Captain Jack's Woman (22 page)

The softening of her body against his, her surrender implied, was all he waited for.

Kit felt his body envelop her, his hard heat both reassuring and exciting. His hands shifted and he backed her up until the table pressed against her thighs. Even in her semidrugged state, intoxicated with the taste of his passion, some small part of her brain was awake enough to register alarm. But before she could think, Jack’s hands shifted. To her breasts, bound beneath her bands. Instantly, Kit felt discomfort which rapidly turned to pain. Her breasts swelled at Jack’s touch; the bands cut into her soft flesh.

Luckily, Jack understood the source of her sudden gasp. He yanked her shirt free of her breeches and pushed it high to expose the linen bands. Kit lifted her arm so he could get at the knot. In a moment, it was undone; seconds later, the bands hit the floor and she breathed again.

Then Jack’s lips found her nipple and her diaphragm seized. A sound halfway between a moan and a gasp was torn from her lips. As his tongue rasped her sensitive flesh, Kit arched into his hands. They fastened about her waist and he lifted her, setting her bottom on the table’s edge, moving with her so that he stood between her wide-spread thighs.

The vulnerability of her position convinced Kit that Jack’s welcome was not going to end with a kiss, or even with a caress, no matter how intimate. She wasn’t entirely sure how he’d do it, but she knew what he intended.

A thrill of sheer delight coursed through her. She shuddered, and knew it drove him on. His lips returned to hers, his tongue instigating a duel of desire. She participated fully, all thought of her purpose drowned beneath the passion that flooded her. Wrapping her arms tight about his neck, she pressed her body to his. She could feel the evidence of his desire, pulsing hard and insistent against the softness of her belly.

When Jack’s hands went to her knees, then skimmed the long muscles of her thighs back to her hips, Kit’s stomach clenched in anticipation. One hand slid between her thighs to cup the mound between, long fingers stroking her through the stuff of her breeches. Kit moaned her displeasure, the sound trapped between them. A familiar heat was beating steady in her veins, a void had opened up deep inside. She needed him to fill her.

She felt Jack’s knowing chuckle, then his hands moved to the buttons of her breeches. For the life of her, Kit couldn’t imagine what he was about. Why not just take her to the bed? But she wasn’t about to start an argument. With the flap open, his hands eased the garment over her hips. He lifted her, tipping her backward on the table, stepping back to draw the breeches to her boots. The boots pulled off easily; the breeches followed, leaving her naked from the waist down, her shirt pushed up to expose her breasts. Leaning back on her elbows, Kit blushed. But she forgot her inhibitions the instant her gaze collided with Jack’s. Silver flames smoldered in his eyes. Sparks of pure passion lit their depths.

Kit watched him straighten, her breath caught in her throat, the sensation of being about to be devoured creeping over her. She shuddered in delicious anticipation and held out one arm to him. He smiled, supremely male, and closed the distance between them, his hands on the buttons of his corded breeches. As he stepped between her thighs, spreading them wide, his manhood sprang free, engorged and fully erect.

Kit’s eyes flew wide, her mind seized, her heartbeat thundered in her ears. He was going to take her here and now—
on the table.

She didn’t have time for so much as a squawk. Jack’s hands fastened about her hips and he drove into her. Kit’s mind clenched in expectation of pain. There was none. Instead, her body welcomed him, arching, drawing him deeper. As Jack withdrew then thrust into her again, seating himself firmly within her, Kit felt the slipperiness that had eased his passage.

She’d been ready for him. She’d wanted him, and her body had known it. He’d known it.

Kit’s eyes glazed as Jack’s thrusts settled to a steady pounding. This was different from last time. The urgency coursing his veins communicated itself to her. She responded instinctively, lifting her hips, tilting them to draw him deeper still. She felt his fingers tighten about her hips. Her lids fell as she eased from her elbows to lie back on the table, her hands fastening on Jack’s forearms, her fingers digging into muscles that flexed as he held her immobile against his repeated invasions.

The fever inside her burgeoned and grew, rapidly overtaking all other sensations. Her whole being was focused on his possession of her, complete and devastating as it was.

“Lift your legs.”

Kit wrapped them about his waist.

Jack groaned and drove into her, wanting every fraction of an inch of penetration he could get. Her body welcomed him with heat and yet more heat, her muscles clenching about him in time with his thrusts.

A blinding explosion rocked Kit. Her body arched; her nails dug deep into Jack’s arms. His response was to lean forward and take one nipple into his mouth. He suckled and she cried out. The waves of sensation abruptly intensified, breaking in a glorious climax to flow as molten passion through her veins. Her throbbing contractions continued long after. They were still with her when Jack reached his own release, spilling his seed deep within her.

