Captain Jack's Woman (12 page)

Kit smiled at Jack and noted his defensive blink. Her smile deepened. She put her hands behind her waist and turned slightly, grimacing artistically. “How right you are,” she purred. “I don’t suppose you have anything here for bruises?” She let her hands press down and over the ripe curves of her bottom.

Despite years of training in the art of dissembling, Jack couldn’t tear his eyes from her hands. His body made the switch from semiarousal, his usual state in Kit’s presence, to aching hardness before her hands reached the tops of her thighs. His brain registered the implication in her husky tone and scrambled what few wits he had remaining. Only his instinct for self-preservation kept him rooted to the floor with the table, a last bastion, between them.

It was the silence that finally penetrated Jack’s daze. He glanced up and caught a gleam suspiciously like satisfaction in the violet eyes watching him.

“Er…no. Nothing for bruises.” He had to get her out of here.

“But you must have something,” Kit said, her lids veiling her eyes. Her glance fell on the keg. Her smile grew. “As I recall, there’s a rub made with brandy.” She looked up to see Jack’s face drain of expression.

A brandy rub? Jack’s mind went into a spin. The image her words conjured up, of him applying a brandy rub to her bruised flesh, his hand stroking the warm contours he’d just watched her trace, left him rigid with the effort to remain where he was. Only the thought that she was deliberately baiting him kept him still. Slowly, he shook his head. “Wouldn’t help.”

Kit pouted. “Are you sure?” Her hands gently kneaded her bottom. “I’m really rather sore.”

Forcibly, Jack clamped an iron hold over every muscle in his body. His fists bunched; he felt as if he had lockjaw as he forced out the words: “In that case, you’d better get on your way before you stiffen up.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed, then she shrugged and half turned to pick up her muffler and hat. “So I can help with the boats from now on?” She started winding the muffler about her face.

Further argument was beyond Jack, but he’d be damned if he’d let her best him like this. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” His voice sounded strained.

Kit pulled on her hat and swung about to discuss the matter further, only to find Jack moving past her on his way to the door.

“We’ll see what cargo Nolan has lined up for us. After all, you’ve only got a week more to go.” Jack paused with his hand on the door latch and looked back, praying she’d leave.

Kit moved toward him, a considering light in her eyes, a knowing smile on her lips. “I thought you wanted two months?”

She was getting far too close. Jack drew a ragged breath and pulled open the door. “You agreed to one month, and that’ll serve our purpose. No need for more.” No need for further torture.

Kit paused beside him, tilting her head to look up at him from beneath the brim of her hat. “You’re sure one month will be long enough?”

“Quite sure.” Jack’s voice had gained in strength. Encouraged, he grasped her elbow and helped her over the threshold, risking the contact in the interests of greater safety. “We’ll meet here at eleven as usual. Good night.”

Kit’s eyes widened at his helping hand but she accepted her departure with good grace, pausing in the patch of light thrown through the open door to smile at him. “Until tomorrow, then,” she purred.

Jack shut the door.

When the sound of the mare’s hooves reached him, he heaved a huge sigh and slumped back against the door. He glanced at his hands, still fisted, and slowly straightened his long fingers.

A week to go. Christ—he’d be a nervous wreck by the end of it!

Pushing away from the door, he headed for the brandy keg. Before he reached it, the image of his torment, riding alone through the night, surfaced. Jack dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling and vented his displeasure in a frustrated groan. Then he went out to saddle Champion.

“W
ell, Kathryn dear, you’re our local expert. If it’s to be a real masquerade, with no one knowing who anyone is, how shall we manage it?”

Lady Marchmont sipped her tea and looked inquiringly at Kit.

Acquainted with her ladyship of old, Kit hadn’t imagined she’d forget her notion of a ball. It was patently clear to all in Lady Marchmont’s drawing room—Lady Dersingham as well as Lady Gresham with Amy in tow—that the ball was to serve a dual purpose, winkling the elusive Lord Hendon from his castle, and introducing Kit to him. Having expected as much, Kit had given the matter due thought. A masquerade provided a number of advantages.

