Captain Jack's Woman (11 page)

Kit looked up; it was time for her to depart. She smiled, not knowing how weary she looked. “My men and I’ll come up for the meeting on Monday. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Jack nodded, wishing he could escort her home. He hadn’t thought of her riding alone through the dark before; he’d never watched her leave the cottage. To let her head into the night, tired and solitary, seemed an act of outright callousness. He considered insisting on escorting her, but rejected the idea. She’d refuse and argue, and he’d probably lose. And he didn’t wish to remind her of his very real interest in her just at present. Ignoring her while she believed he was uninterested was hard enough. Ignoring her once she knew he was hooked would be impossible if her actions of last night were any guide. Like any other woman, she’d be incapable of leaving him alone, teasing him for attentions he was too wise to bestow—at least, not yet.

Half-asleep and dreaming, Kit found she was staring at the pale oval of Jack’s face. She shook herself awake. “I’ll be going then. Good night.”

Jack bit his tongue. Rigid, he watched her leave the clearing, heading south on a ride of close to six miles through the dark.

Stifling a curse, he turned Champion to the east and found Matthew. Wordlessly, they set off, Champion leading Matthew’s black over fields and meadows, somnolent under dark skies. They’d covered nearly a mile when Jack abruptly drew rein, startling Matthew who’d been asleep in his saddle.

“Dammit! You go on ahead. I’ll be in later.” Jack wheeled Champion and set his heels to the grey’s sleek sides, leaving a bemused Matthew in his wake. When he reached the ruined church, Jack turned the grey’s head south and loosened the reins. He was sure Champion would follow his Arab mare no matter which way Kit had gone.

A
fter that first run, Kit had been sure she’d face no real problem in being Young Kit for the requisite month. Unfortunately, affairs did not run so smoothly. Her pride was her problem: it rose to the fore on two different counts, both stemming directly from Jack’s irritating behavior.

In the third week of their association, she sought solitude in the gazebo to thrash out how to counteract Jack’s stubborn refusal to deal reasonably with her. She was always the lookout—that she could understand—but for all his apparent experience, Jack persisted in placing her to the east of the ran area, away from Hunstanton. Yet if the Revenue were to mount a sortie, surely they’d be coming
from
Hunstanton?

Plonking herself down on the gazebo’s wooden seat, Kit stared at the roses. Any attempt to question Jack’s peculiar orders met with a highly discouraging scowl, topped by a growl if she pushed him. A snarl would no doubt be next, but she’d never had the nerve to test him. She had the distinct impression she was being bundled aside, out of harm’s way. Kit narrowed her eyes. It was almost as if Jack knew there’d be no interference from the Revenue but sent her in the opposite direction just in case.

Damn it! It had been at
his
insistence she’d continued her charade; being given token tasks was not what she’d expected. Enough! She’d have it out with him this evening. There was to be another run, on the promontory between Holme and Brancaster. Since they’d joined forces, the traffic had been constant—two runs a week, always on different beaches, mostly for Nolan, once for another agent. Spirits and lace had been the staple fare, high-quality merchandise that brought good returns to the smugglers.

With a rustle of skirts, Kit stood. Descending from the gazebo, she wended her way between the rose beds, indifferent to the perfect blooms nodding on every side. Lack of meaningful participation in the gang’s affairs was one of her points of contention. Her personal interaction with Jack, or rather, lack of personal interaction with Jack, was the other.

His behavior during her first visit to the cottage she’d understood. What had her confused was all that had, or hadn’t, come since. He’d blown hot for her initially, but ever since that night he’d appeared uninterested, as if he’d found her unattractive on second glance. For one who’d had the rakes of London at her feet, Jack’s failure to succumb was galling.

Kit dropped the petals she’d pulled from a fading white rose and headed for the house. All the other personable males who’d hovered on her horizon had done so without her exerting any effort to attract their notice. Jack’s notice, short-lived though it had been, had stirred her interest in a way none of the others had. She wanted more. But Jack, damn his silver eyes, seemed distinctly disinclined to supply it. He now acted as if she was a lad in truth—as if he couldn’t be bothered responding to her as a woman.

Climbing the steps to the terrace, Kit realized her teeth were clenched. Forcibly relaxing her jaw, she made a vow. Before she quit the Hunstanton Gang, she’d have Captain Jack at her feet. A rash resolution, perhaps, but the thought sent a thrill of delicious daring through her.

Her lips quirked upward. This was what she craved—what she needed. A challenge. If Jack insisted on removing all chance of other thrills, surely it was only right he provide her with suitable compensation?

