I hope he’s not angry, she thought, but as she pulled up, he grinned and bounded toward the ambulance. He was no older than she was, and boyishly handsome, with dark hair and a crooked smile.

He opened the door and leaned in. “Where have you been, you beautiful—?” He stopped in midsentence. “Sorry, I thought you were someone I knew.”

“Apparently,” she said.

“Not that you’re not beautiful. You are,” he said, flashing her the crooked smile. “Rather devastatingly beautiful, as a matter of fact.”

“I’m here from Ambulance Post Number Forty-Seven to pick up Flight Officer Lang,” she said crisply.

“I’m Officer Lang.” He got into the front seat. “Where’s Lieutenant Talbot?”

“She’s on sick leave, sir.”

“Sick leave? She wasn’t hit by one of these blasted rocket bombs, was she?”

“No, sir.” Only by an historian. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly? What happened? She wasn’t badly hurt?”

“No, only a wrenched knee. I pushed her into a gutter.”

“Because you wanted to be the one to drive me?” he said. “I’m flattered.”

“No, because I thought I heard a V-1, but it was only a motorcycle.”

“And so she’s not able to drive, and they sent you as her replacement,” he said, grinning. “It wasn’t an accident you were sent, you know. It was fate.”

I doubt that, she thought. And why do I have a feeling you say the same thing to every FANY who drives you? “Where am I to take you, sir?”

“London. Whitehall.”

Which was better than somewhere in Bomb Alley, but not perfect. Once they got there, they’d be safe. No V-1s had fallen in Whitehall that day, but more than a dozen had hit between Hendon and London.

“Whitehall. Yes, sir,” she said, and opened out the map to find the safest route.

“You won’t need that,” he said, plucking it out of her hands and folding it up. “I can show you the way.” There was nothing for her to do but start the engine. “It’s quickest to take the Great North Road. Follow this lane till the first turning, and then bear right.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, heading in the direction he indicated and trying to think of an excuse for getting the map back so she could see what towns lay along the Great North Road.

“Definitely fate,” Flight Officer Lang was saying. “It’s clear we were destined to meet, Lieutenant—what’s your name?”

“Kent, sir,” she said absently. She should have told him that the Major insisted her FANYs take the Edgware Road to London. That way they’d be out of range nearly the entire way.

“Lieutenant Kent,” he said sternly. “Lovers brought together by fate do not call each other by their last names. Antony and Cleopatra, Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet. Stephen”—he pointed at himself—“and?”

“Mary, sir.”

“Sir?” His voice was filled with mock outrage. “Did Juliet call Romeo sir? Did Guinevere call Lancelot sir? Well, actually, I suppose she may have done. He was a knight, after all, but I don’t want you to do it. It makes me feel a hundred years old.”