“Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.” Ignoring his mention of the lingerie, she placed Mr. Dog on the ground, tying his leading string to a tree, and forced herself to show some enthusiasm for this endeavor. After all, it wasn’t Mr. Beckman’s fault that there weren’t any rooms available, leaving them to fend for themselves.
In the dark.
Alone.
Mr. Daniels had already hefted two of her trunks off the carriage and Ambrosia rifled through them until she located the quilts she’d packed so carefully a little over one week before.
Mr. Daniels declined the primrose print she offered up with a simple, “I’ve my own, thanks,” and then left to retrieve the water Mr. Beckman had pointed out. She hadn’t given a great deal of thought to where her driver had been sleeping over the past few nights, but of course, he must’ve had some sort of provisions prepared.
“Bring those over here, princesse.”
Seeing the shelter Mr. Beckman had built, she had to admit, it wasn’t nearly as primitive as she’d imagined. He’d even used one of the large pieces of canvas to cover the ground.
But there was only the one structure as far as she could see.
She bit her lip. “Where will you build the other one?”
“Alas, princesse… this is it. Your palace in the woods.”
“Oh…”
Mr. Beckman removed the quilts from her suddenly numb hands and laid them out invitingly upon the canvas-covered ground. He folded one of them lengthwise and placed it in the middle, creating a barrier of sorts.
“We’ll need wood to build a fire before dark.” He moved around the area most efficiently as he tightened the ropes to secure the tent to the tree and then began gathering some larger rocks which he arranged in a circle a couple feet away—for a fire pit? “If you find us some dried sticks—big ones, little ones, all sizes—I’ll get the rest of our camp ready. But stay close.”
Ambrosia nodded, reminding herself that, his teasing aside, Mr. Beckman had acted quite honorably over the course of their acquaintance. Taking Mr. Dog with her, she collected as many twigs and short branches as she could find and tossed them inside the rock circle.
He looked over her handiwork and immediately raised an eyebrow. “I take it you’ve not built a fire before.” That laughter—that she was becoming far too accustomed to—lurked in his voice.
Ambrosia flushed; he was not wrong, but what could there possibly be to criticize about fire wood?
“Like this.” He crouched down and began rearranging all of her twigs, even chucking a few branches off to the side.
When she didn’t move, he tugged at her, pulling her down beside him. “The smaller, dryer wood will light more quickly, so we arrange those first.” He laid them down, crisscrossed along the bottom. “Then you add a little dry grass underneath, leaving enough space for air to circulate, to feed the flame.” Thus handing off the task, he offered her a handful of the smaller branches. “Once you get these going, we’ll add larger, thicker pieces.”
From there he seemed content to watch her finish the process, offering the occasional suggestion. He’d remarked that it was a good opportunity to put his army skills to use, and Ambrosia could easily picture him in such an environment—commanding, capable, entirely at ease.
“Did you do this often?” she asked quietly. “When you fought with your regiment?”
Mr. Beckman stiffened and let the question pass unanswered. The silence was disappointing, though not unexpected. For all his easy manners and pleasant conversation, whenever it came to matters beneath the surface, he shut himself away as firmly as if he’d locked a door.
It only sharpened her curiosity, more than was reasonable, really. Perhaps it would be more polite to leave the matter alone—but surely she had some right to know. For the next week, she’d be spending hours and hours in his company.
This strange, handsome, mercurial man.
Practically holding her breath, she rearranged a few of the twigs and then sat back while Mr. Beckman ignited the dry grasses sprinkled beneath their little tower of wood.
After blowing gently on the small fire and watching the twigs catch, his voice broke the quiet at last.
“I told you—they called me home too soon. Months of training, and then—pfft—pulled away before a single shot was fired.”
She turned to look at him but refrained from commenting.
“So you didn’t actually fight at all?” The second the question flew out of her mouth she wished she could take it back. By the look on his face, it was obviously a sore spot for him.
“No,” he said at last, his voice low, flat. “We had only just made camp outside Brussels—training finished, farewells behind me, and then, I was ordered home.”
The self-derision roughened his accent. “Waterloo was won without me. Or lost, depending on which of my parents you ask.” His grin came thin and brittle. “You wished to know me better, princesse? Then know this—my greatest failure.”