Jack drew a shuddering breath and looked down at Kit, spread in wanton abandon before him. She was barely conscious, lying back on the table, struggling to breathe as he was, waiting for some measure of physical ability to return.

He couldn’t resist a smug smile, but it turned to a half grimace as reality intruded. Five days had passed before she’d returned to his side. Once he touched her, she was his, but out of his reach, she was clearly one of those females with a very long fuse. There were ways to shorten that fuse, things he could do to ensure she burned with a passion to match his, not only in intensity, but in frequency, too. He didn’t know where their lives were headed, only that they’d remain inextricably entwined, and, at least for him, the ties went deep. Strengthening the ties that held her to him seemed a good idea.

Kit lay still and waited for Jack to do something. She wasn’t capable of doing anything herself. Her extended climax had drained her, physically and mentally. She remembered she’d come here to talk but couldn’t recall any pressing urgency about the matter. While her flesh still throbbed and he remained inside her, she couldn’t even recall what her point had been.

When he eased from her, Kit opened her eyes. From under weighted lids, she watched as he discarded his clothes. Naked, he came to her, a smile of male triumph on his lips, the expression echoed in his silver eyes. She suspected she should take exception but could only manage a weary smile.

“Come on. Up with you.”

Jack caught her hands and drew her to sit on the edge of the table. While he divested her of her coat and pulled her shirt over her head, Kit wondered how she’d ever be able to face him across this particular table again. All he’d have to do was look at its surface and she’d curl up with embarassment.

To her relief, he swung her up in his arms and headed for the bed, presumably understanding that her legs were as incapacitated as her brain. Kit sighed contentedly when Jack laid her between the sheets. She curled into his arms, entirely at peace.

Beds she could cope with. Tables were something else again.

I
t was a perfect summer night, the air soft and balmy. Kit stood beside Delia close by the cliff, waiting for Captain Jack. A sickle moon rode the purple skies, shedding just enough light to distinguish the huddled shapes a few yards away as men, rather than rocks. Their muffled conversation drifted past Kit’s ears.

Facing the waves, Kit registered their regular ebb and flow, a parody of her confusion. Jack had unleashed all manner of wild longings; they sent her surging forward to some unknown fate. A deep-seated acknowledgment of what was due her position, her loyalty to Spencer, drew her back. Wednesday night had been a disaster. Kit’s lips lifted in a self-deprecatory smile. A delicious disaster, but a disaster nonetheless. She’d intended to convince Jack of the folly of running “human cargoes.” Instead, she’d been convinced of the folly of self-delusion.

No one, not even Amy, had warned her of the fever in her flesh. Of the aching void that, now the way was open, seemed to have grown within her. Her mind longed to recapture that moment of completeness. Her body yearned for the flame to transform her fever to consuming passion. She’d sensed it even after that first night at the cottage—a restlessness, a need she’d tried to ignore and had done her best to stifle. Wednesday night had left her with no alternative but to admit her addiction to Jack’s loving.

Delia shifted, blowing low. Kit peered down the beach but could see nothing. She’d intended to bring up the subject of the spies once she’d recovered from Jack’s amorous welcome. But he’d never let her recover. He’d stirred her awake far too soon; rational conversation had not been his aim. The night had dissolved into an orgy of mutual satisfaction. She couldn’t deny she’d enjoyed it—her pleasure had been his command.

With a grimace, Kit shifted her stance. She might revel in Jack’s attentions, but she wasn’t about to let passion rule her life. Yet the niggling suspicion that Jack had
intended
Wednesday night, certainly the latter half of it, that he’d planned and executed their play like some campaign, had remained, a shadow in her mind. At dawn, he’d helped her dress, his touch deeply unsettling, then he’d saddled Delia. He’d told her of tonight’s run, making it unnecessary for her to attend the meeting last night in the Old Barn.

Naturally, she hadn’t gone, knowing that if she did show her face, she’d be admitting to him her addiction to his company. Instead, she’d gone early to bed. But not to sleep. Half the night had passed in tossing and turning, the fever burning slow and steady and unfulfilled.

Had he purposely drugged her with passion?

The broad shoulders of her nemesis hove into view. Kit watched as he rode up on Champion, George and Matthew, as ever, in attendance. Jack’s silver-grey gaze swept her, the comprehensive glance followed by a fleeting smile. He dismounted, and the men milled about him.

Kit waited until the men moved to their positions, George and Matthew with them, before stepping forward. “Where do you want me tonight?”

Immediately, she bit her tongue. Jack had been glancing down the beach; at her words, his head swung about, an arrested expression on his face. For one fractured minute, she thought he’d answer with the words in his mind.

