Page 169

The sun filtered through the canvas like a shy admirer peeking under a petticoat. Wanton Wallflower sat up slowly, blinking against the light and the lingering memory of—well, last night.

Her petticoats were somewhere beneath the cot. Her stays had wandered off entirely. And the grenadier’s uniform coat was draped over her knees like a banner of conquest.

Edward Grant was nowhere to be seen.

Good. That made things easier.

She swung her legs over the side, winced at the twinge in her ankle, and reached for her chemise with the dignity of a woman who had absolutely not screamed Latin obscenities during climax.

“Right,” she murmured, clutching the thin fabric to her chest. “Time to find Florinda. And biscuits.”

She was halfway into her stockings when the tent flap rustled and Edward appeared, tray in hand.

He paused.

She paused.

The eggs jiggled.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice low and rough. There was that dimple hiding in his left cheek again, like it knew it shouldn’t be there but had shown up anyway.

“I am,” she replied, still clutching her stockings like a shield. “And I’m… leaving.”

“Leaving?” He set the tray down and crossed to her in three large, infuriatingly graceful steps. “You can’t.”

“I must. Fieldwork Rule #14: Never grow sentimental to bivouacs.”

“I’m not a bivouac.”

She gave him a look. “You are absolutely a bivouac. Temporary shelter with questionable ventilation and distressing emotional consequences.”

His mouth twitched. “And what if I said I’d take you wherever you need to go?”

“You’re a rake,” she said warily.

He stepped closer, his voice dipping low—like scandal shared over sherry—as he lifted a hand to her waist. His thumb brushed the edge of her gown where the fabric had torn earlier in their, ahem, military engagement.

“But I’m a rake who can bake biscuits,” he murmured.

She blinked.

Then blinked again as he pulled something from his coat pocket—a crumbling, warm biscuit wrapped in a scrap of linen—and offered it to her with a roguish smile.

“Filipe stole all of yours, didn’t he?”

She narrowed her eyes. “He did.”

He lifted the biscuit to her lips. “Try mine.”

She did. It was buttery. Nutty. Just enough spice to make her suspicious.

“Not bad,” she said, chewing thoughtfully. “Hard, but tasty.”

He grinned. “Much like me.”

She tried not to smile. “I vowed never to fall for a rake.”

He leaned in, his voice rumbling right against her ear. “Good thing I’m a former rake, then.”

“How recently former?”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, that wicked dimple flashing. “The moment I met you, Wallflower. You’re… a lot to handle. I doubt I could juggle more than one of you.”

Her cheeks flushed. Her chest ached. But she merely lifted her chin.

Wanton stared at him. “And your commission?”

He grinned. “Florinda expelled the French all the way back to the Pyrenees. The army will survive without me for a few days.”

She tried not to smile. Tried very hard.

Perhaps—perhaps—a handsome grenadier could prove useful on future expeditions. Someone to carry things. Shoo snakes. Terrify customs officials. And if said grenadier insisted on joining her…

She was not considering this because she enjoyed his company, both in and out of the cot. Absolutely not. It was strictly logistical. Like a well-packed trunk or a fresh supply of biscuits. Essential, perhaps. Enjoyable? Merely incidental.

But the truth was, affection was blooming in her chest like a highly inappropriate hothouse flower. Unwelcome. Persistent. Possibly carrying biscuits.

She glanced up at him.

He wasn’t smirking now. Or grinning wickedly. He was simply looking at her—hopeful, uncertain, absurdly handsome—with the air of a man waiting to be chosen and trying very hard not to beg.

It undid her.

Not the muscles—though those had certainly done their fair share of undoing. Not the mouth, or the shoulders, or the scandalous way he filled out his uniform. No—it was that look. That quiet, waiting softness.

She reached for his hand. “One condition.”

“Anything.”

“I ride Florinda.”

He blinked. “Even after she nearly killed you?”

Wanton Wallflower squared her shoulders, lifted her chin—despite being barefoot and partially biscuit-crumbed—and said with gallant absurdity,

“We are English. We don’t leave war heroes behind.”

He let out a soft laugh, his expression softening into something that made her knees wobble more than cannon fire ever had.

Then he pulled her close, touched her cheek with a tenderness that belonged in poetry or scandalous sonnets, and kissed her—slow and deep and utterly regulation-defying.

And as his arms wrapped around her like a perfectly-packed satchel, and the scent of leather, gunpowder, and imminent joy wrapped around her…

He murmured against her mouth,

“Then let the expedition begin.”