Captain Jack's Woman (25 page)

For that, of course, was the crowning glory of George’s revelations. As Miss Kathryn Cranmer, Kit was more than eligible for the vacant post of Lady Hendon. And after their recent activities, there was no possibility he’d let her slip through his net. He had her right where he wanted her—in more ways than one. After tonight’s run, he’d call on Spencer. Between them, they’d settle the future of one redheaded houri.

A smile of pleasant anticipation suffused Jack’s face.

George saw it and sighed heavily. “From that besotted look, I take it affairs between you and Kit have gone a lot farther than I’d feel happy about?”

Jack grinned beatifically.

“Christ!” George ran one hand through his dark hair. “Stop grinning. What the hell do you plan to do about it?”

Jack blinked. His grin faded. “Don’t be a fool. I’ll marry the damned woman, of course.”

George just stared, too astounded to say anything.

Jack swallowed his irritation that George should have entertained any other option. That George had thought
he’d
entertain any other option. It was all Kit’s fault. Any woman running about in breeches was fair game. At least only George knew who she was. Then it hit him. “When did you guess she was a woman?”

George blinked, then shrugged. “A week or so ago.”

Puzzled, Jack asked: “What gave her away?” He’d thought Kit’s disguise particularly good.

“You, mostly,” George absentmindedly replied.

“What do you mean—me?”

Jack’s aggressive tone recaptured George’s attention. Briefly, he grinned. “The way you behaved toward Kit led to only one conclusion. Which I’ll be bound the rest of the Gang jumped to. Matthew and I know you rather better. Which made us wonder about Kit.”

“Humph!” Jack took a swig of his brandy. Had any of the others guessed? Now she’d assumed the title of his future wife, he felt much more critical of Kit’s wildness. He wasn’t at all sure he approved of her having the nerve to do such outrageous things. It didn’t auger well for a peaceful married life.

Jack glanced up to find the shadows deepening. The run was scheduled for immediately after nightfall. He hoped Kit would turn up. Now that he understood what a prize she was, he wanted her safe in his keeping. Quite how he’d handle her return to Cranmer and the inevitable interview with Spencer he hadn’t yet decided. But he wanted her with him tonight.

He wanted to give her a piece of his mind, apologize, propose, and make love to her.

The order was beyond him; he’d leave that in the hands of the gods.

A
brisk northeasterly was whipping along the cliffs by the time Kit reached the coast. Dark clouds scudded before the moon. In the fitful light, she found the Hunstanton Gang already unloading their boats, the ponies lined up on the sands. The surf ran high; the crash of waves cloaked the scene in noise. As she watched, a light drizzle started to fall.

Squinting through the damp veil, Kit spotted Jack’s lookout. The man was perched on a hillock commanding a fair view of the area. Her approach had been screened by wind-twisted trees, but he’d be unlikely to miss any larger mass of horsemen.

Staring at the boats, Kit picked out the figure of Captain Jack, tall and broad-shouldered, wading through the surf, a keg under each arm. The sight brought no comfort to her tortured brain.

What was she to do? Last night had passed in agonized self-argument as she sifted the possibilities, considered every avenue. In the end, everything had hinged on one point—did she really believe Jack was involved in spying himself? The answer was a definite, unshakable, albeit unsubstantiated, No. Given that, she’d concluded that speaking to Lord Hendon was the only safe way forward.

Jack had admitted a connection with the High Commissioner, one that presumably involved supplying brandy to the Castle cellars. Hopefully, his powerful benefactor would be able to succeed where she had failed and force sense through Jack’s skull. She couldn’t believe Lord Hendon would condone smuggling spies; she felt confident she could make him understand that Jack was not personally involved, just misguided.

But Lord Hendon had not been at home. She’d whipped up her courage and gone to the Castle on her afternoon ride. The head groom had been apologetic. Lord Hendon had left the house early; it was not known when he’d return.

She’d gone back to Cranmer even more worried than when she’d set out. She’d have to make sure she spoke to Lord Hendon soon, or her courage would desert her. Or Jack would catch her and tie her to his headboard.

His threat had forced her to face reality. Ever since their liaison had gone beyond the innocent, she’d been battling her conscience. Guilt now sat on her shoulders, a heavy and constant weight. She’d lost all chance of making a respectable match, a fact that caused her no regret, but she knew how saddened Spencer would be if he ever learned of it. Jack’s hold over her, over her senses, was strong, but she was too wise to let it go on. Disaster skulked the hedges of that road—she knew it well enough.

So here she was, watching over Jack’s operations in the hope of following the next spy he brought in. If she could find the next connection, she could give that to Lord Hendon as a place where official scrutiny could start, avoiding any mention of Jack and the Hunstanton Gang. It was one thing to hold to the high road and condemn men for running spies. It was another to betray men she knew to the hangman. She couldn’t do it.