“For a start, we’ll have to make it plain the ball is a real masquerade—not just dominos over ball gowns.” Kit frowned over her teacup. “Do you think there’s enough time for people to get costumes together?”

“Time aplenty.” Lady Dersingham waved one white hand dismissively. “There aren’t that many of us, when all’s said and done. Shouldn’t be any problem. What do you think, Aurelia?”

Lady Gresham nodded. “If the invitations go out this afternoon, everyone will have a week to arrange their disguises.” She smiled. “I must say, I’m looking forward to seeing what our friends come as. So revealing, to see what people fancy themselves as.”

Sitting quietly on the
chaise
beside Kit, Amy shot her a glance.

Lady Marchmont reached for another scone. “We haven’t had such promising entertainment in years. Such a good idea, Kathryn.”

Kit smiled and sipped her tea.

“If you can’t recognize anyone, how are you going to be sure none but the guests you’ve invited attend?” asked Lady Dersingham. “Remember the trouble the Colvilles had, when Bertrand’s university chums came along uninvited? Dulcie was in tears, poor dear. They quite ruined the whole evening with their rowdiness and, of course, it took ages to discover who they were and evict them.”

Neither Lady Marchmont nor Lady Gresham had any idea. The company looked to Kit.

She had her answer ready. “The invitations should have instructions about some sign the guests must present, so you can be certain only those you invited come but no guest identifies themselves beyond giving the right sign.”

“What sort of sign?” asked Lady Marchmont.

“What about a sprig of laurel, in a buttonhole or in a lady’s corsage?”

Lady Marchmont nodded. “Simple enough but not something anyone would guess. That should do it.”

All agreed. Kit smiled. Amy raised a suspicious brow. Kit ignored it.

The ladies spent the next hour compiling the guest list and dictating the invitations to Kit and Amy, who dutifully acted as scribes. With the bundle of sealed missives handed into the butler’s hands, the ladies took their leave.

Lady Dersingham had taken Kit up in her carriage; Amy and her mother had come in theirs. While they waited on the steps for the carriages to be brought around, Amy glanced again at Kit. “What are you up to?”

Her mother and Lady Marchmont were gossiping; Lady Dersingham had moved down the steps to examine a rosebush in an urn. Kit turned to Amy. “Why do you suppose I’m up to anything?”

Her wide violet eyes failed to convince Amy of her innocence. “You’re planning some devilment,” Amy declared. “What?”

Kit grinned mischievously. “I’ve a fancy to look Lord Hendon over, without giving him the same opportunity. Be damned if I let them present me to him, like a pigeon on a platter, a succulent morsel for his delectation.”

Amy considered defending their ladyships, then decided to save her breath. “What do you plan to do?”

Kit’s grin turned devilish. “Let’s just say that my costume will be one no one will anticipate.” She eyed Amy affectionately. “I wonder if you’ll recognize me?”

“I’d recognize you anywhere, regardless of what you were wearing.”

Kit chuckled. “We’ll find out how good your powers of observation are next Wednesday.”

Amy got no chance to press Kit for details of her disguise. The carriages rounded the corner of Marchmont Hall, and she was forced to bid Kit farewell. “Come and visit tomorrow. I want to hear more of this plan of yours.”

Kit nodded and waved, but her laughing eyes left Amy with the distinct impression that she did not intend to reveal more of her plans.

Jack stood, feet planted well apart, resisting the tug of the surf surging about his knees. He glanced at Kit, slender beside him, and prayed she didn’t overbalance. Even in the shadowy night, soaked to the skin, her anatomy was sure to show its deficiencies.

The yacht they’d been waiting to board came over the next wave and slewed as the helmsman threw the rudder over. Matthew, some way to their right, steadied the prow. Kit grasped the side of the boat with both gauntleted hands and hauled herself aboard. Or tried to.

