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Florinda had always seemed a creature of gentle sensibilities.

She liked apples. She endured poetry. She trotted obligingly when Wanton asked (or begged). Until now, she'd exhibited the calm, unbothered air of a governess after three glasses of port and a slice of Dundee cake.

But as they crested the next hill and plunged into a battlefield—guns firing, sabers clashing, drums pounding like a barbaric orchestra conducted by a tone-deaf war god—Florinda changed.

Something dark ignited in her soul.

The sweet lady mule became a virago.

She let out a wild, operatic bray and bucked so violently that Wanton found herself airborne—one second astride, the next, flung into the wind like a bonnet at a Regency riot.

"Lace me tight and call me airborne!" Wanton yelped.

She landed hard, rolled with considerable inelegance, and came to a gasping stop beside a smoldering cartwheel. Her coiffure had perished. Her skirt was torn. Her dignity had gone the way of the Spanish Armada.

Florinda trotted off without so much as a backward glance, her tail swishing with the serenity of one who had retired from the business of war—and tourism.

Wanton staggered upright.

"Traitor," she muttered, shaking dust from her petticoats. "If I ever find that mule again, I shall report her to the embassy."

A deafening BOOM split the sky. Wanton ducked, screamed, and dashed—stumbling through smoke, cannonballs, and the occasional very rude French shout that she was fairly certain translated to "Your bustle is ridiculous."

She didn't know where she was going. Only that she had to survive.

For science.

For the Flowery Spinsters.

For the future generations of biscuit-carrying heroines.

And then?—

She tripped.

Tumbled.

Fell.

Down, down into a muddy ditch, arms flailing, heart pounding like a military drum having an emotional breakdown.

She lay there, stunned.

Her first great voyage. Her long-dreamed-of escape. Her daring, glorious adventure…

Had led to a literal hole in the ground.

"Well," she croaked, blinking up at the smoke-choked sky, "this is not what Uncle Barth meant by 'fieldwork.'"

Another explosion rocked the air. And through the haze—something moved.

No. Someone.

A towering figure emerged, broad-shouldered and impossibly red-coated, the smoke swirling around him like a heroic stage entrance.

And then he was kneeling.

"Am I dead?" she whispered, covering her eyes not to be blinded by his exposed forearms.

He looked down at her, lips twitching. "Not yet. Though I'd wager you're trying your best."

Wanton blinked up. Blond. Tall. Blue-eyed. Muscled like he'd been carved for the exclusive purpose of rescuing stranded Englishwomen with questionable travel plans.

It was him.

The grenadier from Lisbon. The one with the thighs of a demigod, the gall of a rake, and—if memory served—a developing club foot thanks to her emergency biscuit deployment.

He swept her into his arms like she was a prized pork roast at a Regency feast.

"You!" she gasped. "I told you I didn't need rescuing! I'm merely on a science mission."

"And yet here you are," he said dryly, "in a ditch, covered in soot, and babbling about science."

"Are you everywhere?" she demanded, flinging one limp arm over her brow. "Do you materialize any time I'm in mortal peril or teetering on the brink of hysteria and questionable decisions?

"Seems that way," he muttered, shifting her against his chest as musket fire cracked behind them.

"I am a woman of science," she said faintly. "And this has all been an unfortunate... miscalculation."

He adjusted his grip. "Well, Miss Miscalculation, you're coming with me."

Wanton blinked up at him, dazed, bedraggled, and freshly furious that he smelled like salt, smoke, and something unforgivably masculine.

And as he carried her out of the ditch and into chaos, she had the distinct impression that this was not the last time she'd find herself in his arms.