chill run up her spine.
When he turned to Ambrosia, however, his expression softened. “Are you satisfied with Monsieur Jeffries’ apology, princesse?”
Ambrosia considered briefly.
Although she was unconvinced that Mr. Jeffries really would change his ways from here on out, she was also not convinced that anything worthwhile would be accomplished by continuing to press the matter.
She gave a tight nod, rubbing the top of Mr. Dog’s head.
Noticing the tightness still coiled in Mr. Beckman’s jaw, she wished she could do the same for him.
“Mr. Dog could use some water, though… and what about that bread and cheese?” she asked, giving Mr. Beckman a reassuring smile.
Only then did he breathe out—a quiet, controlled exhale.
“Your finest private dining room, then,” he addressed the innkeeper again. His voice was honey-smooth now, but there was still that steel beneath it. “We’ll require a hot meal—meat, bread, something sweet. For my wife and myself, and milk for our dog.”
Mr. Jeffries nearly tripped over himself in his eagerness to comply, scrambling to signal a passing maid. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Right this way?—”
She ought to have felt grateful.
She was grateful, wasn’t she?
Ambrosia glanced at Mr. Beckman across the narrow table as he leaned back, one arm resting on the chairback beside him.
As if he hadn't just cut a grown man down to size. As if he hadn’t just rescued her from a frightening situation, one that had felt far more familiar than it ought to have.
And yet… gratitude wasn’t the dominant feeling.
The barmaid entered, setting down two tankards of ale with a practiced smile. Mr. Beckman offered her one of his signature winks and a murmured “Merci, chérie.”
The woman practically glowed as she curtsied and withdrew.
Ambrosia just stared at her drink thoughtfully, her pulse still catching up to the moment.
“That was…” she began, unsure how to name it. “What you did out there. I mean, thank you.” She forced the words out, even as—was that resentment? —coiled in her chest.
He inclined his head. “Of course.”
“I just—” She hesitated, then sat up straighter. “He spoke to me like I was nothing. Until you came in. Then suddenly I was someone to respect? It’s infuriating.”
Mr. Beckman gave a faint smile and reached for his napkin, unfolding it with a careless elegance that somehow irritated her. “I suspect,” he said lightly, “it had something to do with the fact that I am a man, princesse.”
“Yes. I know that.” She didn’t mean to snap. Not truly. But the feeling she’d managed to swallow for years surged up now, and she simply didn’t have the strength to shove it back down.
“I know it,” she said again, more evenly. “But still I find myself asking why. Why should that matter so much? Why should it be so easy for you?”
He blinked, but didn’t look surprised. “It shouldn’t.” His tone softened. “But it is.”
The honesty of his answer struck her harder than any excuse could have.
“I need to learn how to deal with men like that on my own.” She lifted the tankard and took a long sip, intentionally not grimacing at the bitterness. “I hate that I didn’t know what to do. That I froze.”
“You didn’t freeze,” he said. “You handled him. You lied through your teeth and called me your husband. Nothing wrong with that.”
She looked over at him. “Only because you were there. I knew—somehow—that you’d take care of it.”
