A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Shared endeavors, shared aims, shared accomplishments, shared successes, shared joys. All those together, everything that made up shared lives.

This, she knew, was what she’d been made for, what she’d waited all the long years for.

His was the life she was on earth to share, and hers was his rightful sphere.

Lying on her back, her fingers trailing lightly through his hair as he lay slumped across her, his head pillowed on her breasts, she blinked, then squinted down at him. “What did you call me?”

He didn’t open his eyes, but his lips curved against her skin. “Boadicea.” After a moment, he added, “It’s my nickname for you.”

She stared at him, speechless, totally unsure how to respond, how she should or wanted to respond.

Apparently realizing he’d accomplished a feat few ever had, he opened his eyes and lifted his head the better to view her wordless state.

What she saw in his eyes, the soft glow that lit the gold and green, only stunned her more, left her even more bereft of words.

She knew what he was, always had known, had recognized the steel, the hardness, the shields. That he would be this vulnerable, and allow her to see it—that he would call her Boadicea, his warrior-queen—simply took her breath away.

He caught her hand, touched his lips to her fingers.

The touch anchored her, helped her feet find earth. She blinked, managed a weak frown. “Boadicea was painted blue.”

Still smiling, he shook his head. “Not blue for you—pink and white. If you need anything to cover your nakedness”—he looked down and surveyed her breasts—“it can only be apple blossom.”

There was a smug, supremely male expression on his face.

She couldn’t help it—she laughed.

Saw answering laughter spark in his eyes, and realized that was the right response, that nothing more was needed between them.

Reaching for him, she drew his face to hers and kissed him. Then he kissed her.

Eventually, he drew away. “It’s already dawn. I have to go.”

She looked into his eyes, mere inches away. “Stay.”

He searched her face, confirmed what she was saying, hesitated, then grimaced. “No, not yet. Not until this is over.”

She sighed and let him go. His face had set; her warrior-lord was back. Her reputation was his to guard, or so he saw it.

Lying amid the apple blossoms, feeling them shift silkily against her skin, she watched him dress and knew she’d never want him to change. “I’ll come to the club later in the morning. You’ll be meeting with your colleagues, I expect.”

He looked at her, nodded. Then he returned to the bed, kissed her witless, and slipped out of the room while her head was still spinning.

She arrived at the club at eleven o’clock and was met with grave faces all around.

“Some bargemen I’d hired found Humphries’ body washed up on the morning tide.” Jack glanced at Christian and Deverell, then turned back to Clarice. “We—you and I—should take the news to the bishop.”

Clarice nodded.

“Meanwhile,” Christian said, his tone flat and steely, “we’ll check with our sources and get Tristan to do the same. Someone may have seen Humphries along the riverbanks or bridges. We might jog someone’s memory now we know where to concentrate.”

Solemn and serious, they parted. Jack handed Clarice into Alton’s carriage, and they rattled around to Lambeth. But once admitted to the palace, they had to kick their heels for over an hour; the bishop, dean, and Deacon Olsen were all officiating in the cathedral.

Finally, the dean returned. Hearing their news, his face fell, but he quickly organized a private audience with the bishop.

His lordship was appalled. Jack realized that, however much he’d been told that Humphries had been drawn into a dangerous game, the bishop hadn’t, until that moment, comprehended the life-and-death nature of that game.

“I…oh, my heavens!” Pasty-faced, the bishop stared at him. “How…? Do you know?”