Page 15 of The Duke that I Lost

LUNCH AT THE HAPPY PIG

A mbrosia couldn’t say how long she’d slept soundly, but didn’t wake up until the carriage gave a pronounced jolt, jostling as Mr. Daniels turned off the road.

He’d be wanting to rest the horses.

Carefully, so as not to wake Mr. Beckman, she slipped out from beneath his arm and then rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She had only just begun to collect herself when?—

“Embarrassed to have me for a pillow, princesse ?”

Although he hadn’t once mentioned the negligée he’d pulled out of her trunk, he apparently still delighted in teasing her.

“Not in the least,” she replied evenly, schooling her expression. “You make for a very comfortable bed.”

The word ‘bed’ came out too easily.

Well done, Ambrosia.

But although his smile could be felt from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, Mr. Beckman didn’t press the moment.

“Horses will need resting,” he said instead, leaning forward to peer out the window on her side. “So take your time doing whatever it is ladies like to do on these stops.”

The carriage slowed as Mr. Daniels turned into the yard of a roadside inn, its worn sign declaring it The Happy Pig.

Before the wheels even stilled, Mr. Beckman had opened the door and leapt down into the dust. He turned back, hand extended.

“I’ll check with the stable hands,” he said as he helped her down.

“Ask if anyone’s heard anything about Guinevere. ”

She nodded, about to reach back into the carriage for Mr. Dog—then hesitated.

“Mr. Beckman!” she called after him, just as he was turning away.

He pivoted, already several paces off, and began walking back to hear her better.

“I’ll purchase something for us to eat. Is there anything particular that you’d like?”

He grinned. “Surprise me.” And with a jaunty little shrug, he turned and strode toward the stables.

For a moment, Ambrosia watched him go. It wasn’t as though they were… together, and yet it felt as if they’d become something of a team.

Mr. Daniels had also stepped down and was walking around the horses, loosening a strap here and there, leaving Ambrosia to her own devices.

So she turned to Mr. Dog.

“I don’t trust you yet, not even a little,” she declared, scooping him into her arms and nuzzling her nose against his downy-soft head. “You’d love to go frolicking in manure again, wouldn’t you?”

The dog panted happily, then gave her chin a quick, slobbery lick—clearly unbothered by her accusation.

Still smiling to herself, Ambrosia entered the inn, the smell of roasting meat and bread warming the air. Her pleasant mood, however, was punctured by a sharp voice.

“No dogs,” said a ruddy-cheeked man behind the bar, snapping a damp linen cloth for emphasis. “You’ll have to leave that outside.”

She tightened her arms around Mr. Dog’s belly. “He’s freshly washed. And trained.” Or at least, she was pretty certain he was. “He won’t be any trouble.”

“Don’t care. No animals inside.” His eyes dipped pointedly toward the neckline of her gown, where Mr. Dog had snuggled beneath her chin. “You, on the other hand, are more than welcome.”

Uncertainty and… something else crawled over her.

Up until now, Ambrosia hadn’t met with difficulty at the coaching inns where they’d stopped. There had always been a kindly innkeeper’s wife or sister to assist her in finding a decent place to dine or take tea while Mr. Daniels took care of the horses.

No such luck this time. No, she was on her own.

She took a slow, steadying breath. “Very well. I’ll order something to take outside. Bread. Cheese. Cold meat.”

The man narrowed his eyes, showing a calculating gleam that she did not like at all.

He dragged his frayed cloth through his fingers. “If I do that for you, miss… what’ll you do for me?”

A surge of fear rose in her belly—recognizable but unwelcome. She despised the fact that a stranger’s leer could make her feel so helpless.

Not just helpless, but… unworldly. Exposed. Like she was just seven and ten once again, a foolish girl who ought to have known better.

But then?—

The door slammed open behind her, sharp as a pistol crack.

She didn’t need to turn to know it was Mr. Beckman. She just… knew. And with his presence came a very simple solution, one she was sure he would be willing to go along with, no matter how short their acquaintance had been.

“Why don’t you pose that question to my husband?” she said coolly, lifting her chin and turning just enough to meet Mr. Beckman’s eyes. She swept out her hand as though she were introducing him, making it clear to both men who she was referring to.

Mr. Beckman tilted his head slightly, questioning but not at all concerned. “Darling,” she added pointedly, “this gentleman was just asking what a woman like me might offer in exchange for a bit of bread and cheese.”

Mr. Beckman’s mouth popped open slightly with a little “ah”, and in that moment, Ambrosia noticed something in his expression darken.

He stepped to Ambrosia’s side, and as though he’d done it a thousand times, slipped a strong arm around her waist, drawing her protectively to him. Not ostentatiously. Just firmly. Possessively. As though she were truly his.