There were some among the Gang she wouldn’t trust an inch, but they were not true villains. Misled, badly influenced, they might commit foul deeds, but ever since she’d known them they’d behaved as reasonable beings, if not honest ones. They’d done nothing to deserve death. Other than assist the spies.

The drizzle intensified. A raindrop slid under her tricorne and coursed sluggishly down her neck. Kit shifted and glanced west, toward Holme.

The sight that met her eyes tensed every muscle. Delia, alerted, lifted her head to stare at a small troop of Revenue Officers picking their way along the cliffs. Another hundred yards and they’d see the activity on the beach.

Strangling her curses, Kit swung to stare at Jack’s lookout. Surely he could see them? A small spurt of flame was her answer, followed by the noise of a shot, instantly drowned by the waves’ roar. She heard the shot, but it was immediately apparent that neither Jack and his men, nor the Revenue troop, had. Both parties proceeded as before, unperturbed.

“Oh, God.” Kit sat Delia in an agony of indecision. There was no way the lookout, scrambling from his perch, could get close enough to warn the men on the beach before the Revenue were upon them. Men on foot stood no chance against mounted troops armed with sabers and pistols. Her choice was clear. She could warn the Gang, or sit and watch their destruction.

Delia broke from the cover of the trees and went straight to the head of the nearest cliff path. In seconds, they were down, then flying over the sands toward the men by the boats.

Jack took another keg from Noah and waded slowly ashore. The tide was running high, the sands shifting underfoot. Spray and spume blotted out the cliffs; the roar of the waves drowned all other sounds. But the frown on Jack’s face was not due to the conditions. He was worried about Kit.

Not even George knew of her threat to disrupt the Gang’s activities; that information put her life in too much danger to be shared, even with his closest friend. But the sense that a storm was edging closer, that fate was closing in, on him and on her, was intensifying with each passing hour. And he didn’t know where she was, much less what she was doing.

Matthew had arrived from the Castle with the disturbing news that she’d been there, but slipped through his net. The fact that she’d had the strength of purpose to try to see Lord Hendon was causing him grave concern. Unable to see the High Commissioner, would she take her information elsewhere? Jack hefted the keg to the back of a pony, wishing he could shrug off his worries as easily.

A black blur at the edge of his vision had him swinging around. He recognized Kit instantly. Equally instant came recognition of the reason for her speed. The storm was about to break.

His bellowed command saw all hands double pace, securing the last of the kegs, men scrambling aboard the lead ponies. The desperate struggle to clear the beach was already under way as he and George ran to the end of the line, to where Kit would pull up.

Kit saw them waiting, Jack’s hands open at his sides, ready to catch Delia’s bridle and quiet the excited mare. Abruptly, she pulled up ten yards away, out of their reach.

Jack swore and stepped forward.

Instantly, Kit pulled Delia back on her haunches, sharp black hooves flailing the air. When Jack stopped, she let Delia down but kept the reins tight. “Revenue. Only six. They’ll be around the bluff any minute!” She had to scream over the sound of the waves.

Jack nodded curtly. “Go east!”

If there was any question as to the absolute nature of the bellowed command, his arm, pointing toward Brancaster, dispelled it. But Kit could see they’d never make it off the beach in time; the Revenue were too close.

A cry on the wind drew all eyes to the bluff. The troopers came tumbling over the ridge, their horses slithering through the sand dunes.

Kit looked back at the smugglers. The boats were pulling out; the ponies were almost ready to go. Matthew had left to get the horses. Five minutes would see them all safe. Her eyes locked with Jack’s. He read her decision in that instant and lunged for her reins. Kit moved faster. She sprang Delia. West.

“Christ!” George joined Jack, staring aghast at Kit’s dwindling figure. “She’ll never make it!”

“She will,” Jack ground out. “She has to,” he added, under his breath.

The black streak that was Kit hugged the line of the waves, as far from the cliff as possible. The troopers saw her flying toward them and checked at the cliff foot. When it became clear she would pass them by, they milled uncertainly, then, with a bellow to stand, they set off to intercept her. But they’d misjudged Delia’s speed and left it too late. Kit swept past and on toward Holme. With cries and curses, the Revenue charged in pursuit.

Biting back a curse, Jack swung and roared his orders, setting the men on their way. Soon, he and George were the only ones left standing. Matthew arrived with the horses; vaulting to the saddle, Jack yelled: “She’ll have to go inland before Holme.” Then Champion surged.

Jack leaned over Champion’s neck, holding the grey to a wicked pace, trying, over the pounding of his heart, to take stock. Had Kit tipped off the Revenue, then changed her mind at the last minute?

The thought twisted through him, a sour serpent sowing seeds of doubt. Abruptly, he shook it aside. Kit had drawn the Revenue off at her own expense and was now in considerable danger. He’d concentrate on saving her satin hide first; learning the truth could come later.

Jack forced his mind to business. Kit was not well-versed in pursuit and evasion; on the other hand, Delia was the fastest thing on four legs this side of the Channel. But Holme, on its rocky promontory that blocked the beach, was close; Kit could not lose the Revenue before running out of beach. She’d have to go inland, taking to the fields or heading on to the west coast.

