George knit her brow as she stood in the desolate high road leading to East Riding in Yorkshire. Around them, the gorse-covered hills rolled away into the gray horizon. Dark was rapidly falling, brought on early by the rainstorm. They could’ve been standing at the ends of the earth.

“Do you consider a whale to be an animal or a very big fish, Mr. Pye?” she shouted into the wind.

Harry Pye’s shoulders bunched. They were covered only by a wet lawn shirt that clung to him in an aesthetically pleasing way. He’d previously discarded his coat and waistcoat to help John Coachman unhitch the horses from the overturned carriage.

“An animal, my lady.” Mr. Pye’s voice was, as always, even and deep with a sort of gravelly tone toward the bottom.

George had never heard him raise his voice or show passion in any way. Not when she’d insisted on accompanying him to her Yorkshire estate; not when the rain had started, slowing their travel to a crawl; not when the carriage had overturned twenty minutes ago.

How very irritating. “Do you think you will be able to right the carriage?” She pulled her soaked cloak up over her chin as she contemplated the remains of her vehicle. The door hung from one hinge, banging in the wind, two wheels were smashed, and the back axle had settled at an odd angle. It was a thoroughly idiotic question.

Mr. Pye didn’t indicate by action or word that he was aware of the silliness of her query. “No, my lady.”

George sighed.

Really, it was something of a miracle that they and the coachman hadn’t been hurt or killed. The rain had made the roads slippery with mud, and as they had rounded the last curve, the carriage had started to slide. From inside, she and Mr. Pye had heard the coachman shouting as he tried to steady the vehicle. Harry Pye had leapt from his seat to hers, rather like a large cat. He’d braced himself against her before she could even utter a word. His warmth had surrounded her, and her nose, buried intimately in his shirt, had inhaled the scent of clean linen and male skin. By that time, the carriage had tilted, and it was obvious they were falling into the ditch.

Slowly, awfully, the contraption had tipped over with a grinding crash. The horses had whinnied from the front, and the carriage had moaned as if protesting its fate. She’d clutched Mr. Pye’s coat as her world upended, and Mr. Pye grunted in pain. Then they were still again. The vehicle had rested on its side, and Mr. Pye rested on her like a great warm blanket. Except Harry Pye was much firmer than any blanket she’d ever felt before.