“Oh?” he asked the innkeeper, tone overtly polite. But biting. “Well, go on then, my good sir. What was it that you wanted from my wife ?”

The fellow behind the counter blanched.

“Oh, I—I didn’t mean anything by it, sir.

The missus—she must’ve misunderstood me is all.

You know how sensitive women can be… dramatic, even, at times.

” He gave a weak, short little chuckle and then shrugged uncomfortably when Mr. Beckman did not respond in kind.

“It was just a bit of jesting, sir, no harm done?—”

“That,” Mr. Beckman drawled, “has yet to be determined.”

Going off of his tone, Ambrosia was almost certain he was no longer referring to her being harmed . In fact, it sounded like a threat.

The innkeeper appeared to come to the same conclusion; his already pale face twitched, and he seemed to shrink before her eyes, glancing around like a cornered animal. “There’s—there’s no need for trouble, I assure you.”

“Are you the owner of this inn?” Mr. Beckman didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “What is your name?”

“The name’s Jeffries, and I—I am, yes.”

“I see.” Mr. Beckman slid his gloves into his coat pocket and scanned the taproom with a disdainful flick of his eyes. “Well, Monsieur Jeffries, I have friends. Magistrates. Publishers. Landowners—all of whom enjoy a warm fire and a good meal when traveling through this region.”

He smiled then—just slightly. But the look in his eyes was sharp enough to cut glass.

“The sort of gentlemen, Monsieur Jeffries, who would be deeply interested in knowing where their wives, sisters, or daughters are likely to be treated with… disrespect. Or propositioned in exchange for a loaf of bread.”

Mr. Jeffries swallowed hard, his mouth opening, then closing again.

“Sir, I—I meant no harm, truly?—”

“Apologize,” Mr. Beckman said softly. Dangerously.

“That’s not necessary,” Ambrosia broke in. Her voice quivered, an unexpected attack of nerves. She had not expected Mr. Beckman to go quite this far with their little ruse—not that she felt she was undeserving of an apology, per se, but she was unaccustomed to… actually receiving them.

From men especially.

No one had defended her, in fact, since her father died.

“But it is,” Mr. Beckman said, eyes still locked on the innkeeper. “You will apologize to my wife.”

Mr. Jeffries hesitated—until he saw something in Mr. Beckman’s expression that had him lowering his gaze. Then, awkwardly, he gave a short bow in Ambrosia’s direction.

“My apologies, madam.”

“Thank you,” Ambrosia murmured.

Not to be left out, Mr. Dog lifted his head just then, and a low, rumbling growl issued from his throat, unmistakably menacing.

It wasn’t a bark. It was a warning.

The innkeeper glanced between Ambrosia’s little guard dog and Mr. Beckman. “It will not happen again. You have my word.”

Mr. Beckman stared down the innkeeper a little longer before finally saying, “Your word means very little to me. But you are correct. It will not happen again.” He said it with such certainty that Ambrosia felt a chill run up her spine.

When he turned to Ambrosia, however, his expression softened. “Are you satisfied with Monsieur Jeffries’ apology, princesse ?”

Ambrosia considered briefly.

Although she was unconvinced that Mr. Jeffries really would change his ways from here on out, she was also not convinced that anything worthwhile would be accomplished by continuing to press the matter.

She gave a tight nod, rubbing the top of Mr. Dog’s head.

Noticing the tightness still coiled in Mr. Beckman’s jaw, she wished she could do the same for him.

“Mr. Dog could use some water, though… and what about that bread and cheese?” she asked, giving Mr. Beckman a reassuring smile.

Only then did he breathe out—a quiet, controlled exhale.

“Your finest private dining room, then,” he addressed the innkeeper again. His voice was honey-smooth now, but there was still that steel beneath it. “We’ll require a hot meal—meat, bread, something sweet. For my wife and myself, and milk for our dog.”

Mr. Jeffries nearly tripped over himself in his eagerness to comply, scrambling to signal a passing maid. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Right this way?—”

* * *

She ought to have felt grateful.

She was grateful, wasn’t she?

Ambrosia glanced at Mr. Beckman across the narrow table as he leaned back, one arm resting on the chairback beside him.

As if he hadn't just cut a grown man down to size. As if he hadn’t just rescued her from a frightening situation, one that had felt far more familiar than it ought to have.

And yet… gratitude wasn’t the dominant feeling.

The barmaid entered, setting down two tankards of ale with a practiced smile. Mr. Beckman offered her one of his signature winks and a murmured “ Merci, chérie .”

The woman practically glowed as she curtsied and withdrew.