Captain Jack's Woman (18 page)

“Which way to the stables?”

Jack’s quiet whisper brought Kit blinking awake. Familiar landmarks rose out of the dark. They were in a dip just behind the Hall. For a moment, she leaned against Jack’s chest, savoring the hard warmth, wishing irrationally that his arms would come around and hold her. At the thought, panic pushed her upright. “I take Delia in through the paddock. I have to jump the fence.”

The figure behind her was still, then said, “All right. I’ll leave you here.”

One hard hand closed on her waist. Kit stiffened, but Jack just needed her as balance as he swung down from the saddle. He handed her the reins. “Wait while I adjust the stirrups.”

Shortening the straps so the stirrups sat once more in the groove they’d worn in the thick leather, Jack forced his mind to function—not an easy task in its present, slightly intoxicated state. If he was any judge of such experiences, what had happened beneath the tree should whet the appetite of a woman who was currently forced to a proscribed existence.

Yet there was something in Kit’s response that warned him not to take her for granted. Her silence could simply be due to tiredness; her climax had been particularly strong. But there was more to it than that. Perhaps she was piqued he’d found her so easy to tame? Safely hidden by the dark, Jack grinned fleetingly. He had a premonition that she might be reluctant to yield more than she had already, not without a further concession from him. And at present he couldn’t offer her anything, not even his name.

Whatever, two nights from now she would spend some time in his bed. And he’d stake his hard-won reputation that afterward, she wouldn’t walk away from him with her pert nose in the air.

Jack straightened and pulled his wig from the saddle pocket. He stepped back. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Old Barn.”

Excuses jostled on Kit’s tongue, but she swallowed them. Four weeks she’d agreed to—four weeks he’d get. With a curt nod, she wheeled Delia and put her over the fence.

Cantering up the steep paddock to the stable, Kit resisted the temptation to look back. He’d be standing where she’d left him, hands on hips, watching her. She’d turn up tomorrow, and if they were doing a cargo, the night after that. But from then on, she’d give Captain Jack a wide berth. Distance was imperative. She knew the dangers now; there could be no excuse.

When the dark cavern of the stable had swallowed Kit, Jack turned and headed north. The moon sailed free of its fettering clouds and lit his way. Miles ahead, Castle Hendon awaited its master, his bed fitted with silk sheets, cool and unwarmed. Jack’s lips quirked. He had an ambition to see Kit writhing in ecstasy on that bed, her curls a flaming aureole about her head, those other curls he’d touched but hadn’t seen, burning him. He’d counted the nights ever since he’d first touched her and known his senses weren’t playing him false. Now, she was damn near an obsession.

As his swinging stride ate the miles, his mind remained on the woman who’d captured his senses. She’d never be just another mistress—those who’d come before her had never intrigued him as she did. From her, he wanted much more than mere physical gratification, despite that every time he set eyes on her he was driven by a primal urge to bury himself in her heat. The need to possess her went much further than that.

He wanted to bring her to climax again and again. He wanted her cries of satisfaction to ring in his ears. He needed to know she was close and safe at all times.

Jack frowned. He’d never felt like that about a woman before.

T
he slap of the waves against the fishing boat’s hull was drowned by the roar of the surf. Thigh deep in the tide, Jack flexed his shoulders, then reached for the barrel Noah held out. With the keg balanced on his shoulder, he waded to the shore, to where the ponies were being loaded.

Jack waited for the men lashing the barrels to the ponies’ saddles to take the heavy keg, then turned to survey his enterprise.

They had the routine down pat. Even as he looked, the men in the emptied boats bent to the oars and the six hulls slipped back out through the surf, off to find any fish they could before heading home. The last kegs were being lashed in place, then the parcels of lace, stacked against a rock nearby, would be balanced on top and secured.

As the lace was brought up, Jack let his gaze rise to the cliff overlooking the beach. He’d stationed Kit on the eastern point, but had no idea where she actually was. Doubtless the stubborn woman had made good her threat and moved farther west. She’d attended the meeting in the Old Barn the previous night, slipping in late to stand in the shadows at the back. Immediately after he’d finished detailing tonight’s run, she’d vanished.

