It didn’t sound as forced as she’d thought it would. “You really chased him through the forest? Did he ever catch the rabbit?”
Dash growled in mock disgust. “Ah, no. I had more chance of catching the rabbit than your dog, the rogue.”
They climbed into the back of the carriage together and, although she couldn’t shed all the tension simmering inside, she managed to remain sitting normally on her side of the bench when he lowered himself beside her.
Was it only yesterday that he’d pulled her to lay against him? She glanced over, and the look in his eyes gave away that he might be thinking the same thing.
Ambrosia lifted Mr. Dog to sit between them and turned to stare out the window. “I found our trip to Stonehenge yesterday most enjoyable. I’m so glad we visited. Thank you for thinking of it.” Oh, that sounded wonderfully cheerful, she congratulated herself.
“Anything to see you smile.” He remained solidly on his side of the bench, Mr. Dog an effective barrier.
“How much farther to London?” For the answer to this question, she turned to face him properly, wanting to see his expression.
“With good weather we could arrive by tomorrow night.” He didn’t look particularly happy about it.
“Will that be soon enough?”
He fixed his gaze on her, steady and unreadable. “Oui, princesse. More than enough time to make my… party.”
One would think he spoke of a prison sentence rather than a celebration.
Ambrosia turned back to her window and they rode in silence for nearly an hour before either of them spoke.
“I don’t know about you,” Dash finally said, reaching down beside his boots, “but I’m starving.” He drew up a cloth sack she hadn’t noticed before and rummaged within. “What’ll it be, princesse—cherry or apple?”
He held out two pastries, one in each hand.
“Neither.” She’d barely eaten from the tray he’d sent to her room the night before, and she wasn’t hungry now either. Or perhaps she was—but not for food. “And would you please stop calling me that?”
“Princesse?” His brow arched, teasing. “You do not like it?”
“I do not like what it implies…” She faltered, though she tried to sound brisk. It implied she was special to him. It reminded her, with piercing clarity, that she had kissed him. Foolish, reckless girl. And yet—wicked as it was—she longed to do it again.
“What exactly does it imply, princ—Ambrosia?” Then, as if sensing she wouldn’t—couldn’t—answer, he set one of the pastries on a napkin and placed it gently in her lap.
“You had better eat, or your son here will decide it was meant for him.”
“Argh!” Her exasperation got the better of her as she picked up the pastry and tore a not-so-ladylike bite off with her teeth. She didn’t want to have this discussion. She’d come to terms with the fact that friendship was all that could exist between the two of them.
Which was fine.
Perfectly fine.
So why did he have to look at her as though she was the pastry at times? Why did he have to tease her? Why had he held her in his arms yesterday morning?
Why was he even here? He could have acquired a mount at any number of stops they’d made along the way now.
“You don’t want to tell me?” he pressed.
She had his full attention right now and she wasn’t certain that she wanted it.
“It implies that you… feel a particular affection for me. That you... want me. Perhaps it means nothing to other ladies of your acquaintance. Perhaps they are aware that you are nothing more than a ridiculous flirt. But I am not like other ladies. I thought that… And then I kissed you… And now… If you are so repulsed by me—if you see me as some sort of little sister to watch out for—I’d appreciate it if you refrain from your flirtatious behavior for the remainder of our journey. I’ve already made enough of a cake of myself. I?—”
He turned so abruptly to face her that Mr. Dog hopped off the bench and onto the floor.
“Mon Dieu,” Dash rasped, his voice shaking. “You think I see you as a little sister?”
His chest rose and fell as if he'd been holding his breath for days. One hand braced against the seat between them, while the other curled into a fist against his thigh.
