Page 17 of The Duke that I Lost

MR. BECKMAN’S UNORTHODOX PLAN

L ater that day, as the sun began to set and they entered the only village for miles, Ambrosia furrowed her brows at what appeared to be an inordinate amount of carriages and people milling about. When they pulled into a crowded inn yard, Dash told her to wait a moment while he secured them a room.

A room. Singular.

Surely, he meant separate quarters for each of them. Ambrosia had no reason not to trust him on this matter. He’d already slept on a cot one night, allowing her to take sole possession of the only available chamber.

“We’ve had good luck so far, haven’t we?” she murmured to her new pup.

Mr. Dog, who was standing on his hind legs, looking out the window, merely turned to her and tilted his head. That tongue of his, of course, draped out the left side of his mouth this time.

“I’ll bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?” she murmured to Mr. Dog, who blinked up at her with that sweet, slightly dopey expression.

Despite his enthusiasm when she’d given him a bit of ham earlier, he’d struggled to mash it up properly.

“Don’t you worry, I’ll remember to soak the bread for you tonight, good sir. ”

She was smoothing down his ears when Mr. Beckman reappeared at the carriage step—looking not the least bit discouraged. In fact, he seemed absurdly pleased.

“Well,” he announced brightly, “they’re full up.”

What? But…?

Why had he said it like this was good news?

“There’s some sort of market tomorrow,” he went on. “Every bed’s spoken for.” He hoisted a bundle of folded canvas into the carriage, followed by a coil of rope, and then turned to grin at her. “But not to worry—I have a plan.”

Ambrosia stared at the canvas. Then at the rope. Then at the maddening sparkle in his eyes.

Surely, he didn’t mean?—

“I am glad to show you a few of the skills I learned from the infantry,” he said as he climbed easily into the carriage. “We go just past the rise—more private there, and the stars, princesse … you shall see them all.”

Ambrosia didn’t move. “You mean to say… we’re sleeping outside?”

“With Mr. Dog,” he added cheerfully. “And Daniels, of course.”

Ambrosia blinked, and her sense of contentment fled.

“What if it rains?” she managed. “Or—or snakes?” She eyed the carriage’s interior, imagining how she might wedge herself onto the narrow bench.

Dash slung a warm, solid arm along the back of the bench, his hand landing lightly on her shoulder.

“Much better this way. Even if there had been a vacancy, the innkeeper assured me no dogs were allowed. As per his wife’s wishes.

” He lowered his voice and then visibly shuddered.

“There are some creatures in this world even I cannot charm, princesse .”

He squeezed her shoulder. “Besides,” he added, eyes gleaming with mischief, “there’s nothing quite like sleeping under the stars with your husband.”

“But you’re not… That was only…” Shaking her head, she trailed off, distracted by the little shiver that traveled to the crown of her head and down her back—a shiver that had little to do with any supposed fear of sleeping outside.

No, it was mostly from having this man’s arm around her—from feeling the tips of his fingers brush the hairs at the back of her neck.

She was coming to like Mr. Dash Beckman far too much for her own good, and it wasn’t just because of the protection he offered.

Or his pleasant company.

Or his easy smile…

It was the way he made her feel oddly capable. As if she belonged beside him, rather than trailing behind.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Daniels veered the carriage off the road and into a small, wooded copse of trees.

The light was fading fast, the canopy overhead softening what remained of the sun into a golden haze, and the air was just barely on the warmer side of chilly.

The mild temperature was not something she anticipated continuing into the night.

Mr. Beckman leapt down with practiced ease, then turned and offered her his hand.

“Well. Are you ready to set up camp, princesse?” he asked, his voice full of that maddening, irresistible cheer.

Ambrosia hesitated just long enough for her gaze to sweep the clearing. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

Because, truly, what choice did she have? And—she hated to admit it—but some traitorous part of her was… intrigued.

Cradling Mr. Dog as though he were an infant—one who insisted upon being held belly down , thank you very much!

—Ambrosia glanced around at the trees, then at the ground that was littered with rocks and leaves and bugs and who knew what else.

She couldn’t help but wince at the prospect of sleeping with so little between her and… this.

“You can fetch water for the horses off to the left over there,” Mr. Beckman instructed Mr. Daniels, who nodded but then went around to the back of the carriage to begin unloading the luggage instead.

