Valentine shook his head. She was a witless chit with nary a skill beyond chattering the ear off the nearest gentleman. She’d probably pointed and shot, and hoped for the best. He revised the opinion as soon as he made it. No, her hold on that weapon had been one of confident skill, not the grip of a novice. He attempted to reconcile the versions of her he’d seen—the flighty coquette, the carefree dancer, and most of all, the marksman in disguise who met strange men in taverns and referenced a notorious person of interest. Valentine intended to get to the truth of the matter sooner or later.

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.”