Anticipating her helplessness, Jack planted a large palm beneath her bottom and hefted her over the side. He heard her gasp as she landed on the deck in a sprawl of arms and legs. Then he remembered her bruised posterior. He grimaced and followed her. Serve her right if she felt a twitch or two. He was in constant agony with a pain she delighted in compounding.

Kit scurried to get out of Jack’s way as he clambered into the yacht, glaring through the night at him once he’d arrived on her level. She’d love to give him a piece of her mind, but didn’t dare open her mouth. Just being where she was had stretched the tension between them to the breaking point; she was too wise to add fuel to the fire just at present.

As far as she was concerned, tonight was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and she’d no intention of letting Jack spoil it. She’d gone with them to the Blackbird as usual on Wednesday, two nights ago. An agent had approached them with an unusual cargo—bales of Flemish cloth too unwieldy to be loaded into rowboats. To her surprise, Jack had accepted. The money on offer was certainly an incentive, but she couldn’t imagine where he’d get large enough boats to do the job.

But he had—she knew better than to ask how.

She’d come to the beach tonight prepared to do battle if he dared suggest she be lookout. Although he’d eyed her with misgiving, Jack had included her in the group to go in the boats. The relief she’d felt when she’d learned she was to accompany Jack and the taciturn Matthew on board the yacht, rather than going on one of the other boats with the other men, was something she’d never admit. Its dampening effect was counteracted by her excitement over the yacht being the fastest boat in the small fleet. She’d always dreamed about sailing, but Spencer had never allowed her to indulge that particular whim.

Kit stood by the railings as the yacht cleaved through the swell. The ship they were to meet was a pinprick of light, gleaming occasionally well out in the Roads.

Jack kept his distance. He’d brought Kit along, unwilling to risk leaving her beyond his reach. Forcing his gaze from the slim figure with the old tricorne jammed over her curls, he focused on their destination, a black shape on the horizon, growing larger with every crest they passed. Via Matthew, he’d already started rumors of Young Kit’s difficulties in continuing as part of the Gang. The stories revolved about Kit’s grandfather, unidentified, kicking up a fuss at his grandson’s frequent nocturnal absences.

Young Kit’s retirement could not come soon enough. Jack gritted his teeth as memories of their last evening at the Blackbird replayed in his mind. Kit had sat beside him in her usual place. But instead of keeping her distance as she’d done in the past, she’d shuffled closer, far closer than had been detectable from the other side of the table. The insistent pressure of her thigh against his had been bad enough. He’d nearly choked when he’d felt her hand on his thigh, tapered fingers stroking down the long muscle.

Luckily, she’d stopped when the agent appeared, else he’d never have had the wits to negotiate. In fact, he doubted he’d have had the strength to resist paying her back in her own coin which, given the predilection of females for forgetting where they were and what they were doing at such times, would probably have landed them in an unholy and potentially fatal mess.

After that, he’d kept Matthew with him, a fact that had his henchman puzzled. But he’d rather face a puzzled Matthew than a female determined to bring him low in typical female fashion. She might call him a coward—as she had last night when Matthew had dutifully followed them into the cottage after the meeting at the barn—but she didn’t know what type of explosive she was playing with. She’d find out soon enough. Salacious imaginings of exactly how he’d exact his retribution filled his sleepless nights.

The yacht overtook three slower, square-rigged luggers, the rest of the Hunstanton Gang’s fleet, then slewed sharply to come alongside the hull of the Dutch brigantine. Matthew stood in the prow, a coiled rope in his hands. The other two crewmen brought down the sails. As the waves drifted the hulls closer, Matthew threw the rope to waiting hands. Within minutes, they were secured against the Dutchman’s side.

Jack turned to the helmsman. “Lash the wheel and let the boy watch it.” The man obeyed; Jack turned to see Kit already on her way midships. He grinned. Bales of cloth were not packets of lace.

They unloaded the cargo smoothly, lowering the bales on sets of ropes over the brig’s side, directly into the hold of the yacht.

