Not that Mrs. Tuttle hadn’t been her friend, but Mrs. Tuttle was in her eighties. Mr. Beckman was close to her own age and he laughed, and he encouraged her, and he was willing to get wet bathing her dog on the bank of a stream…
“You wish to be rid of me, princesse?” She saw a little uncertainty in those blue eyes now.
“No.” Her heart leapt into her throat. “Never.” A bit dramatic, but it was the truth.
“Let’s finish this adventure together then, shall we? I’ve a week before I’m expected in Margate. Plenty of time.” His eyes grew dreadfully serious. “It’s nice to just… be. With you.”
Ambrosia nodded. She felt the same.
“Now.” He sat up suddenly. “Let’s get that fire going again.” Ambrosia barely heard what he said, her attention caught up in watching his bare arms and abdomen as he climbed out from beneath the quilts.
She’d touched that skin last night. She’d lain on top of him.
“Princesse? You are bien, oui?”
She shook her head. “Yes. Of course. A fire. Best get moving.” It was difficult to focus on anything, however, but the way his muscles moved beneath his smooth skin and that dark brown hair, cinnamon, with just a hint of brown, growing in a perfect trail down to his?—
“I’ll gather the wood,” he said, and that glint of mischief was back in his eyes again.
Dratted man.
After struggling to change into a clean gown, Ambrosia emerged from the tent to find the fire already revived, Dash crouched over a small kettle, coaxing it into a gentle boil, with Mr. Dog stretched lazily at his side.
“Cannot begin the day properly without tea, eh?” he said, flashing her that grin—causing her stomach to flutter inconveniently.
Oh dear.
Perhaps—if she tried very hard—she could pretend their kiss had never happened.
Except she already knew that was going to be impossible.
There was no un-kissing a man like Dash Beckman. The memory was etched into her, as indelible as ink spilled across parchment. Irrevocable.
Worse, it had left her yearning for more.
By some small mercy, he stepped away, granting her a sliver of solitude—just enough to smooth her hair, lace her boots, and wrestle with the wholly improper thoughts swimming through her mind.
Harrison, Milton, Winifred… they had been right all along.
She was wicked. Truly wicked.
But this time, defiance won out over shame.
She didn’t feel damned. She felt… awakened.
When she joined Dash at the fire, the air between them felt oddly fragile, like too much had been said, but there was still more hovering just out of reach.
The kettle sat nestled among the stones, steam curling skyward. Beside it, a cloth had been spread with cheese, bread, and a small crock of jam laid out on its surface.
“I didn’t realize you’d purchased so much for this excursion,” she said, lowering herself to the ground. “Just tell me what you’ve spent and I’ll?—”
“It is your carriage I ride in, do you not remember?” His tone was light, almost teasing, though when he turned to offer her the mug of tea, his gaze slipped just shy of hers. “The least I can do, non?”
She might have pushed back, but her stomach chose that moment to rumble audibly—providing her with the perfect excuse to look away. She laughed, embarrassed, and began assembling a plate, grateful for the distraction.
Then when she took her first bite, she let out a delighted groan, genuinely distracted from any talk of debts or traveling expenses. “Is it just me, or does this food taste better than it should?” she asked, licking a smear of jam from her finger with languid care.
She took a sip of the tea—hot, strong, exactly what she needed.
