Page 168 of Reign

I wove my fingers with his, and he held them proudly as we walked back into the Anchor. At the trestle table, Fletcher sat beside Billy, slamming his cards down with a triumphant cheer.

“Remarkable,” Billy said, shaking his head in exasperation. “I’ve just lost two games of noddy to him.”

“I bet he’s cheating,” Bash remarked with a laugh at Fletcher’s exuberant celebration.

Billy scoffed. “Oh, I know he is—yet the most puzzling part is I cannot fathom how he does it.”

Fletcher drifted over to Jane, undoubtedly trying to lure her into a fixed game, while Bash led me to the armchairs by the fire. He collapsed into the seat nearest the blaze, and I took the one beside him. As he stretched out, I couldn’t help but gawk at how his tunic pulled taut across his muscular chest.

Bash caught me staring. “What?” he asked, sitting upright.

I shook my head, my cheeks flushing.

“Why do you always look at me like that?” he pressed, his brow furrowing.

My heart pounded, mortified that he’d noticed how I stared at him like a hungry beast eyeing its prey.

“Like what?” I countered, feigning ignorance.

“Like I’m doing something odd.”

I chuckled, relieved he mistook my lustful gaze as judgment. I couldn’t confess that when I looked at him, all I longed for was to know what it felt like to be beneath his heaving chest.

“Can I ask you something?” Bash’s question pulled me from my indecent thoughts, seconds before desire swept me away.

“Anything.”

“Fitzroy,” he began hesitantly, and a wave of nausea hit me hard. “What is—are you—do you—”

I shook my head firmly, cutting him off.

Part of me had fallen for part of Fitzroy—the kind side of him that valued my talents and trusted me with tasks most would only bestow upon men.

But all of me had fallen for all of Bash.

“I don’t want Fitzroy,” I told him—and I meant it. “I want you. Only you.”

A wide grin spread across Bash’s face as he extended his hand toward me. I reached for it, but before our fingers could meet, Fletcher appeared at the fire.

“Poor, gentle Jane,” Fletcher said as he perched on the armrest of Bash’s chair. He let out an exaggerated sigh, clearly fishing for a reaction.

“What?” Bash asked flatly, his disinterest plain.

“She’s beside herself,” Fletcher began. “I asked her to wager some valuables in a card game, but she outright refused. Said she wouldn’t risk losing any more of her prized possessions. Not so long ago, some bastard stole her locket—it had a lock of her long-lost mother’s hair inside. That’s a dire offense.” His fingers tapped rhythmically against his bouncing thigh, frustration simmering inside him. “If I ever found the man who robbed her…” He throttled the air, miming his intended retribution.

A memory stirred—not so distant, still fresh in my mind. I recalled my first time at Regina’s court when Elizebeth’s hands reached for my locket, then clutched her own. Then, the later revelation—she had a daughter; one she hadn’t seen in over twenty years.

My gaze drifted to the auburn beauty leaning against the bar.

Bash chuckled. “Don’t pretend you care,” he said, the warmth in his laughter momentarily distracting me. “You’re just annoyed she won’t let you rob her blind in one of your rigged games.”

Fletcher slumped forward, a pout appearing on his lips. “I wouldn’t want to win something that means so much to her,” he muttered, picking at the skin around his thumbs, pretending to be genuinely upset.

I studied Jane. Was it merely coincidence that she and Elizebeth both had fiery hair?

That would mean—I choked on the idea.

I took a hard swallow. If Elizebeth was Jane’s mother, then Jane was related to Avice—her niece.