Page 167

The world jostled and swayed.

Wanton's head lolled against a shoulder far broader—and far more solid—than anything her genteel frame had previously encountered. Through the haze of smoke and surprise, she could smell gunpowder, sweat, leather, and the kind of masculine scent that made her wonder if testosterone had a cologne.

"Where… where are we going?" she mumbled.

The soldier looked down at her with absurdly blue eyes, the kind that probably had commanded troops and melted petticoats in equal measure.

"My bivouac," he said. His voice was a delicious rumble, like cannon fire filtered through brandy. "You're hurt."

She blinked. "Oh. Yes. Probably."

She hadn't properly inventoried her body yet, but something below her knee felt like a very dramatic opera solo. There was definitely a limp in her future.

The bivouac was a modest tent tucked beside a large rock and half concealed by trees. Inside, a rough cot, a battered trunk, and a basin of water made up the entire decor.

Wanton had seen inns with less charm.

He laid her down carefully.

"Tell me where it hurts," he said, kneeling beside her, eyes scanning her for injuries.

Wanton tried to sit up but gasped as pain shot through her ankle. "My foot, I think. I landed badly."

He didn't hesitate.

He peeled off his red coat, revealing a linen shirt clinging to sweat-slicked muscles. Unfairly clinging. Like the fabric itself knew the value of drama. Then—with a sound that could only be described as a heroic grunt—he tore a strip from his shirt and reached for her foot.

Wanton stared. A man had never stripped in her presence before.

"Your… your shirt?—"

"Already ruined," he said, like a man who routinely sacrificed garments for wounded women.

A valid endeavor, that. Not getting naked, of course, but ruining one's clothing for those in need.

She tried not to stare at the way his arms flexed as he bound her ankle, but she failed worse than the Austrians in Arcole.

Good heavens, he was bronzed all over. His forearms alone could've inspired a scandalous sonnet or two.

"You have a delicate ankle. Pity about the landing."

His fingers brushed her skin. She hoped it was purely for medical accuracy.

"There," he said, finishing the bandage. Then his eyes met hers. "Anywhere else?"

Her heart raced. A proper lady would say no. A proper lady would thank him, adjust her skirts, and find the nearest path back to safety and her biscuits. But a proper lady would also miss the chance to catch another glimpse of those bronzed muscles...

"Actually…" she whispered, her cheeks aflame. "My thigh might have suffered during the fall."

Without hesitation, he pulled the shirt over his head, leaving his broad chest gloriously bare. She tried to keep her composure as he tore another strip from the fabric and leaned in to tend to her "injury."

When he finished, he sat back on his heels, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his lips. "There. Anywhere else?"

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to his mouth before flicking back up to his eyes. "I might have… bruised my lips. Just a bit."

He grinned, and mysteries of mysteries, a dimple flashed on his cheek.

It was not the careless dimple of a rake flashing a smirk at the next conquest.

No—this was a dimple that had seen things. A dimple with history. A dimple that had carried wounded men and biscuits through battle. One that had learned when to tease and when to offer tenderness. A dimple that appeared only when something—someone—genuinely moved him.

And something bloomed in her chest.

It wasn’t indigestion. She was quite sure.

After all, she hadn’t eaten since midday, and nothing she’d consumed could explain this strange ache behind her ribs or the peculiar warmth creeping up her throat. This was not food poisoning. It was something far worse.

It was fondness.

Affection.

Possibly... early-stage attachment.

No. Absolutely not. Emotional entanglement was impractical, unsanitary, and terribly unsuited to fieldwork. She could not—must not—develop feelings for a grenadier with a dimple and forearms carved by the gods.

She was here for marble. For history. For educational thrills. Not romantic ones.

And yet, as he reached for her hand, his fingers brushing hers with ridiculous gentleness, Wanton Wallflower began to suspect?—

She might be in very, very deep trouble.

In one smooth motion, he leaned forward, his broad chest so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"Let me see," he murmured, voice dipping low. "I've kissed worse injuries." His breath brushed against her cheek, and her pulse hammered wildly.

Her eyelids fluttered shut as the first touch of his lips met hers—gentle, coaxing, and yet sending a lightning bolt of sensation straight through her.

He lingered there, teasing, before pressing deeper, his hand sliding to cradle her face.

His thumb brushed her jaw. The cannon must have hit her after all.

He pulled back, slow and self-assured, like a man who knew his kiss had undone stronger women.

Wanton's lips tingled, and her breath came in shallow gasps.

"Shouldn't you be back in the fray? Peppering the French, doing your duty, and all that?"

"We won the day. A mule broke through the French lines, kicked their general square in the trousers, and sent the infantry running like schoolboys at a sermon."

Florinda! The dear girl always had an independent spirit. And she had called her a traitor when she was a war heroine.

"Enough about battles," he said, his blue eyes burning into hers. He reached for her tattered petticoat and brushed it aside. "What is your name?"

She smiled. "Call me Wallflower," she said. "Wanton Wallflower."