And within the small circle of firelight, there seemed no world beyond the two of them. They sat close, shoulders brushing, the bottle of wine empty, and a warmth between them that had little to do with the flames.
But then, because all good things must come to an end, Dash rose and began refilling the basket with what was left of their dinner.
Ambrosia moved and stretched. “What of Mr. Daniels?” she asked.
Mr. Beckman gestured toward the other side of the carriage where the horse had been tied off. When he lifted a finger to his lips, she silenced herself enough that she could hear the loud snoring coming from the other side.
“I believe he located another bottle of gin.”
Which meant that she and Dash might just as well be alone. Except for Mr. Dog of course, though he wasn’t much of a chaperone at all.
“If you prefer, you may change behind the tent. It will afford you a measure of privacy. I’ll fetch water for you to wash.” He extended his hand, and when she placed hers in his, he drew her gently to her feet.
Ambrosia swayed, and at once his grip shifted, steadying her with a hand at her elbow.
“Steady there,” he murmured.
She thanked him, struggling to find her feet as she leaned heavily against his supporting arm.
Merciful heavens, she hadn’t drunk spirits since before Harrison’s passing. The good food, the night air, the fire, the wine, and his company all combined to leave her in a fuzzy state of… contentment, but also something that felt like anticipation.
He didn’t let go until she nodded and stepped away.
Since he’d already placed her trunk beside the tent, she didn’t have to go far to retrieve her night rail and dressing gown. It would feel good to get out of the dress she’d worn all day. Not only had she gotten specks of mud on it when they’d given Mr. Dog his bath, but smoke from the fire clung to it now as well.
“Here’s some water.”
Ambrosia startled at Mr. Beckman’s voice coming from behind her, much closer than she’d expected. He’d hardly made a sound moving through the darkness.
Holding out a bowl, he raised one of his dark eyebrows. “To wash with? And soap as well. Luckily, we managed not to use all of it on Mr. Dog.”
Ambrosia couldn’t help but smile at that. She had to admit, bathing her “son” that morning had been… fun.
When was the last time she’d felt like that?
“You promise not to look?” she asked.
“Mais oui. Cross my heart,” Dash said, holding out his hand. “Give me the mutt—I’ll walk him in the meadow while you change. That way you’ll have the firelight to yourself.”
Ambrosia passed him the leading string and watched as he disappeared once more into the dark.
Was it possible not every man was like her late husband? That not every man was like the innkeeper back at the Happy Pig?
“But don’t take all night, princesse!” Dash called over his shoulder. “Je ne suis pas un saint.” I am no saint.
She blinked, startled out of her reverie, then slipped behind the tent. “Not even with saint tucked right there in your name?” she called back, her tone teasing.
“Lost my halo years ago.” His chuckle was softer now, more distant.
There wasn’t enough room to change inside, and so—heart fluttering at the ridiculousness of it all—hidden behind the canvas wall, she hastily began to unfasten the buttons down the front of her dress.
She would take him at his word.
She’d never disrobed outdoors before. Not once. Not even as a child. And although she ought to feel unnerved, a wave of unexpected freedom washed over her instead.
Off came her gown, which she folded carefully and laid atop her trunk. Her chemise should have been fine for sleeping, but after a cautious sniff, she grimaced. It and her corset had to go. She untied the laces with fingers that were slower than usual, and peeled the garments off with a soft sigh.
Cool air whispered along her newly bared skin. The sensation teased along her collarbone, down the curve of her arm—like the imagined touch of a gentle lover.