Entering the morning room, Kit sank onto the
chaise
and considered the possibilities. She’d need to be on guard to ensure Jack didn’t take things farther than mere dalliance. His behavior on that first night in his cottage had been ample proof that he could and would take matters far farther than she would countenance. He was not of common stock. No fisherman had such an air—of command, of authority, and, frequently, of sheer arrogance. His diction, his knowledge of swordplay, his stallion—all bore witness that his origins were considerably higher than the village. And, of course, he was gorgeous beyond belief. Nevertheless, a liaison, however brief, between Lord Cranmer’s granddaughter and Captain Jack, leader of the Hunstanton Gang, did not fall within the bounds of the possible.

But he thinks you’re illegitimate, remember?

“But I’m not illegitimate, am I?” Kit pointed out to her wilder self. “I couldn’t possibly forget what I owe the family name.”

Why? The family was ready enough to sacrifice you for their own ends.

“Only my uncles and aunts—not Spencer or my cousins.”

Sure it’s not just an old-fashioned dose of maidenly nerves? How will you learn if Amy’s right if you don’t give it a try? And if you’re ever going to take the plunge—he’s the one. Why not admit you go weak at the knees at the thought of all that lovely male muscle and those silver devil’s eyes?

“Oh, shut up!” Kit reached for her embroidery. Prying her needle free, she poked it through the design. Drawing the thread through, she set her lips. She was bored. Excitement was what she needed. Tonight, she’d make sure she got some.

The roar of the surf as it pounded the sand filled Kit’s ears. She stood in the lee of the cliff, holding Delia’s reins, watching the Hunstanton Gang gather. The men huddled in small groups, their gruff voices barely audible above the surf. None approached her. They all viewed Young Kit as a delicate youth, a young nob, best left to Captain Jack to deal with.

Kit looked up and saw Jack approaching, mounted on his grey stallion and flanked by George and Matthew. Her confidence in Jack’s ability to organize and command was complete. She’d heard tales, some decidedly grisly, of the Hunstanton Gang’s activities before Jack had taken over. In the past three weeks, she’d seen no evidence of such excesses. Jack didn’t even exert himself to impress his will—the men obeyed him instinctively, as if recognizing a born leader.

Kit peered out at the waves, black tipped with pearl in the weak moonlight. She could see no sign of the boats.

Jack drew rein some yards away and the men gathered about to receive their orders. Then they were off down the beach to wait, huddled on the sand like rocks just above the waterline. Dismounting, Jack set Matthew and George to watch for the signal from the ship that would tell them the boats were on their way in, then trudged through the sand toward Kit.

He stopped in front of her. “Up there should give you a good view.”

To Kit’s surprise, he indicated the cliff above the western end of the beach. Then she remembered they were out on the headland—if the Revenue came from anywhere it would have to be from the east; beyond the western point was sea. Her time had come. “No!” She had to shout over the din of the waves.

It took Jack a moment to realize what she was saying. He scowled. “What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“I mean there’s no sense in my keeping a lookout from that position. I may as well stay on the beach and watch the boats come in.”

Jack stared at her. The idea of her scurrying around among the boats, being shoved aside by the first fisherman into whose path she stumbled, was one he refused to contemplate. A shout told him the signal had come. Soon, the boats would be beaching. He eyed the slight figure before him and shook his head. “I haven’t time to argue about it now. I’ve got to see to the boats.”

“Fine. I’ll come, too.” Kit looped Delia’s reins about a straggling bush clinging to the cliff and turned to follow Jack.

“
Get up to that cliff top immediately!”

The blast almost lifted her from her feet. Kit stepped back, eyes widening in alarm. Jack towered over her, one arm lifted, one finger jabbing at the western cliff. Transfixed, she stared at him. And saw him set his teeth.

“For Christ’s sake, get moving!”

Shaken to her boots, furious to the point of incoherence, Kit wrenched Delia’s reins from the bush and swung up to the saddle. She glared down at Jack, still standing before her, fists on hips, barring the way to the beach, then hauled on the reins and sent Delia up the cliff path.

On the western cliff top, Kit dismounted. She left Delia to graze the coarse grasses a few yards back from the edge. Seething, she threw herself down on a large flat boulder and, picking up a small rock, hurled it down onto the sands. She wished she could hit Jack with it. He was clearly visible, down by the beaching boats. A slingshot might just make it.

With a disgusted snort, Kit sank her elbows into her thighs and dumped her chin in her hands. God—could he shout. Spencer bellowed when in a rage, but the noise had never affected her. She’d always considered it a sure sign her grandfather had all but lost the thread of his argument and would soon succumb to hers. But when Jack had bellowed his orders, he’d expected to be obeyed. Instantly. Every vestige of defiant courage she possessed had curled up its toes and died. The idea of her doing anything to overcome such an invincible force had seemed patently ridiculous.

