Page 164

Terra firma .

Solid ground. Blessed, unmoving earth. If her laces were not so drenched and tight, she would've dropped to her knees on the dock and glued her lips to the planks, but she settled for blowing the ground a kiss instead.

She was alive. In Portugal. The land of pastries, sorrowful poems, and royal scandals. It wasn't Paris—but for now, it would do.

Her skirts clung to her legs with tragic intimacy, her curls had staged an exodus from their pins, and her boots, chosen for sensible arch support, squished with every step as if protesting their involvement in this entire Portuguese expedition.

But she had made it. Alive. Upright. Slightly tilted. And most importantly—unchaperoned.

The port was chaos—a symphony of clanging bells, shouting men, flapping sails, and the distant, noble cry of a goat.

Wanton ignored it all with the kind of imperious optimism only available to those recently shipwrecked.

She would find a guide. She would locate the historical tombs.

She would experience the architecture. The pastries.

The poetry. She would become exceedingly well-traveled.

And then she saw them.

A cluster of red-coated soldiers stood just off the main square, laughing too loudly, drinking from dented tin cups, and charming the lace off two very flushed Portuguese widows.

The tallest among them leaned against a crate with the insolence of a man who knew exactly how many women had swooned over him and saw no reason to lower the count.

He had short blond hair, a crooked grin, and a tan that—on an Englishman—should have been forbidden by royal decree.

Wanton's stomach fluttered.

She told it to behave.

She recognized that type. She'd seen enough of them back home. All swagger and winks. The sort of man who quoted Byron badly and never returned borrowed books. She hadn't crossed the channel and lost three bonnet pins to be undone by a man—no matter how unreasonably bronzed he was.

She looked away.

He did not.

He stepped toward her with the lazy arrogance of a man who'd been punched in at least three ballrooms and had enjoyed every moment of it.

"What's an Englishwoman doing here?" he asked, his voice low and far too amused.

She blinked at him. "Enjoying the weather."

"In that?" He gestured to her dripping gown, his lips twitching. "You're soaked."

"Thank you," she said crisply. "I'd forgotten."

"You're alone?"

"I'm independent."

He raised a brow. "You're lost."

"I'm exploring."

"You're deranged."

She crossed her arms, aware that she probably looked like a waterlogged governess with a grudge. "I'm here for history, not harassment. I plan to hire a local guide and see the country. Kindly go back to whatever barracks produce men like you."

With that, she turned on her squelching heel, head high, chin proud, reticule thumping wetly against her side like a disapproving aunt.

Just a few paces away stood a man beside a suspiciously indifferent mule. He was small, wiry, and weathered like an old coin—sharp cheekbones, sun-browned skin, and a grin that appeared and disappeared with disarming speed.

"Where are you going?" the grenadier asked.

"Are you still following me? Just so you know, I will hire this guide."

He snorted. "Filipe? He'll rob you blind and leave you in a ditch."

"Wonderful," she said. "I'd rather be robbed by a Portuguese guide than charmed by an English rogue."

His grin widened. "Then you've clearly never been properly charmed."

"I've survived storms, scandal, and sewing circles. I am immune to charm."

"Pity," he said. "I was hoping to watch you swoon."

Wanton's cheeks blazed, curls escaping her pins like rebels, but she stood her ground. Filipe here was clearly the right choice. He looked local. Capable. Armed with a length of rope and several molars. What more did one need in a guide?

She rummaged in her reticule, retrieved a small, rain-dampened volume titled Portugues Para Senhoras Curiosas , and flipped to the section marked "Negotiating With Gentlemen (And Other Unreliable Creatures)."

Clearing her throat, she addressed the muleteer with full, formal flair.

" Boa tarde ," she said brightly, her accent brutal. “ Eu… procurar… homem… com mula. Para… aventura ."

The man blinked. Smiled.

From behind her, the grenadier let out a noise that was suspiciously like a strangled laugh.

Wanton spun to glare at him. "Do you mind?"

He stepped forward, far too casual for someone so broad-shouldered and annoyingly amused. "Yes, I do. He's a swindler."

"I prefer a Portuguese swindler," she snapped, "to an English nuisance."

"You're about to hand over a sovereign to Filipe-the-Fantastic there," he said, nodding to the muleteer, who waved cheerfully and patted his mule, which looked deeply uninterested in anything beyond its next carrot.

"He'll take your money and vanish the moment you blink," the grenadier continued. "He's done it to six officers, three officers' wives, and one very confused bishop."

"I can handle myself. Can't you see I know how to speak Portuguese?" she snapped, thumbing her little phrasebook with scholarly indignation.

He grinned, slow and wicked. "You just told him you want to have a wild, passionate adventure with a skeleton."

She blinked.

Then blanched.

"Not with a skeleton," she hissed. "I meant about a skeleton. The historical kind! Dom Pedro and Inês de Castro. The most romantic and gory tale in all of Europe!"

His brows lifted. "Well, according to your Portuguese, you just invited Filipe to join you in an intimate escapade of the bony variety."

Mortification made her knees weak. But she would not be deterred by a minor translation setback.

Determined to preserve what little dignity remained, she turned back to Filipe and declared, "I would like to see the tombs. The scenic, sculpted, absolutely non-fraternizable, dead ones."

Filipe nodded serenely, completely unfazed.

The grenadier chuckled. "Hope you packed your rosary, sweetheart. You may need an exorcism."

