A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

He tightened his arms about her instead, greedily drawing her more fully against him. Flush, so he could feel her softness cradling him, sense the promise in the long, taut thighs pressed to his. Glory in the firmness of her breasts, in the ruched nipples poking his chest.

Then she kissed him back—not just responded but clamped his head between her hands and pressed a voracious, hungry, defiantly passionate caress of lips and tongue upon him. She sent his senses careening as she leaned into him, into his embrace, and blatantly incited not just him, but herself.

He knew that last instinctively, knew she was exploring as much as he had earlier, but not, in her case, the physical, as he had; she was wholly engrossed in the sensual. She wanted it, grasped the moment and all he offered, and stroked, caressed, learned, and left him aching.

Beneath the clamor of his senses, something primal stirred, some part of him that hadn’t prowled in years but that now scented the right prey, lifted its head, and stretched. He savored her, luxuriated in her promise, in the heady invitation inherent in her bold and challenging response.

And started to plot, to plan.

Some small part of his mind was congratulating himself on the superiority of his instincts—he’d been wanting to kiss her for hours—and his good sense in acting so promptly in that regard, when footsteps sounded on the paved path.

He lifted his head, instantly alert.

He was smugly aware that a finite moment passed before, blinking, she refocused.

And tensed. Before she could struggle he released her, setting her back on her feet. “The side path,” he said, voice low. “They haven’t seen us.”

She glanced around, still a trifle dazed. She shot him a glance to see if he’d noticed; he pretended to be oblivious, looking past her to where Crawler had come into view, walking along a secondary path leading to the alcove.

Crawler saw them; his grizzled face cleared. “Howlett said as he thought you’d headed this way.”

Nearing, Crawler nodded to Jack, then his gaze switched to Clarice. “Begging your pardon, m’lady, but if you’ve a minute when you’re finished with his lordship…?”

Clarice flicked a glance Jack’s way. “I’m quite finished with his lordship. What can I help you with?”

She moved, stepping closer to Crawler; Jack quashed a powerful urge to reach out and haul her back, and whisper in her ear that she was very far from being finished with him, or he with her.

Not after that kiss.

“I was wondering,” Crawler said, “if you’ve any ideas about that new mare Mr. Trelliwell’s been riding. Seems he feels she’s not up to his weight and wants rid of her. He’s asking a fair price, but I wondered if you’d heard any whispers—whether there was any other reason he wanted shot of her?”

Boadicea smiled. Knowingly. Crawler’s eyes lit.

“I heard,” she said, “that Mr. Trelliwell suffered a rather embarrassing accident when out with the Quorn a few weeks ago. I heard he was riding a bay mare, and that mare is a bay, isn’t she?”

Crawler snorted. “Tipped him over a fence, did she? Well, that suits me—I want her for breeding. She has right nice lines”—this Crawler directed at Jack—“and I’m always in favor of spirit in a mare.”

“Indeed.” Jack smiled, jovially man-to-man. “Spirited fillies make quite the best riding all around.”

Darting a glance at Boadicea, Crawler manfully swallowed his guffaw.

But Clarice had looked down, absorbed with flicking out her skirts. When she looked up, her expression was as usual, serenely calm with a touch of hauteur. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I must get back to the rectory.”

Crawler immediately bowed. “Thank you for the advice, m’lady. I’ll be off to see Mr. Trelliwell tomorrow morning.”

She directed a gracious smile at Crawler, but when she turned to Jack, there was nothing but dark warning in her eyes. “Lord Warnefleet.” She inclined her head regally, then added, more softly, “Welcome home.”

With that, she turned, and sailed away up the central path.

Jack watched her go, the frown in his mind due to more than the simple fact that he hadn’t wanted her to

leave, yet she had. He found it difficult to tear his gaze from the elegant line of her back, the perfect inverted heart shape of her hips and bottom as she walked away…and left him standing.

Mentally gritting his teeth, he forced his gaze to Crawler. He felt he should have known about Trelliwell’s mare, that it should have been he who Crawler had come to. He knew that was irrational, yet…outwardly relaxed, he met Crawler’s gaze. “So tell me about this mare. And what else have you been dabbling in breedingwise, you old reprobate?”

Crawler chuckled and told him as together they walked to the stables.

But the main part of Jack’s mind remained in the rose garden, with the opportunity he’d sensed, and was determined to pursue, despite—or perhaps because of—the complex mix of reactions a certain warrior-queen evoked in him. And those he evoked in her.