He hadn’t been surprised. But he’d be damned if he let her escape him tonight.

Two miles to the west, Kit halted Delia. She’d gone far enough. Time to turn back if she was to meet Jack at the cliff top as ordered. But still she sat, staring, unseeing, westward.

Her stomach was tied in knots. Her nerves wouldn’t settle, fluttering like butterflies every time Jack’s image hove on her mental horizon. His ideas for tonight, as far as she’d allow herself to imagine them, were pure madness, but what she could do to avoid them was more than she could fathom.

She would have to see him, that much was plain. Was there any chance she could talk her way free of his “later”? His words on the ride back from the ill-fated masquerade made it clear he’d read her teasing as encouragement. Kit grimaced. She simply hadn’t realized how much she affected him. Whatever his reasons for reticence, she’d fallen into the trap.

With a tight little sigh, she plotted her course. She would have to explain. As a gently reared woman, she couldn’t—simply could not—consider the alternative.

Light drizzle started to fall, misting Delia’s breath. Kit’s fingers were tightening on the reins to draw the mare about when she heard a jingle.

Followed by another.

Her senses pricked. The hairs on her nape rose. She’d heard that sound before. The heavier clink of a stirrup confirmed her deductions. An instant later she saw them, a whole troop, advancing at a steady canter.

Kit didn’t wait to see more. She took the first path she found down to the sands and let Delia’s reins fall. Her cheeks stung by the flying black mane, she clung to the mare’s neck as the sand sped beneath the black hooves.

Automatically checking the ropes holding the precious cargo in place, Jack passed down the pony train. He’d made sure Kit wouldn’t disappear like a wraith the instant the last pony gained the cliff top by the simple expedient of ordering her to meet him at the head of the path up from the beach—in the presence of half a dozen men. She wasn’t a fool. She wouldn’t risk the instant suspicion that failure to comply with such explicit orders would generate.

He was nearing the end of the pony train, and the men at its head were already mounting, when the reverberation of flying hooves on firm-packed sand brought him instantly alert.

Out of the night, a black horse materialized. Kit. Riding hard. From the west.

By the time she was slowing, so as not to spook the ponies, Jack was already running to the head of the train, where Matthew waited, mounted, Champion’s reins in his hand. The big stallion was shifting, excited by the precipitous arrival of the mare, his huge hooves stamping the sand. Jack threw himself into the saddle as Kit pulled up before him, Delia pawing the air.

“Revenue. From Hunstanton,” Kit gasped. “But they’re still a mile or more away.”

Jack stared at her. A mile or more? She’d been reinterpreting his orders with a vengeance! He shook off the urge to shake her—he’d deal with her insubordination later and enjoy it all the more.

He turned to Shep. “Stow the stuff in the old crypt. Then clear everyone. You’re in charge.” The train had been intended for the Old Barn, but that was impossible now. Kit had given them one chance to get safely away; they had to take it. “The four of us”—his nod indicated Matthew and George as well as Kit—“will draw the Revenue off toward Holme. With luck, they won’t even know you exist.”

Shep nodded his understanding. A minute later, the train moved off, disappearing into the dunes cloaking the eastern headland. They’d go carefully, wending their way under maximum cover close by Brancaster before slipping south to the ruined church. Jack turned to Kit. “Where, exactly?”

“On the cliff, riding close to the edge.”

Her voice, strained with excitement, showed an alarming tendency to rise through the register. Jack hoped George wouldn’t hear it. “Stay by me,” he growled, praying she’d have the sense to do so.

He touched his heels to Champion’s sides and the stallion was off, heading for the path to the cliff top. Delia followed, with Matthew’s and George’s mounts close behind. They swung inland to slip into the protection of the belt of trees running parallel to the cliff’s edge, a hundred yards or more from it. They didn’t have to go far to find the Revenue.

