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Beside him, the woman moved with purpose. She scanned the roadside and gathered some good size stones with sharp, clean-edges and heavy enough to wedge beneath the wheels for traction.

He watched her wedge the first stone under the wheel. Her fingers were caked with mud, soaked to the wrist, but every movement was precise.

She bent again. Her boot slipped in the muck, and her footing gave way. With a soft gasp, she pitched forward, her arms flailing for balance.

Grenville moved without thinking. His hands found her waist, firm and sure, just before she fell.

For a single, breathless moment, the world stilled.

She froze in his arms. Rain drummed a steady rhythm around them, but between them, nothing moved. Not her breath. Not his.

Her body was rigid beneath his touch, tension coiled like a spring. He felt it as surely as he’d once felt the weight of his musket in his hands.

Then, in one sharp, breathless motion, she pulled away.

His hands fell back to his sides, fingers curling against the cold.

The space between them felt abruptly colder.

Emptier. She hadn’t clung to him. Hadn’t cried out.

She just went still, quiet. Soft. It didn’t fit the sharpness of her tone or the pride in her posture.

That contradiction lingered, unsettling him.

She turned without a word and knelt beside the wheel as though nothing had happened.

But something had. He had seen it in her eyes, a flicker of something, before she looked away. Not fear. Not exactly. But not indifference either.

The coachman came around, reins still in hand. “This is worse than the downpour at Waterloo. We thought the sky would never clear.”

Grenville blinked, the words yanking him backward.

Mud. Smoke. The coppery stench of blood. The cries of his men cut short. The signalman, motionless. A red hole in his chest.

He exhaled sharply. Not here. Not now.

Beside him, the woman straightened, smoothing her skirts, but her fingers trembled slightly as she brushed the mud away. Her gaze had gone distant, her breath caught just a second too long. A different battlefield, perhaps. But the echo rang the same.

He hesitated. Just long enough to ask, quietly, “Are you hurt?”

She stilled for half a heartbeat, then gave a short shake. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

Her voice was steady, but something in the way she avoided his gaze told him that the moment had unsettled her, too.

A renewed gust of wind and rain whipped around them like a wild beast, refusing to be ignored, much like the unresolved tension between them.

She stepped forward again, brushing her skirts aside as she inspected the wheel. “If my coachman settles the horses, we might manage with a bit of leverage on the wheel?”

Grenville gave a short nod. “Then let’s not waste time.” Without a word, he passed her a thick branch he’d stripped earlier, its base solid and angled just right for a lever. She took it without hesitation.

“You’re stronger than I am,” she said. “I’ll brace the stones.”

He didn’t argue. Together, they worked quickly. She knelt beside the wheel, hands steady despite the mud, slipping the stones into place with practiced precision. The coachman moved to calm the team. Grenville crouched, angling the branch beneath the axle.

He reached out, his hands firm on the lever. “You’ve got quite the fighting spirit, haven’t you?” he remarked, gritting his teeth against the strain. “Stubborn as the mud itself.”

She shot him a glance, her green eyes flashing. “I don’t need your flattery, sir. If I wanted empty compliments, I’d chat with my mirror.”

He chuckled, shifted his weight, and pushed down on the makeshift lever. “You’ve got to admit, this mud is being particularly stubborn.”

She huffed, wiping a muddy strand of hair from her face. “I suppose it’s fitting, considering the company.” Her eyes flicked back to the task at hand. “We haven’t got all day to play in the mud.”

He grinned. “Let’s outfox this mud and get you on your way.”

With a coordinated effort, a lift from him, a pull from the coachman, and a strong push from the horses, the carriage jolted forward, the wheels catching traction. Inch by inch, it rolled free of the rut and onto firmer ground.

She stood tall beside it, her shoulders squared, her satisfaction unmistakable. Mud streaked her skirts, and damp hair clung to her cheek, but her poise never faltered.

Grenville pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his hands as best he could. “The storm’s been relentless, hasn’t it? Almost feels like the battles I’ve seen. Mud and rain everywhere, making everything more difficult.”

He paused, then extended the least-soiled corner toward her.

She hesitated for a moment, then accepted it with a nod that was almost regal. “I’ll see it returned,” she said, her voice composed.

“At your leisure,” he replied, surprised by how much he meant it.

“It has been a challenge, but I suppose we Scots are used to weathering storms.”

He paused, his gaze lingering on her.

“Aye, weathering storms and fighting battles, just like in the military. Sometimes, it’s not about the strength you have, but the alliances you form and the people beside you.”

She turned her face toward him. For a breath, her eyes weren’t sharp. They were searching.

“It sounds like you’ve had your share of tough decisions.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, his voice quieter now as if speaking more to himself than to her. “It’s often the responsibilities that shape our choices. Doing what’s necessary to protect those we care about, even if it means making sacrifices.”

There it was again, that flicker of tension in her jaw, like a question she hadn’t decided to ask.

Then, he added, “I could accompany you to your destination.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, waving away his offer with a flick of her wrist.

He gave her a smile. “Ah, you don’t want anyone to know you needed help. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

As she adjusted her skirts, her hand brushed against something solid near his feet. A glint of gold. She picked it up and turned it over between her fingers. “You dropped this.” Her tone had changed. It was softer now. “BB? Does that stand for ‘Baron of Bother’?”

Their fingers brushed as she handed the coin back to him, a fleeting spark. Warm. Disarming.

“You might want to be more careful with your treasures,” she remarked with a playful glint in her eyes.

He chuckled, a deep baritone sound, and pocketed the coin. “Thank you,” he replied. “It was my pleasure, Bonnie Battler.”

She arched a brow, a mix of irritation and curiosity flashing in her green eyes. “Bonnie Battler? If you intend to flatter me, Captain, you’ll have to try harder than that.”

He shrugged, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve got the fight in you, that’s for sure. And ‘Bonnie’ fits you well, very well.” He bowed to her as if she were a princess.

She couldn’t help but laugh, a soft, genuine sound that surprised even her. “Fair enough, Captain. I’ll take it as a compliment.” There was a pause, reluctant but sincere. “I suppose I owe you thanks.”

He tipped his hat. “Perhaps our paths will cross again.”

She gave him a gracious nod, one warrior to another.

The carriage rolled on at last, the wheels moving smoothly now. Overhead, the clouds began to part, and a few stars pricked through the dark.

Grenville remained where he stood, watching until the carriage vanished into the distance.

Helping her had stirred something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not duty. Not war. Something quieter. Harder to name.

Her fire. Her pride. The way she’d stood her ground without flinching. He exhaled, just once. He didn’t know her name. But he wanted to.