The drizzle intensified. Jack welcomed the sting of rain on his face. He swore, volubly, comprehensively, his gut clenched, the chill of doom in his veins. They’d started well behind the Revenue. When they sighted the promontory, the beach between them was deserted. Jack rode to where a well-worn cliff path led up from the beach. He drew rein where the path narrowed as it turned up the cliff. The sand was freshly and deeply churned. Jack drew his pistol and signaled to George and Matthew before sending Champion quietly up the path. There was no one at the top. Jack dismounted and studied the ground; George and Matthew rode in wide arcs.

“This way,” George called softly. “Looks like the whole troop.”

Jack remounted and walked Champion to view the barren stretch of track leading west. When he raised his head, his expression was grim. Kit had taken her pursuers as far from the Hunstanton Gang’s field of operations as possible. She was making for the beach north of Hunstanton, to head south along the wide stretches of pale sand at a pace the Revenue could never match. Doubtless, she thought to come up to the cliffs somewhere near Heacham or Snettisham, to disappear into the fields and coppices of the Cranmer estate.

It was a good plan, as far as it went. There was just one snag. With his sense of doom pressing blackly upon him, Jack prayed that, for the first time in his life, his premonition would be wrong.

Without a word, he set his heels to Champion’s sides.

Far ahead, on the pale swathes of sand lapped by the waves of the Wash, Kit hugged Delia’s neck and flew before the wind. Once she was sure the Revenue had followed her, she’d watched her pace, holding back so they remained in sight, held firm to their purpose by her bobbing figure forever before them. She’d had to pull up on the cliff top near Holme, letting them get close enough to see her clearly. Like obedient puppies, they’d followed, noses glued to her trail as she’d led them onto the beach above Hunstanton. Now that they were too far from Brancaster to give Jack and his crew any trouble, she was intent on losing them and heading for the safety of home.

Delia’s long stride ate the miles. Kit saw the indentation that marked the track up to Heacham just ahead. She checked Delia and looked behind her.

There was no sign of her pursuers.

Kit threw back her head and laughed, exhilaration pumping through her veins. Her laughter echoed back from the cliffs, startling her into silence. Here in the Wash, the waves were far gentler cousins of the surf pounding the north coast. All was relatively silent, relatively serene. Shaking off a shiver of apprehension, Kit sent Delia toward the track to Heacham.

She’d almost reached the foot of the track when a horde of horsemen broke cover, pouring over the cliff, another group of Revenue men, barking orders she barely heard. A spurt of flame glowed in the night.

A searing pain tore through her left shoulder.

Delia reared. Instinctively, Kit wrenched her south. The mare went straight to a gallop; the reins slack, Delia lengthened her stride, quickly travelling beyond pistol range. The Revenue Officers howled in pursuit.

Kit was deaf to their noise.

Grimly, she hung on, her fingers laced into Delia’s mane, the stringy black hair whipping her cheek as she laid her head against the glossy neck. Delia’s hooves pounded the sand, carrying her southward.

Jack, George, and Matthew caught up with the small Revenue troop on the beach south of Hunstanton. The Officers had given up the unequal chase. They milled about, disgruntled and disappointed, then re-formed and headed for the track up from the beach.

Concealed in the shadows of the cliff, Jack heaved a sigh of relief.

A shot rang out, echoing eerily over the water.

Jack’s blood chilled. Under his breath, he swore. Kit had been hit—he was sure of it.

The Revenue troop also heard the shot. Instead of heading for home, they wheeled and cantered along the sands. Once they gained sufficient lead, Jack gave the signal to follow.

Battling faintness and a white haze of pain, Kit struggled to focus on what she should do. The hot agony in her shoulder was draining her strength. If she stayed on the sands, Delia would keep on until she fell from the saddle. As each stride the mare took pushed fiery needles into her shoulder, that wouldn’t be long delayed. And then the Revenue would have her.

Spencer’s image rose in her mind; Kit gritted her teeth. She had to get off the beach.

As if in answer to her prayer, the small track leading up the cliffs to Snettisham appeared before her. Gasping with the effort, Kit turned Delia into the narrow opening. The mare took the climb without further direction.

Waves of cold darkness welled about her; Kit fought them back. She rode with knees and hands, the reins dangling uselessly about Delia’s neck. It was all Kit could do to discern the direction of the quarries and head Delia toward them.

In her wake, her pursuers came on, noisily clamoring for her blood, all but baying their enthusiasm.

A cold, shrouding mist closed in. Kit hugged Delia’s glossy neck, her cheek against the warm wet hide. She tugged her muffler away from her dry lips and struggled to draw breath. Even that hurt.

The mouth of the quarries loomed out of the dark. Obedient to her weak tug, Delia slowed. Using her knees, Kit guided the mare into the quarries. If she could rest for a while and gather her strength, then Cranmer was not far away.