She studied him again, this time making an effort to look past the thick lashes and devil’s smirk. “You aren’t a murderer, are you?”
“Who, me?” He glanced around the room, grinning that same foolish grin he’d sent her through the window. “Not that I know of.”
Reassuring.
Ambrosia turned to the broken wheel, as if sheer willpower might knit it back together. Just then, a bitter wind sliced through the wide-open doors behind her, swirling around her ankles and lifting the edges of her shawl, reminding her—again—that spring had not yet arrived in England. The night would be long. And cold.
“So, what will it be, princesse?” he asked, far too pleased with himself.
She exhaled. “Oh, very well. It’s going to have to be you, I suppose.”
Then she turned to face him fully, eyes narrowed.
“But if we’re to travel together, there will be conditions.”
He raised his eyebrows but then inclined his head, as if he were humoring a child. Something which Ambrosia had had more than enough of back at Rockford Beach.
Well, if he decided to push the issue, he would find that she was quite serious when she left him on the side of the road with nothing more than that silly hat of his and his useless pride.
“First, you must stop speaking to me as though I’m your favorite… barmaid. Try to show a modicum of decorum.”
She lifted a finger. “Second, no more winking. Or smirking.”
He looked positively delighted.
Which brought to mind her third caveat. “And for the love of England, stop laughing at me.”
Still grinning, though he appeared to make some small effort to suppress the expression, he nodded in agreement and then bowed. “Dash Beckman, at your service, princesse. And you are…?”
“Mrs. Ambrosia Bloomington.”
“Not a princesse?” He slid her a sideways glance which she, for some unknown reason, felt from the top of her head all the way down to her toes.
“Most assuredly not a princess,” she confirmed.
AMBROSIA’S NEW DRIVER
An hour later, wrapped in a woolen coat and scarf, Ambrosia sat atop the driver’s bench, Mr. Beckman at her side, flicking the reins as they turned out of the rutted yard.
The sun had long since set, and the narrow road stretched out ahead under the pale wash of moonlight. The hedgerows were little more than jagged silhouettes, the trees looming like ghostly guards on either side. A few stars pricked the sky above them, and the quiet clip of the horses’ hooves echoed into the night.
Mr. Beckman had changed the wheel with no assistance whatsoever, and much to her irritation, Ambrosia had secretly marveled at the clever contraption he’d devised to do so.
Sitting on the only chair in the stables watching him, it had been impossible not to notice the way his muscles rippled beneath his waistcoat and rolled-up shirtsleeves. As anyone would have done.
A mistake though, clearly, as it had led to her current state, painfully aware of his presence at her side, all of her senses attuned to him, despite her best efforts.
She had been married, true enough, but her husband hadn’t been anything like Mr. Beckman. As it stood, it felt as though lightning shot through her whenever his elbow so much as brushed against hers. And when the wheels hit a rut or dipped into a hollow, jostling them close and pressing her thigh against his, her breath caught at the sensation.
This little adventure was proving far more dangerous than she’d bargained for—though not for the reasons she’d expected. She could only hope the next inn wasn’t far.
By the time the vehicle had been repaired, Mr. Daniels had passed out completely.
Mr. Beckman had said they could either leave him at the inn, in which case Ambrosia would be alone with this enigmatic stranger for the entirety of the remainder of her journey, or they could load Mr. Daniels into the coach.
Affronted at the mere suggestion, Ambrosia insisted they bring him along. She could not leave her driver behind. The idea was absurd! Besides, she’d prefer to have a witness along, in case Mr. Beckman’s character was not, in fact, upstanding.
But then came another choice. With Mr. Daniels loaded into the interior of the carriage like a rolled-up carpet—one that leaked drool and reeked of gin and sweat—Ambrosia could either travel inside with the inebriated driver or take her chances atop the box with Mr. Beckman.