Thoroughly disgusted with her craven retreat, Kit glumly watched the gang unload the boats.

When the last barrel was clear of the surf and the pack ponies were all but fully laden, Kit stood and dusted down her breeches. Whatever happened, however much Jack bellowed, this was the last, the
very last time
she’d keep watch from the wrong position for the Hunstanton Gang.

“Well? What is it?” Jack dumped the keg he’d brought back from the run on the table and swung to face Kit. George had ridden straight home from the beach and, after one glance at Kit’s rigid figure, Jack had sent Matthew directly on to the Castle. On the beach, he’d hoped that her knuckling under to his orders meant she’d forget her grievance over being a redundant lookout. He should have known better.

Kit ignored his abrupt demand and closed the door. With cool deliberation, she walked forward into the glow of the lamp Jack set alight. Pulling her hat from her curls, she dropped it on the table, then, in perfect silence, unwound her muffler.

Straightening from lighting the lamp, Jack pressed his hands to the table and remained standing. He felt much more capable of intimidating Kit when upright. Assuming, of course, that she, too, was upright. If she didn’t hurry up and get to her point, he wouldn’t give much for her chances of remaining so. Jack set his teeth and waited.

When her muffler had joined her hat, Kit turned to face Jack. “I suggest that in future you rethink your lookout policy. If you order me to a position in what is obviously the wrong direction, I’ll move to a more sensible place.”

Jack’s jaw hardened. “You’ll do as you’re told.”

Kit lifted a condescending brow.

Jack lost a little of his calm. “Dammit—if you’re on lookout and the Revenue appear, how the hell can I be certain you won’t do something stupid?”

Kit’s eyes blazed. “I wouldn’t just run away.”

“I know that! If I thought you
would
run away, I’d have no qualms about putting you on the Hunstanton side.”

“You admit you’ve been deliberately putting me on the wrong side?”

“Christ!” Jack raked a hand through his hair. “Look—you can’t unload the boats, so you may as well be our lookout. As it happens—”

“At the moment you don’t actually need a lookout.” Kit’s tone dripped with emphasis. “Because, as you well know, the Hunstanton Revenue men have been ordered to patrol the beaches south of Hunstanton.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”

Kit lifted one shoulder. “Everyone knows that.”

“Who told you?”

Kit eyed Jack warily. “Spencer. He had it from the owner of the Rose and Anchor in Lynn.”

The muscles in Jack’s shoulders eased. She didn’t have any contact within the Revenue Office. He’d been away so long, he’d forgotten how things got about in the country. “I see.”

“I take it that means I won’t have to stay stuck on a cliff twiddling my thumbs next time?” Kit’s look dared him to disagree.

He ignored it. “What the hell else can you do?”

“I can help unload the lace,” Kit stated, chin high.

“Fine,” said Jack. “And what happens the first time someone hands you a keg instead? Here, take this to the sideboard.” Without warning, he lifted the keg he’d brought in and handed it to her.

Automatically, Kit put out her hands to take it. Jack let go.

Jack could carry the keg under one arm. He didn’t have any idea how much Kit could carry, but he didn’t expect her to sink under the weight.

Kit’s knees buckled. Her arms slipped about the keg as she struggled to balance the weight against her own and failed. She went down, bottom first, and the keg rolled back to flatten her. The instant before it did serious damage, Jack lifted it from her.

In awful silence, Kit lay flat on the floor and glared at Jack. Then she got her breath back. Her bound breasts, swelling in righteous indignation, fought against the constraining bands; her eyes spat purple flame. “You bastard! What kind of a stupid thing was that to do?”

Carefully, Jack set the keg back on the table. He glanced once at Kit, sprawled at his feet, then rapidly away, biting his lips against the laughter that threatened. She looked fit to kill. “Here, let me…” Reaching down, he grasped both her hands. Gently, he hauled her to her feet. He didn’t dare meet her gaze; it was sharp enough to slice strips off him. Doubtless, her tongue soon would.

Back on her feet, Kit was agonizingly aware that a certain portion of her anatomy was very bruised. “Dammit—that hurt!”

The accusation was softened by the way her lips trembled. She frowned, and Jack felt a patent fool. He’d been trying to protect her and instead, he’d nearly squashed her to death.

“Sorry.” He was halfway into an apologetic smile, designed to charm her from her anger, when he remembered what would happen if he did. She’d smile back. He could just imagine it—a small, hurt little smile. He’d be felled. “But I’m afraid that’s precisely what will happen if you play the lady smuggler with me.” Realizing how close to danger he stood, Jack stalked back around the table.

Kit’s spine stiffened. Her fingers curled in fury. Her wilder self came to life.
Remember your alternative to smuggling thrills?