A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

She had the sort of figure commonly described as an armful.

Words like “voluptuous” sprang to his mind. Phrases like well endowed.

Then he remembered her earlier scorching gaze and found the perfect adjective. Boadicean.

Very English. Very female. Very fierce.

He finished tying off their improvised bandage. The injured man was as comfortable as they could make him.

Boadicea sat back with a small sigh.

Jack rocked back on his heels and rose. He dusted off his hands, then held one out to her.

She was staring past him, down the road. Without looking at him—apparently without thought—she laid her hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

Retrieving her hand, she looked down, surveying their patient. “The manor’s the nearest house. How are we going to get him there?”

She’d surprised him again. Not only had she volunteered his house, her question was rhetorical.

Although tempted to see how she would solve the problem, he took pity on the unconscious unfortunate. “There’s probably some part of the carriage we can use to lay him on.”

He went to look. One side door was smashed beyond use; the other was intact, but by itself too small. The board beneath the seat was splintered.

“Will this do?”

Jack turned to see Boadicea pointing at the rear of the phaeton. Joining her, he examined the long, slightly curved backing board jarred loose at one end but otherwise intact. “Stand back.”

Of course, she didn’t move; arms crossed, she watched while he got a firm grip, yanked the board loose, then pried it free.

He resisted the urge to see if her toe was tapping.

He carried the board to the unconscious man; she followed at his heels. Together, with no need for instructions, they lifted the man onto the board. Boadicea set down the man’s legs, turned, and disappeared behind the phaeton. A second later she reappeared lugging a traveling bag.

She dropped it beside the man and bent to open it. “He’s sure to have more cravats. We can tie him to the board with them.”

Without bothering to nod—she wasn’t looking at him—Jack left her and went to fetch the bay. When he returned, she was securing their patient to the improvised stretcher with a pair of cravats. “That should hold him.”

Jack checked her knots; they were perfectly serviceable. Bending, he looped the long reins around and over their patient, and under the cravats.

She watched his every move; when he tied off the last rein, she nodded in regal approval. “Good.” She dusted off her skirts, placed the man’s bag on the board at his feet, then waved down the road. “The manor’s less than a quarter of a mile.”

About a quarter of a mile, most of it the long drive. Fetching Challenger, Jack hoped Griggs and his butler Howlett had kept the drive in good repair.

Leading Challenger, he fell in beside Boadicea, who was coaxing the bay forward in an even, steady walk. The reins pulled taut; their stretcher eased into the lane, riding the dry, reasonably even surface smoothly enough.

Satisfied they’d done all they could for the injured man, Jack turned his attention to his companion. No hat, no gloves. She had to live close. “Do you live hereabouts?”

She waved to the left. “At the rectory.”

Jack frowned. “James Altwood used to be rector there.”

“He still is.”

Jack remembered her hands. No ring, no hint she’d ever worn one. He waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t.

After a few moments, he asked, “How did you come to be in the road?”

She glanced at him; her eyes were very dark brown, even darker than her hair. “I was in the field mushrooming.” Again she waved to the left. “There’s an old oak on a knoll—there are always mushrooms there.”