Her hands on the fixed wheel, Kit watched, her heart leaping when one bale swung crazily toward her, threatening to slip free of its lashings. Jack jumped onto the cabin roof directly between the wheel and the hold and steadied the large roll, reaching high with both hands and leaning his entire weight into it to counter its swing. Relief swept Kit when the bale settled; it was lowered without further drama.

The Dutch ship had been carrying a full load; at the end, each of the four smugglers’ boats was fully laden, even carrying bales on deck, lashed to the railings. The entire process was accomplished in total silence. Sound traveled too well on water.

The men worked steadily, stowing the bales. Kit’s mind drifted to the comment Jack had made the night before, when she’d been late for the meeting in the barn. She’d slipped unobtrusively around the door, but Jack had seen her instantly. He’d smiled and asked if she’d had trouble with her grandfather. She’d had no idea what he’d meant but had scowled and nodded, and then been astounded by the laughing understanding that had colored many of the men’s faces. Later, she’d learned enough to guess that Jack had started paving her way out of the Gang. Clearly, he’d meant what he’d said about one month being more than long enough.

She’d gone on being Young Kit under duress; now, she was reluctant to part with her alias, her passport to excitement.

And you haven’t had him at your feet yet, have you?

Kit eyed Jack’s broad shoulders, presently directly in front of her, and fantasized about the muscles beneath his rough shirt. Before she broke with him, she was determined to convert at least some of her fantasies to reality. Thus far, the only response her tricks had brought was a general stiffening of his muscles, a clenching of his jaw. She was determined to get more than that.

A low whistle signaled that they were done. Ropes were released; the smaller boats poled off from the brig’s hull, drifting until they were out of the larger ship’s wind shadow before hoisting their sails.

Relieved of her watch by the wheel, which had been every bit as useless as her lookout duty but infinitely more exciting, Kit strolled down the deck, heading for the bow. She’d cleared the cabin housing when the yacht passed the brig’s prow and the wind caught its sails. The yacht leapt forward.

Kit screamed and just managed to stifle the sound. She was flung against the bale lashed to the railing. Her desperately groping fingers tangled in the lashings. Drawing a deep breath, she hauled herself upright.

Immediately she’d regained her feet, she heard an almighty crack, like a tree branch snapping.

“Kit! Duck!”

She reacted more to Jack’s tone than his words, but duck she did. The boom went sailing past, level with where her head had been split seconds before. Kit stared at the long pole swinging outward over the waves, a rope dangling behind it. She grabbed the rope.

Instantly, she realized her mistake. The sudden tug on her arms was horrendous, and then she was being hauled in the wake of the boom, the wind filling the sail and causing the heavily laden yacht to list to starboard.

Kit’s eyes widened in fright. She looked over the railings at the black waves and remembered she couldn’t swim.

Her belly hit the bale. The next gust of wind would lift her from her feet, half over the rail. She was no expert seaman, but if she let go of the rope, the yacht looked set to capsize.

Hard hands locked about hers on the rope and hauled back. Kit added her weight to Jack’s and the boom swung back. But the wind retaliated, filling the sail once more. The jerk on the rope pulled Kit hard against the bale, her arms outstretched over the railing. Jack slammed into her back.

Kit forgot the boom, the wind, the sail; forgot the waves and the fact that she couldn’t swim; forgot everything but the awesome sensation of a very hard male body pressed forcibly against hers. She was jammed between the bale and Jack. She could feel the muscles in his chest shift against her as he struggled to haul in the boom. She could feel the muscles of his stomach brace into hard ridges as he used his weight to maintain their balance. She could feel the solid weight of his thighs pressed hard against her bruised bottom. On either side of her slender legs, she could feel the long columns of his legs like steel supports anchoring them to the deck, defying the wind’s shrieking fury. She could also feel the hard shaft of desire that nudged into the small of her back. The discovery held her riveted.

Uninterested, was he? Found her unattractive, did he? What sort of game was he playing?

“For God’s sake, woman! Lean back!”

Jack’s furious whisper recalled Kit to the urgency of the situation. She dutifully added her weight to his as he drew in the boom.