In the shadow of a fir, Jack stood by Champion’s head, his hand clamped over the grey’s nose to stifle any revealing whinny, and watched the Revenue men under his command thunder past like a herd of cattle without thought for stealth or strategy. He shook his head in disbelief and exchanged a pained look with George. As soon as the squad had passed, they remounted.

A sudden hoot from beside her startled Kit as she was settling her boot in the stirrup. She sat bolt upright, only to hear a long-drawn birdcall answer from a few feet away. Then Jack struck his knife blade to his belt buckle, muttering unintelligibly. George and Matthew responded similarly. Kit stared at them.

The retreating drum of the hooves of the Revenue’s horses came to a sudden, somewhat confused halt. Matthew and George continued with their noises while Jack urged Champion to the edge of the trees. The muffled din continued until Jack turned and hissed: “Here they come.”

George and Matthew held silent, watching Jack’s upraised hand. Then his hand dropped. “Now!”

Amid cries of “The Revenue!” they spilled from the trees, heading west. Jack glanced about to find Delia’s black head level with his knee, Kit crouched low over the mare’s neck. His teeth gleamed in a smile. It felt good to be flying before the wind with her at his side.

They made as much noise as a fox hunt in full cry. Initially. When it was clear all the Revenue Officers were in dogged pursuit, floundering behind them, Jack pulled up in the lee of a small hill. Matthew and George brought their mounts to plunging halts beside him; Kit drew Delia to a slow halt some yards farther on. Her muffler had slipped slightly; she didn’t want George or Matthew to see her face. The drizzle was intensifying into rain. A drip from the damp curls clinging to her forehead coursed down to the tip of her nose. Raising her head, she looked east. Low clouds, purple and black, scudded before the freshening wind.

Jack’s voice reached her. “We’ll split up. Kit and I have the faster horses. You two head south. When it’s safe, you can separate and go home.”

“Which way will you head?” George shook the water from his hat and crammed it back on.

Jack’s smile was confident. “We’ll head west on the beach. It won’t take long to lose them.”

With a nod, George turned and, followed by Matthew, slipped into the trees lining the road on the south. They couldn’t head off until the Revenue were drawn away—the fields were too open and clearly visible from the road.

The squad of Revenue men were still out of sight on the other side of the hill. Jack nudged Champion close to Delia. “There’s a path to the beach over there.” He pointed. Kit squinted through the rain. “Where that bush hangs over the cliff. Take it. I’ll follow in a moment.”

Kit resisted the impulse to say she’d wait. His tone was not one to question. She kicked Delia to a canter, swiftly crossing the open area to the cliff’s edge. At the head of the path, she paused to look behind her. The Revenue came around the hill and saw them—she at the cliff, Jack riding hard toward her. He’d dallied to make sure the troop didn’t miss them. With a howl, the Revenue took the bait. Kit sent Delia to the sands, reaching the foot of the path as Champion landed with a slithering thump a few yards away. She’d forgotten that trick of his.

“West!”

At the bellowed order, Kit turned Delia’s head in that direction and dropped the reins. Primed by the tension, the mare obediently went straight to a full gallop, leaving Champion in her wake. Kit grinned through the raindrops streaking her face. Soon enough, the thud of Champion’s hooves settled to a steady beat just behind her, keeping pace between her and their pursuers.

Behind Kit, Jack watched her flying coattails, marveling at the effortless ease of her performance. He’d never seen anyone ride better—together, she and Delia were sheer magic in motion. She held the mare to a long-strided gallop, a touch of pace in reserve. Jack glanced behind him. The Revenue were dwindling shapes on the sand, outdistanced and outclassed.

Jack looked forward, opening his mouth to yell to Kit to turn for the cliff. A blur of movement at the top of the path, the last path before they passed onto the west arm of the anvil-shaped headland above Brancaster, caught his eye. He shook the water from his eyes and stared through the rain.