Jack was sorely tempted. The sound of her husky tones confidently voicing such a query sent a spasm of sheer desire through his veins. But he clamped a lid on that particular pot and set it aside to simmer. A slow, infinitely devilish smile twisted his lips. “I’ll think about it for the next hour or two. I’ll tell you my decision later—at the cottage.”

Kit wished she could say something to wipe the smug expression from his face.

“But for now,” Jack continued, suddenly brisk, “I need you on lookout. Wherever you like, since you won’t obey my orders.”

Kit tilted her chin. She turned and set her foot in her stirrup, pointedly getting on with her business.

The large hand that caressed her bottom shattered her complacency. After one leisurely circuit, it boosted her up to her saddle. Kit landed with a gasp. In daylight, her glare would have fried him. In moonlight, he stood, hands on hips, a patronizing expression on his face and gave her back arrogant stare for stare.

Sheer fury seared Kit’s veins. She clamped her lips shut and hauled on Delia’s reins. If she gave vent to her feelings here and now, her disguise would be blown past redemption.

Once on the cliff, she found a position overlooking Jack’s operations and dismounted. Too furious to sit still, she paced back and forth, twitching her gloves between her hands, her gaze on the beach, her temper on the boil.

Exclamations crowded her brain.
How dare he?
seemed far too mild. Besides, she knew how he dared—he knew damn well she wasn’t strong enough to withstand attack on that front, damn his silver eyes! If she didn’t need to know about the spies, she’d never come near him again. But she’d been through all the arguments, assessed all the alternatives. Until she had some facts, a run date for instance, there was no point in revealing her masquerade. If Spencer heard of it, he’d forbid her to continue, and then they’d never stop the spies.

Anger was not the only emotion coursing through her. Kit shivered with reaction. Damn the man—if she’d needed any confirmation he’d planned Wednesday night’s activities, that knowing caress had provided it. He’d purposely lit the fires of sensual pleasure in her flesh, so it would take just a caress to stir them to life. Kit ground her teeth and kicked a rock out of her way.

He was too damned sure of himself! He was too damned sure of her.

The run proceeded smoothly, as all Jack’s enterprises did. Kit watched, mulling over that fact. Jack’s cottage was on Lord Hendon’s land. And Lord Hendon had conveniently sent Sergeant Osborne to patrol the Sheringham beaches and Sergeant Tonkin to watch the shores of the Wash. A cynic might imagine there was a connection.

Kit snorted. The only real connection would be that Lord Hendon, like all the surrounding gentry, tolerated the smugglers. But not the spies. On that point, Jack had stepped beyond the line.

As the ponies headed for the cliff, Kit rose and caught Delia’s trailing reins. She mounted and urged the mare into the trees lining the first field. From there, she watched until the last of the pack train emerged from the cliff path. Then, before the grey stallion appeared, Kit turned Delia’s head for Cranmer Hall and dropped her hands.

She kept the mare to a steady gallop, the black hooves eating the miles. When the shadow of the Hall loomed out of the dark, Kit uttered a small whoop and sent Delia flying over the stable paddock fence.

Safe home. She’d escaped Jack’s trap, for one night at least. A fever might be the price she’d have to pay, but she’d pay gladly. Aside from anything else, it was safer this way.

Jack and his swaggering arrogance could spend the night alone.

On Sunday afternoon, after spending a virtuous morning at church, then presiding over the luncheon table, Kit sat Delia in the shadow of the trees facing Jack’s cottage, her confidence at an all-time low. Distrustful of her reasons for being there, uncertain of her chances of success, she bit her lip and eyed the closed door. There was nothing to tell her if the cottage was inhabited or not.

If she sat still for long and Champion was in the stable, the stallion would sense Delia’s presence and neigh, destroying any advantage surprise might otherwise give her. If she sat still for much longer, her courage would desert her and she’d turn tail for home. Kit directed Delia in an arc about the clearing. She approached the stable and dismounted, then led Delia inside.

Champion’s huge grey rump loomed out of the dimness.

Kit stopped, not sure if she felt relieved, excited, or dismayed. The stallion’s head came around; Kit took Delia to the stall alongside. After tethering the mare, she debated whether to unsaddle or not. In the end, she did, refusing to acknowledge the action implied anything at all about her intentions, much less her hopes. She rubbed the mare down, ears pricked to detect any sound of approaching danger.

She knew why she was there—she needed to mend her fences with Jack; he was her only reliable source of information on the spies. Her wilder self jeered; Kit strangled it. There might be other reasons she’d ridden this way, but she wasn’t ready to acknowledge them—not in daylight. Her innards were in a dreadful state; trepidation walked her nerves. She’d never felt like this before, not even when admitting to riding Spencer’s favorite stallion at the age of ten. Spencer’s rages had no power to make her quiver. The thought of how Jack would look when next she saw him, in a few minutes, did.

