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If they made it through this alive, that was.
A sharp cry tore through the air just as Bronwyn stumbled on a crooked section of cobblestone. “My ankle,” she gasped with a pained hop. “I think I’ve twisted it.”
“Shit!” he swore, glancing around. They were nearing the Schuylkill River, heading west. “We need to cross, if we can. There’s cover of parkland there toward the Fairmount Water Works from the old riverfront grounds.”
“You lead. I’ll follow. I won’t slow us down.”
Bronwyn’s face was contorted by a grimace, but she hobbled along, wincing each time she put pressure on her injured ankle. Valentine had to admire her sheer mettle. He added this side of her to the list he was compiling in his head. The Bronwyn he had expected based on the version of her from the ship would have swooned, wept, and demanded he carry her. This woman gave no quarter to what had to be sizable pain.
“Here, let me,” he said, swooping her up in his arms, bridal style.
“Thornbury, what are you doing?”
He grinned down at her and increased his pace. “I liked it more when you called me Valentine.”
“And I like it more when I’m not treated like a sack of potatoes,” she panted, pushing a hand into his chest. “Put me down this instant. I can see to myself.”
He narrowed his gaze on her, taking in the red cheeks and mussed hair as well as the stubborn line of those plush lips. “Sack of potatoes? You’re right, that would be much better.”
Without losing a step, he swung her up in his arms so that her belly was resting up over his shoulder and bracketed by his arm behind her thighs, ignoring her rumble of outrage. Given her choice of clothing, there were no ridiculously wide underlayers to navigate, nor was he blinded by copious numbers of ruffles.
“Put me down, you insufferable oaf,” she wheezed, head hanging down while she kicked her legs.
“This insufferable oaf is about to save your hide.” He slapped her on the rump, some lusty and deranged part of his brain taking in the fact that it was round and pert beneath the snug twill of the trousers she wore. “So quiet and stop wriggling.”
“Did you just spank me?” Her voice was ripe with indignation.
“I will again if you keep making that racket.” Valentine grinned, driven by a new burst of energy, brought on by the spitfire he held over his shoulder. “And that wasn’t a spank, it was a tap. Trust me, you’ll know the feel of my hand over this luscious, bared arse of yours.”
She went quiet suddenly, and his grin widened when a sound like barely shuttered rage tore past her lips. “You are vile. How dare you? Put me down this instant.”
“Stop bloody squirming.” He punctuated his words with pats of his palm. “Or I’ll drop you and leave you behind for those men to find. With your injury, how long do you think it will take them to catch up?”
“I’ll hide again,” she said in defiance.
Not wanting to squabble with her or deal with her struggles, he stopped, nearly losing his hold over her thighs in the process. “If that’s what you truly want, Lady Bronwyn, I will do it. Tell me, but we don’t have much time.”
She didn’t have much of a choice, and as stubborn as she seemed to be, Valentine was hoping that she would not substitute common sense for pride. “Run, damn you, Thornbury!” she spat.
It was just as well because more shouts reached them, but before he’d taken more than a dozen steps, more shouts reached him from the other end of the street. He sat Bronwyn on a crate that was half-hidden by a short wall. “Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
She pulled on his sleeve, halting him. “Valentine.” He turned, one brow lifting at the troubled expression on her face that was quickly hidden. “Don’t die.”
“Worried about me, imp?”
“Just worried about losing my very capable beast of burden.”
His grin was wicked when he grasped her chin in his hand and crashed his lips to hers. “You can ride me anyway you want, my lady.”
***
Bemused and thoroughly scandalized, Bronwyn touched a finger to her tingling lips.
It’d barely been a kiss, more of a violent meeting of open mouths with a single wicked swipe of a sleek, hot tongue over her lower lip, but it had rocked her to her toes. One because it wasThornbury, the man whose two favorite emotions were grim and grimmer.
And two because now she wanted much more than that small taste.