Hell and confound the man! Tonkin had not only disobeyed orders and come east, but he’d had the sense to split his men into two. He and Kit weren’t leading the Revenue west—they were being herded west. Tonkin’s plan was obvious—push them onto the narrow western headland, then trap them there, a solid cordon of Revenue Officers between them and the safety of the mainland.

Kit, too, had seen the men on the cliff; slowing, she glanced behind her. Champion did not pause; Jack took him forward to keep pace between Delia and the cliff. “Keep on!” he yelled in answer to the question in Kit’s eyes.

“But—”

“I know! Just keep going west.”

Kit glared but did as he said. The man was mad—all very well to keep on, but soon they’d run out of land. She could just make out the place ahead where the cliff abruptly ended. There was only sea beyond it.

Unconcerned by such matters, Jack kept Champion at a full gallop and pondered his new insight into Sergeant Tonkin. Obviously, he’d underestimated the man. He still found it hard to believe Tonkin had had wit enough to devise a trap, let alone put it into practice. It wasn’t going to work, of course—but what could one expect? Tonkin’s net had a very large hole which was one hole too many to trap Captain Jack.

A crack of thunder came out of the east. The heavens opened; rain hit their backs in a drenching downpour. Jack laughed, exhilaration coursing through him. The rain would hinder Tonkin; it would be morning before the sodden Revenue men could be sure the prey had flown their coop.

Kit heard his laughter and stared.

Jack caught her look and grinned. They were still riding hard directly west. The tide was flowing in fast, eating away the beach. On their left, the cliff swept up to a rocky outcrop, then fell to a rock-strewn point. The beach ran out. Kit pulled up. Champion slowed, then was turned toward the rocks.

“Come on.” Jack led, setting Champion to pick his way across the rocky point, waves washing over his heavy hooves. Delia followed, hooves daintily clopping.

Around the point lay a small, sandy cove. Beyond, sweeping southeastward, the beaches on the southern side of the headland gleamed, a pale path leading back to the mainland. But the Revenue would be skulking somewhere in the murk, waiting.

In the lee of the cliffs, the rain fell less heavily. Jack pulled up in the cove; Kit halted Delia alongside Champion. She sat catching her breath, staring through the rain at the headland on the opposite side of the small bay.

“Well? Are you ready?”

Kit blinked and turned to Jack. “Ready?” The sight of his smile, a melding of excitement, laughter and pure devilry, set her nerves atingle. She followed his gaze to the other side of the bay. “You’re joking.” She made the words a statement.

“Why? You’re already soaked to the skin—what’s a little more water?”

He was right, of course; she couldn’t get any wetter. There was, however, one problem. “I can’t swim.”

It was Jack’s turn to stare, memories of their night of near disaster on the yacht vivid in his mind. In a few pithy phrases, he disabused her mind of any claim to sanity, adding his opinion of witless women who went on boats when they couldn’t swim. Kit listened calmly, well acquainted with the argument—it was Spencer’s standard answer to her desire to sail. “Yes, but what are we going to do now?” she asked, when Jack ground to a halt.

Jack scowled, narrowed eyes fixed on the far shore. Then he nudged Champion closer to Delia. Kit felt his hands close about her waist.

“Come here.”

She didn’t have much choice. Jack lifted her across and perched her on Champion’s saddle in front of him. It was a tight fit; Kit felt the butt of Jack’s saddle pistol press into one thigh. He took Delia’s reins and tied them to a ring on the back of Champion’s saddle, then his belt was in his hands. “Hold still.” Peering at her waist, he threaded his belt through hers.

“What are you doing?” Kit twisted about, trying to see.

“Dammit, woman! Hold still. You can wriggle your hips all you like later but not now!”

The muttered words reduced Kit to frozen obedience.
Later.
With all the excitement, she’d forgotten his fixation about later. She swallowed. The moment hardly seemed ripe to start a discussion on that subject. He’d been half-aroused before she’d wriggled; now…

“I’m just making a loop so I can catch hold of you if you slip off.”