Ambrosia simply stood off to the side, at quite a loss as to what she ought to do while the men set off to work.

Mr. Beckman took the rope he’d procured earlier and tied it between two trees with a confidence that could only come from frequent repetition—the military background he’d mentioned, surely.

A structure of some sort began to emerge when he draped the canvas material over the line and tugged it into place, pinning the edges to the ground with stones and makeshift stakes.

When he finished, he glanced up at Ambrosia, brushing the dust off his breeches. “If I’m not mistaken, along with your enticing nightwear, I believe I spotted a few quilts in that trunk.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.” Ignoring his mention of the lingerie, she placed Mr. Dog on the ground, tying his leading string to a tree, and forced herself to show some enthusiasm for this endeavor.

After all, it wasn’t Mr. Beckman’s fault that there weren’t any rooms available, leaving them to fend for themselves.

In the dark.

Alone.

Mr. Daniels had already hefted two of her trunks off the carriage and Ambrosia rifled through them until she located the quilts she’d packed so carefully a little over one week before.

Mr. Daniels declined the primrose print she offered up with a simple, “I’ve my own, thanks,” and then left to retrieve the water Mr. Beckman had pointed out.

She hadn’t given a great deal of thought to where her driver had been sleeping over the past few nights, but of course, he must’ve had some sort of provisions prepared.

“Bring those over here, princesse .”

Seeing the shelter Mr. Beckman had built, she had to admit, it wasn’t nearly as primitive as she’d imagined. He’d even used one of the large pieces of canvas to cover the ground.

But there was only the one structure as far as she could see.

She bit her lip. “Where will you build the other one?”

“Alas, princesse … this is it. Your palace in the woods.”

“Oh…”

Mr. Beckman removed the quilts from her suddenly numb hands and laid them out invitingly upon the canvas-covered ground. He folded one of them lengthwise and placed it in the middle, creating a barrier of sorts.

“We’ll need wood to build a fire before dark.

” He moved around the area most efficiently as he tightened the ropes to secure the tent to the tree and then began gathering some larger rocks which he arranged in a circle a couple feet away—for a fire pit?

“If you find us some dried sticks—big ones, little ones, all sizes—I’ll get the rest of our camp ready. But stay close.”

Ambrosia nodded, reminding herself that, his teasing aside, Mr. Beckman had acted quite honorably over the course of their acquaintance. Taking Mr. Dog with her, she collected as many twigs and short branches as she could find and tossed them inside the rock circle.

He looked over her handiwork and immediately raised an eyebrow. “I take it you’ve not built a fire before.” That laughter—that she was becoming far too accustomed to—lurked in his voice.

Ambrosia flushed; he was not wrong, but what could there possibly be to criticize about fire wood?

“Like this.” He crouched down and began rearranging all of her twigs, even chucking a few branches off to the side.

When she didn’t move, he tugged at her, pulling her down beside him.

“The smaller, dryer wood will light more quickly, so we arrange those first.” He laid them down, crisscrossed along the bottom.

“Then you add a little dry grass underneath, leaving enough space for air to circulate, to feed the flame.” Thus handing off the task, he offered her a handful of the smaller branches.

“Once you get these going, we’ll add larger, thicker pieces. ”

From there he seemed content to watch her finish the process, offering the occasional suggestion. He’d remarked that it was a good opportunity to put his army skills to use, and Ambrosia could easily picture him in such an environment—commanding, capable, entirely at ease.

“Did you do this often?” she asked quietly. “When you fought with your regiment?”

Mr. Beckman stiffened and let the question pass unanswered. The silence was disappointing, though not unexpected. For all his easy manners and pleasant conversation, whenever it came to matters beneath the surface, he shut himself away as firmly as if he’d locked a door.

It only sharpened her curiosity, more than was reasonable, really. Perhaps it would be more polite to leave the matter alone—but surely she had some right to know. For the next week, she’d be spending hours and hours in his company.

This strange, handsome, mercurial man.

Practically holding her breath, she rearranged a few of the twigs and then sat back while Mr. Beckman ignited the dry grasses sprinkled beneath their little tower of wood.

After blowing gently on the small fire and watching the twigs catch, his voice broke the quiet at last.

“I told you—they called me home too soon. Months of training, and then—pfft—pulled away before a single shot was fired.”

She turned to look at him but refrained from commenting.