“Don’t you dare,” he growled.
She tried to laugh. “You’re certain? I can put on something simpler?—”
“If you keep talking like that, we won’t make it to the festival. I’ll take you upstairs instead.”
Ambrosia froze. “Pardon?”
His grin was slow. Dangerous. But he offered her his arm again with the utmost civility, as if he hadn’t just undone her with a single sentence.
Ambrosia narrowed her eyes and frowned.
With a shake of his head, the twinkle returned to Dash’s eyes. He extended his arm once more.
“Shall we, Madame Beckman?”
Ambrosia hesitated for just a moment, then took a steadying breath and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. She would pretend—as best she could—that this was all a game. Just a bit of fun.
She lifted the hem of her borrowed gown and allowed him to guide her out the door and down the three stone steps. The evening air was crisp, but the sky was clear now—the clouds from earlier lingering low to the south.
Mrs. Wooten stood near the little cart, arms crossed over her ample bosom as she appraised them with a smile. “You ride up front with Mr. Beckman,” she said briskly. “I’ll perch in the back. Don’t you worry about me.”
Ambrosia shook her head. “Absolutely not,” she said, already moving toward the rear of the cart. “I won’t take the comfortable seat while you bounce around back. It wouldn’t be right.”
She glanced toward Dash. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Beckman?”
His eyes caught hers, mischief and warmth passing between them, and the curve of his mouth was answer enough. And before she could form a single protest, his hands were already at her waist.
The breath caught in her throat.
Without effort, he lifted her—effortlessly, as though she weighed nothing at all—and placed her gently onto the flat wooden bed of the cart. But he didn’t let go right away. His hands lingered, fingers pressing through the layers of her borrowed gown. He looked up at her, his gaze searing—intense, unresolved. As though caught between a plea and a warning. As though he was memorizing her. Wanting. Warring. Needing.
Saying nothing—yet everything.
And when he finally did release her, Ambrosia’s head was spinning.
Even after Mrs. Wooten was helped onto the front bench and settled beside him, Ambrosia’s skin still tingled from his touch.
Dash climbed up last, took the reins in hand, and with a light flick and a call of “Hi-ya!” the cart creaked into motion.
Ambrosia sat there on the back, facing the road they’d come from, her legs swinging above the dirt and grass passing swiftly below. But her mind wasn’t on the scenery. It wasn’t even on the festival ahead. All she could think about was the feel of his hands at her waist. The way he’d looked at her, as if… as if he might never want to let go.
She wasn’t sure she wanted him to.
Ambrosia had been so deep in her thoughts that when the carriage at last rattled into the village, she glanced up in surprise. Lanterns glowed above her, strung with bright ribbons that swayed in the evening breeze, while tents lined both sides of the road in cheerful array. Dash guided their cart toward the others, where stable lads darted forward, eager to seize the reins and earn a few coins.
Before Ambrosia could climb off on her own, Dash came around.
“Stay,” he ordered as he handed Mrs. Wooten’s jams off to her husband. Once that was finished, he turned back to where Ambrosia still sat. “Now, Madame Beckman.”
His hands landed on her waist and she instinctively gripped his shoulders. He easily lifted her off the wooden cart and down to the ground, less than an inch between the two of them. Ambrosia didn’t step back but moved her hands closer to his neck, as though touching him was the most natural thing in the world.
“You newlyweds!” Mrs. Wooten laughed, jolting Ambrosia from her trance-like state. “You’ll have plenty of time for that later, don’t you worry. Come now. Let me introduce you to a few of our dearest friends. It isn’t often we have visitors, you know.”
Dash exhaled, unmoving for a beat, then exhaled a short, rueful laugh—resigned, as she was. Together they followed their hostess up and down the rows of vendors, pausing at nearly every stall to meet what felt like the entire population within five miles of Joseph’s Well.
There was no possible way she would remember any of these people, and yet she found herself enjoying every minute of it. Through it all, Dash, her pretend husband, remained at her side, leaning close to ask her to repeat a name to him every so often or else making a comment about something in one of the booths. More than once, he asked for her opinion; did she prefer jam or pudding? What was her favorite season? Mr. Wooten put a glass of ale in each of their hands and eventually they were left on their own, drifting apart, and then back together, as they explored the vendor’s wares and aromatic offerings.
“Come with me, princesse.” Dash tugged her away from a lady selling baskets and feathered hats to where a woman with long black hair streaked with gray, wearing colorful silks and sparkling jewels, beckoned them.
