She didn’t want a vow or a future or a fairy tale.
She only wanted this—one moment, one kiss. One memory that belonged entirely to her.
She was a widow, not a wife. Not some fresh, trembling debutante waiting to be chosen. Never again would she surrender legal ownership of her body or her choices to a man. But she had needs. She had wants. And if that made her bold tonight—then so be it.
He had said that she would hate him if she knew his truth. That whatever he carried, it would ruin everything. But she didn’t believe it—not fully. Because in the short time she’d known Mr. Beckman, she’d seen him show genuine compassion and affection—love for his horse, kindness towards Mr. Daniels and Mr. Dog.
He had protected her.
Respected her.
Ambrosia absolutely could not believe that he would ever hurt her.
She shifted onto her knees, moving across the folded quilt until she was hovering over him. Her pulse raced, her skin prickling in the cool air.
His breath reached up to meet her—wine, spice, and something wholly… Dash.
Familiar now. Comforting.
With one careful shift of her shoulder, her braid slid forward. In the faint wash of moonlight filtering through the canvas, she saw it fall against his lips, exactly as she intended. He went still, and in the hush of the tent she could almost imagine he was kissing her hair.
She tilted her head slightly, giving the smallest shake, and the plait dragged down the line of his jaw. Across the stubble-dusted skin of his chin, then lower—skimming the strong column of his throat—until it reached his chest.
Her breath caught as her gaze followed it, tracing the shadows on his torso. His shirt was gone, leaving her mesmerized by the smattering of dark hair that crossed his chest—not too much, thicker in the center and then tapering down into a line that vanished beneath the band of his breeches.
She licked her lips.
It was ridiculous, how much she wanted to touch him. To know if the warmth of his skin matched hers. To feel those muscles she’d only glimpsed when he’d rolled up his sleeves or tugged his coat tight across his back.
Still, he didn’t move.
His arm remained thrown across his forehead as if shielding his eyes—or bracing himself.
Was he waiting? Letting her decide?
She hadn’t expected him to be so… passive. She had thought he’d kiss her. Had thought he would take control the moment she made her intent clear.
But he didn’t.
Trembling, Ambrosia set her hand against the center of his chest. His skin was, in fact, warm, firm beneath her touch, his heartbeat steady and strong. When her fingers curled ever so slightly, that steady rhythm faltered.
She lifted her gaze.
He was no longer hiding behind his arm. His eyes were open. Fixed on hers.
Watching.
Waiting.
And then he breathed her name. “Ambrosia.” The relief in his voice was all she needed.
Instead of waiting for him, she lowered her face so that less than an inch separated their mouths.
“You will make this good for me? Make this a most excellent first kiss.” She felt exposed as she asked the question, needy. But tonight, his kiss, might very well be the only one she’d ever experience.
“It will be the kiss of a lifetime.” His words, sounding like a vow, would somehow always bind her to this man—no other promises needed.
His hands reached up behind her neck and he lifted his head, closing the gap between them.