How would he welcome her this time?

The thought stopped her in her tracks as she headed for the stable door. She almost turned back to resaddle Delia. But her reason for being here resurfaced. She couldn’t walk away from “human cargo.” Kit set her jaw. With a determined stride, she made for the cottage door.

Kit paused with her hand on the latch, swept by the sense of being about to enter a potentially dangerous animal’s lair. The cold iron of the latch sent a thrill through her fingers. Her whole being vibrated with anticipation. In truth, she wasn’t sure where the danger lay—with him? Or with herself?

Inside the cottage, Jack lay sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed, his hands locked behind his head. He stared at the ceiling.

How long would it be before it got to her? How long before she came to find him?

He gave a disgruntled snort; his brows lowered. When he’d embarked on his scheme to embed passionate longing firmly beneath Kit’s satiny skin, he’d overlooked the inevitable effect such an undertaking would have on his own lustful appetites. Since Wednesday night, he’d been ravenous. And, thanks to Kit, he hadn’t been able to sate his hunger. No other woman would do. He’d retired to the cottage, to brood on his desire.

He wanted
her
—Kit—the redheaded houri in breeches.

When he stroked her, she purred. When he mounted her, she arched wildly. And later, when their passion was spent, she curled into his side like a small cream-and-ginger cat. His very own kitten.

His very own pedigree kitten. When it came to making love, she was an aristocrat, no matter what her breeding. Her performances to date had been eye-opening, particularly to one of his experience. He’d thought he’d known all there was to know of women; she’d proved him wrong. The feigned responses of the gilded whores of the
ton
had always bored him. Kit’s naturalness, her sincere enjoyment of their play despite the underlying prudery behind her occasional shocked protests, entranced him. He’d been able to turn her protests into moans with satisfying regularity.

With a stifled groan, Jack stretched his arms and legs, trying to ease the tension locked in the heavy muscles. His frown converted to a scowl. Twenty-four hours had been too long for him—seventy-two had been hell. The fact that she could deal with this particular disease better than he could was a severe blow to his male pride.

The latch on the door eased upward.

Instantly, Jack was alert, half-sitting before his mind took control and stilled his instinctive reaction. His impulse was to cross silently to stand behind the door. But if his visitor was Kit, he might scare her witless by appearing beside her so unexpectedly.

The door swung slowly inward. The shadow of a slender figure, topped by a tricorne, fell on the floor. Jack relaxed. He permitted himself a smug smile, then the memory of the past seventy-two hours intruded. He’d no guarantee she’d come to alleviate his discomfort. His expression bland, he settled back on the pillows.

Kit scanned the area revealed by the open door. Jack was not at the table. Swallowing her nervousness, she took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. She paused by the door, one hand on the edge of the worn wooden panel, and forced herself to look at the bed.

There he lay, sprawled full-length on the covers, arrogant male inscribed on every line of his tautly muscled frame. Watching her. With a distinctly predatory gleam in his silver eyes.

Kit’s breath suspended; her mouth went dry. She felt her eyes grow larger and larger.

Jack read her state in her eyes and knew precisely why she’d come. The news sent his senses soaring, but he clamped down on them before they addled his wits. His body had tensed with the instinctive urge to rise and go to her, to sweep her into his arms and crush her lips, her breasts, her hips, to his. But if he did, what would happen next?

The door was midway between the bed and the table, not particularly close to either. Judging by his last effort in welcoming her, they’d probably end up on the floor. While he had nothing against
al fresco
intercourse, he hadn’t been particularly proud of his lack of control in taking her on the table. He didn’t know what she’d made of the experience, but he’d seen the red patches on her buttocks later. And felt hideously guilty. Too often he’d ended giving her bruises, however unintentionally. Some, like the marks his fingers left in the soft curves of her hips, were unavoidable, given she bruised easily. But he didn’t need to add to them through lack of thought.

“Bolt the door.” He tried to keep the raw passion pulsing his veins from coloring his tone and only partially succeeded.

Kit’s eyes grew rounder still. Her limbs felt heavy as, her gaze trapped in Jack’s silver stare, she moved slowly to obey. Her fingers fumbled and she dragged her eyes from his. The bolt slid home with a metallic thud. Slowly, she turned back to face him, expecting to see him rising.

He hadn’t moved. “Come here.”

Kit considered that carefully. She might be mesmerized; she wasn’t witless. But she was caught, very firmly, in the sensual web he’d woven with such consumate skill, her pulse already increasing in anticipation of what was to come. Acknowledging the inevitable, she placed one foot before the other. Slowly, warily, she approached the bed.

“Stop.” The gravelly command halted her a yard from the end of the bed. “Take off your hat and coat.”