He saw the way her jaw tightened, the flicker of irritation in her eyes. Clearly, the notion of accepting help, especially from him, clearly chafed.
“Tell me, Captain, do you make a habit of collecting wayward travelers?” Her tone was cool, and clipped, matching her words.
He arched a brow. “Captain?”
She tilted her head. “You sit a horse like a man trained for battle, but you don’t wear your rank like a badge.”
Grenville hesitated for the briefest moment, studying her. Most people made assumptions about rank and station based on uniform or reputation. But she had read his proof of command in his posture and his control, not as an ornament. It was an astute observation, sharper than he expected, and far more intriguing.
Amusement tugged at the edge of his mouth, tempered by curiosity.
“As for wayward travelers,” he said at last, with a half-smile, “I only stop for the interesting ones. And you, my lady, are certainly more intriguing than the average highway mishap.”
“Not so bold.” She shrugged, murmuring almost to herself.
He raised a brow. “And you, I wager, don’t much care for men who are.”
A muscle twitched in her cheek, but she didn’t flinch. “Care? No, Captain.” She let the title linger, deliberate now. “I merely know the sort.”
He observed as she gathered her sodden skirts and caught the smallest hesitation, the flicker of something else in her eyes. A challenge? A memory, perhaps? But more than likely, a warning.
The woman turned away, her skirts in hand, and he exhaled, shaking his head. Stubborn. Proud. He should have expected nothing less.
Still, he couldn’t help but watch.
Her wide-brimmed hat did little to keep the rain at bay. Grenville noticed how her soaked clothes clung to her, revealing the graceful lines of her figure. Long tendrils of her fiery red hair had escaped, plastered to the curve of her long, slender neck. Her green eyes, sharp and bright, flashed with irritation and determination.
Stubborn and proud, admirable traits until they stranded one in the mire of their own pride.
Grenville stepped closer, shaking his head. Mud pulled at his boots with every step. “Battling the elements alone? Is a noble effort,” he said, his voice low, “but even the fiercest warriors know when to accept an ally.”
He watched the battle play out in her stance, the rigid set of her shoulders clashing with the flicker of resignation in her gaze.The fight was still there, but so was the sense. Her clenched fists loosened, and the rigid line of her posture began to ease.
At last, she spoke, her tone quiet but firm. “Very well.”
Grenville nodded once, stepping toward the horses. He ran a steady hand down the nearest gelding’s rain-slicked neck, murmuring quiet reassurances. The animal flicked an ear, muscles twitching beneath his palm.
Checking the harness, he made a minor adjustment to the traces to keep them from tangling.
As they worked side by side, the rain became little more than a distant drumbeat against the earth. Grenville stole a glance at her. Fiercely intent, her brows were drawn in quiet concentration. She did not fumble, did not hesitate. She met each challenge with steady hands and a sharp mind, adjusting tack, soothing the horses with quiet murmurs that even the downpour couldn’t drown out.”
The storm may have been relentless, but so was she. A woman like this would not bend easily, nor did she shrink from a challenge. He had fought alongside men who lacked her steadiness. That was an intriguing thought. If he were to choose allies in a fight, he would want her on his side.
Grenville held the reins firmly. “Easy now… easy.” His voice was calm and steady, coaxing the horses as they struggled, but their hooves were unable to find solid footing. “Steady… that’s it.” The carriage rocked, but refused to move. “Good lads,” he murmured, though the praise was hollow. The mud had it firmly in its grip.
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.
