She shivered but quickly attributed such wandering thoughts to wine and starlight and that ridiculous moment beside the fire when he’d said she had magic.
And yet…
Was it so outlandish to wonder about romance?
She lifted her hands to her hair, fingers seeking the pins she’d shoved in that morning. One by one, she removed them, letting the weight of her curls fall down her back.
Ambrosia had determined never to marry again. It wasn’t worth the loss of her agency…but she hadn’t met Mr. Beckman yet.
She drew her fingers through her hair, and then the brush that used to be her mother’s.
Not that Mr. Beckman would ever wish to marry her, but he’d made her wonder if, sometime in the future, there might be something more for her.
A lover?
The thought brought a wave… equal parts intrigue and shame.
After weaving her hair into a single long braid, she poured a few drops of lavender-scented oil into the water, wet a cloth, and then lazily wiped her face and neck. An indolent and sensual feeling had taken a hold of her. It was the wine making her feel this way. Of course, it had to be the wine.
She skimmed the cloth along her chest, lazily lavishing more attention to her breasts than normal.
What if…
What if she were to release him from his promise? Take back her words of caution?
Would he find it all dreadfully amoosing…
Or…
Would he kiss her?
She moved the cloth to the undersides of her breasts, imagining for a moment that it was his hands that touched her.
“Are you decent yet?”
“Not yet.” She nervously scrubbed the cloth over her legs and between her thighs before rinsing it out and placing it beside her soiled gown to dry. Then, unwilling to push her luck, Ambrosia slipped her arms into her nightrail.
“I’m ready.” And for some reason these words had her blushing in the dark. She sounded like a bride who’d prepared for her groom.
Ridiculous.
She’d obviously been reading too many romantic stories lately. Or perhaps it was the influence of Mrs. Tuttle, who had shared everything about her own wedding night, which had apparently been “absolutely wonderful”, going into far more detail than Ambrosia had ever heard or read about before. Not even her own mother had explained so much the night before Ambrosia was to wed Harrison.
Mr. Beckman walked around the tent, seeming, for the first time since she’d known him, slightly uncomfortable. “He refuses to lift a leg,” he said, his voice a touch hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’ll have more luck?”
Ambrosia blinked, then realized he was offering her more than just the lead for Mr. Dog. He was allowing her the opportunity to find a more personal type of privacy, without saying so outright. She appreciated that more than she could express.
“I can try,” she said. Then, wearing nothing but the simple cotton gown and her half boots, took the leash and led Mr. Dog to the far side of the clearing, stopping when she found a patch of brush that offered enough cover for her needs.
Before crouching, she glanced back toward the tent—and paused.
Backlit by the fire, from behind the same canvas where she had changed, Dash’s silhouette moved in slow, unhurried gestures. Although the wall offered modest concealment, she saw enough to make her breath catch.
He was undressing. Shirt first, then a stretch, revealing all the length of his frame. The graceful sweep of his arm. The curve of his backside…
She blinked and looked away quickly, cheeks warming even in the cool night air as she finished her business, stood, and then waited for Mr. Dog to do the same. When he finally obliged, she looped the string loosely around her fingers and made her way back toward camp.
But halfway there, a thought struck.