She ignored him and turned back to Filipe, who was busily rearranging his hat like it was a sundial. “You know Inês de Castro?”

Filipe gave her a dazzling, gold-toothed grin. "Sim! Very bones!"

"Excellent. He shall take me."

"Bones," Filipe repeated helpfully.

The grenadier let out a groan and dragged a hand over his face, as if her presence alone tested the limits of military endurance.

"Look, if you're dead set on chasing royal corpses across the countryside like a gothic heroine with a questionable map, I'll take you. I know the route. I won't rob you. And my horse was born in this century, doesn't bite noblewomen, and can outrun a mule even while asleep."

She narrowed her eyes, lips pursed. "Why would you offer?"

He tilted his head, expression maddeningly unreadable. "Call it a sense of duty. Or self-preservation. I'd rather not be court-martialed because you were found in pieces beside a 14th-century ossuary."

She sniffed, but her mind was already galloping into dangerous territory. He did know the route. And he had a proper horse. And those thighs—good Lord, those thighs looked like they could crush walnuts and drag a lady straight into ruin, perhaps even at the same time.

She shook herself. No. No, absolutely not. He was a rake. The kind of man who probably smelled like danger and saddle oil and made improper suggestions in three languages. Going anywhere with him would lead to… exposure. Of feelings. Or ankles. Or other regrettably private geography.

No, better the muleteer. Filipe was safe.

Filipe had a mustache like a tax collector and the charisma of boiled cabbage.

She would not fall prey to temptation on her first official field excursion.

Uncle Barth's Rule #14 echoed in her mind: Never go near a man whose forearms arrive in the room before he does.

She straightened her spine. "I'm sure I'll do just fine with Senhor Filipe."

"How can you trust someone who looks less intelligent than his quadruped?" he asked, jerking a thumb toward Filipe, who was now feeding the mule what looked suspiciously like part of his own hat.

"I trust no man," she said cheerfully, "but I do trust mules. They have the honest expressions of underappreciated librarians."

The grenadier stepped forward. "I'm offering to help."

"And I'm declining with extreme civility."

With that, she flung her leg over the saddle, muttered something about Fieldwork Rule #12: Always mount with confidence, and hoisted herself up onto the surprisingly wobbly back of the mule.

Unfortunately, in her haste to appear worldly and experienced, she had not accounted for the combination of rain-slicked boots, an overfilled reticule, and the sheer betrayal of gravity.

Her skirt caught on the saddle horn, her other foot flailed madly for a stirrup that did not exist, and her torso pitched forward with the momentum of a very determined acrobat performing a regrettable stunt.

“Merciful heavens!” she squawked, arms windmilling.

The grenadier was beside her in an instant.

He caught her waist with a soldier’s reflexes and a rogue’s ease, steadying her before she tumbled headfirst into an ignoble puddle. His hand—large, calloused, unreasonably steady—splayed across her side.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Their eyes locked. Her breath hitched. The mule snorted.

And Filipe—tragic Filipe—began to whistle an off-key fado tune.

Wanton blinked. Of course, he did. The Portuguese were hopelessly romantic. This was well documented.

What other race would attempt to provide musical accompaniment to two strangers clearly not attracted to each other?

She looked at the grenadier’s lips. Then at his eyes.

Definitely not. Not even a flicker of interest.

Her knees wobbled purely from exertion. And perhaps the altitude.

He stepped closer, one large hand reaching to steady her in the saddle. His fingers brushed her waist.

Oh no.

Not the waist.

That was one of her most scandal-prone areas.

His other hand came up, brushing a wet curl from her cheek. His thumb lingered a second too long at her jaw. (How many fingers did the rogue have?)

Rain beaded in the hollow of his throat. Her gaze followed it down, down to where his uniform clung to muscles that surely had been carved with improper intentions.

"You’re not built for mule travel," he murmured, voice low and amused.

“And you’re not built for polite company,” she whispered back.

Just as he leaned closer, the distance between them charged and electric, her reticule slipped from her shoulder and plummeted like a cannonball, striking the grenadier squarely on the instep.

He swore loudly and recoiled, hopping back on one foot.

"Bloody hell!" he barked, gripping his shin. "What in God's name is in that thing? Bricks? Bayonets?"

She peered down, cheeks pink. "Biscuits."

"Biscuits?"

"Well, one must never travel unprovisioned," she called down. "Uncle Barth's Rule #3: Always carry your biscuits and your backbone. One keeps you upright, the other keeps you fed."

The grenadier bent and picked up the reticule.

“Are they… military issue?” he asked, holding up her fallen reticule like it might contain black powder and treason.

“Family recipe,” Wanton said coolly, snatching it back. “Uncle Barth’s field biscuits. Lemon-thyme. Dense enough to stop a charge. Or an unwanted conversation.”

He tilted his head, intrigued. “You use suet?”

“Of course I use suet. Are there other ways to bake?”

His chuckle was low, surprised. “Didn’t take you for a woman who knew her fats.”

She lifted her chin. “I like my biscuits sturdy, my tea hot, and my boundaries clearly defined.”

That earned her a full-bodied laugh. “Good girl.”

Heat climbed up her neck. She told herself sternly that rakes should not be admired, bantered with, or applauded for biscuit-based compliments.

She clicked her tongue at Filipe. “Onward, Florinda. Away from flirtatious infantrymen and toward science, marble, and strictly objective analysis of funerary sculpture.”