He didn’t, and this time she was the one who turned away, pulling the blanket around her like armor.
Behind her, his voice was low. “Are you all right?”
No.
“I’m fine,” she said anyway. “I’m going to sleep.”
Mr. Dog wandered over and nestled along her front, a soft, comforting weight, and she buried her face in his scruffy fur. Dogs didn’t go hot and then cold. They certainly didn’t stir up feelings only to retreat the moment those feelings became real.
A moment later, she heard Dash slip from the tent. Heard the fire stir. The dull thud of stones kicked.
Eventually, sleep came. But it did not come easily.
A DETOUR
Ambrosia woke to birds singing, but the sound only seemed to sharpen the ache inside her. Last night’s humiliation rushed back whole and raw.
She had reached for him, offered him her heart in all her uncertainty, and he had turned away. The memory burned in her chest, tightening until it was hard to draw breath.
And this morning there was no reprieve.
She could not ignore the steady warmth at her back—the knowledge that Dash Beckman still lay on the other side of the quilt, close enough to touch, but impossibly out of reach.
“Ambrosia.” His voice carried the roughness of morning.
“How did you know I was awake?” She didn’t turn to look at him. She didn’t want him to see the disappointment on her face when he informed her he was going to abandon her and Mr. Daniels—and Mr. Dog! —and that he was going to make the rest of the journey on his own.
“Your breathing changed.”
There was a rustling, as though he had moved to touch her arm, but then changed his mind.
She swallowed hard. “I understand if you don’t want?—”
“Let’s put last night behind us, shall we? We only have a few more days together and I don’t want anything to ruin them.”
“But I?—”
“You did nothing wrong.” His voice was low, careful. “I… I was only—” he exhaled, a rueful sound colored by his French lilt, “—frustré, last night. Please, do not ask me to explain why.”
Ambrosia’s brow furrowed. What did he mean, she had done nothing wrong? If that were true, why had he turned her away? This was not at all what she had expected of this morning—of him. She rolled onto her side and found him propped on one elbow, studying her.
“So you aren’t angry with me? For kissing you?”
His lips curved into a smile, wide and unguarded. “Angry? Non. Not in the slightest.”
For a moment, all she could do was stare. His eyes seemed bluer than she had ever noticed before—dark and light, royal and storm, shot through with silver flecks that left her breathless.
“You were right, though,” he said, the smile fading. “When you first asked me not to.” His gaze slipped to the quilt between them. “Alors… can we—perhaps—pretend it did not happen?”
Ambrosia blinked at his request and thought back to what she’d said when she’d asked him not to kiss her what felt like ages ago.
“If you kissed me, I could not allow you to escort me to London. It would not be proper… I am a widow… but… I would judge myself…”
He had taken her seriously. And she had meant it at the time, but now… well, perhaps it was for the best.
“You would reach London much faster on your own, given the pace we’ve managed.” She forced a steadiness into her tone. “I’m certain you could acquire a mount at any number of the posting stations along the road.” Of course, she had known this for some time now. His continued company was unnecessary. “You needn’t feel obliged to accompany me—if you do not wish it. Mr. Daniels will see me safely to my destination… eventually.”
Her heart ached at the thought of separating from him, which was absurd, and yet… Over the last few days she’d felt as though she had a true friend.
