Captain Jack's Woman (26 page)

Delia walked among the jumbled rocks, hoofbeats muffled by the matted grass covering the disused tracks. Kit’s cheek rose and fell with each stride. There was blackness all around, cold and deep, empty and painless. She could feel it enshrouding her. Kit focused on the black gloss of Delia’s hide. Black rushed in and filled her senses. Black engulfed her. Black.

The scene Jack, George, and Matthew finally came upon was farcical. The Revenue troop had kept to the beach as far as the Heacham trail, then had gone up to the cliff top and continued south; they had followed quietly. The noise emanating from Snettisham drove them to pull away and enter the tiny village from the east, keeping within cover.

The place was in an uproar. The villagers had been woken and turned out of their houses; a large troop of Revenue men was searching the premises.

Jack, George and Matthew sat their mounts in stunned disbelief. One glance was enough to convince them that Kit and Delia were not present. With a contemptuous snort, Jack pulled Champion about. They retreated to a shadowy coppice separated by a field from the activity around Snettisham.

George drew his chestnut up beside Champion. “She must have got away.”

Jack sat still and tried to believe it, waiting for the explanation to unlock the vise that fear had clamped about his heart. Finally, he sighed. “Possibly. You two go home. I’ll check if she’s got back to Cranmer.”

George shook his head. “No. We’ll stick with you until all’s clear. How will you know if she’s already got in?”

“There’s a way into the stables. If Delia’s there, Kit’s home.” The memory of how the mare had stayed by Kit when he’d brought her down on the sands so many moons ago was reassuring. “Delia won’t leave Kit.”

George grunted, turning his horse toward Cranmer Hall.

Reaching the stables was no problem; ascertaining Delia’s presence in the dark took much longer. Twenty minutes after he’d left them, Jack rejoined George and Matthew outside the stable paddock, his grim face telling them his news.

“Not there?” George asked.

Jack shook his head.

“You think she’s been shot?” It was Matthew, lugubrious as ever, who put their thoughts into words.

Jack drew a tense breath, then let out a short sigh. “Yes. If not, she’d be here.”

“She lost them at Snettisham, so presumably she’s somewhere between there and here.”

George jumped when Jack thumped his shoulder.

“That’s it!” Jack hissed. “Snettisham quarries. That’s where she’ll have gone to earth.”

As they swung up to their saddles, George grimaced. Snettisham quarries were enormous, new digs jostling with old. Neither he nor Jack knew them well; Snettisham was too far from Castle Hendon to have been one of their playgrounds. Not so for the Cranmers; Snettisham was on their doorstep. Finding an injured Cranmer in the quarries was going to take time, time Kit might not have.

George had reckoned without Champion. They returned to Snettisham to find the Revenue gone and the village quiet. At the mouth of the quarries, Jack let Champion have his head. The big grey ambled forward, stopping now and then to snuff the air. George wondered at Jack’s patience, then caught a glimpse of his face. Jack was wound tight, more tense and grim than George had ever seen him.

Champion led them deep into a section of old diggings. Suddenly, the stallion surged. Jack drew rein, holding the grey back. Sliding to the ground, Jack quieted the great beast and signaled for George and Matthew to dismount. Puzzled, they did, then they heard the muttering coming from around the next bend in the track.

Matthew took the horses, nodding at Jack’s silent direction to muzzle Champion. George followed Jack to the bend in the track.

His saddle pistol in one hand, Jack stood in the shadow of a rock and eased forward until he could see the next stretch. Moonlight silvered the hunched shoulders of Sergeant Tonkin, shuffling along, eyes on the ground, his mount ambling disinterestedly behind him.

“I swear we hit ’im. Can’t be wrong.
Must’ve
at least winged ’im.”

Still muttering, Tonkin followed the track on. A large opening to one side drew his attention. Abruptly he stopped muttering and disappeared through it.

Jack and George slid silently in his wake.

A clearing lay before them. At the far end, the entrance to an old tunnel loomed like the black mouth of hell. Before it, as black as the blackest shadow, stood Delia, head up, ears pricked. At Delia’s feet lay a rumpled form, stretched out and silent.

“I knew it!” Tonkin crowed. He dropped his reins and raced forward. Delia shied; Tonkin waved his hands to ward off the skittish animal. Reaching the still figure, he grabbed the old tricorne and tugged it off.

Moonlight played on a pale face, haloed in red curls.

Tonkin stared. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

With that, he slipped into peaceful oblivion, rendered insensible by the impact of Jack’s pistol butt on the back of his skull.

Swearing, Jack shoved Tonkin aside and fell on his knees beside Kit. With fingers that shook, he searched for the pulse at her throat. The beat was there, weak but steady. Jack drew a ragged breath. Briefly, he closed his eyes, opening them as George knelt on Kit’s other side. She was lying on her stomach; with George’s help, Jack turned her onto her back.

“Christ!” George blanched. The front of Kit’s shirt was soaked in blood. The hole in her shoulder still bled sluggishly.

Jack gritted his teeth against the cold spreading through him; chill fingers clutched his heart. His face a stony mask, he lifted Kit’s coat from the wound, fighting to conquer his shock and respond professionally. He had tended wounded soldiers often enough; the wound was serious but not necessarily fatal. However, the ball had lodged deep in Kit’s soft flesh.

Turning, Jack called Matthew. “Go for Dr. Thrushborne. I don’t care what you have to do but get him to Cranmer Hall as fast as possible.”

Matthew grunted and went.

Jack and George packed the wound, padding it with the sleeves torn from their shirts and securing it with their neckerchiefs. Kit had already lost a dangerous amount of blood.

“What now?” George sat back on his heels.

“We take her to Cranmer. Thrushborne can be trusted.” Jack rose and clicked his fingers at Delia. The mare hesitated, then slowly approached. “I’ll have to tell Spencer the truth.”

“All of the truth?” George clambered to his feet. “Is that wise?”

Jack rubbed a fist across his forehead and tried to think. “Probably not. I’ll tell him as much as I have to. Enough to explain things.” He tied Delia’s reins to Champion’s saddle.

“What about Tonkin? He saw too much.”

Jack cast a malevolent glance at the Sergeant’s inanimate form. “Much as I’d like to remove him from this earth, his disappearance would cause too many ripples.” His jaw set. “We’ll have to convince him he was mistaken.”

George said no more; stooping, he lifted Kit into his arms.

Jack swung up to Champion’s saddle, then, leaning down, took Kit’s limp form from George. Carefully, he cradled her against his chest, tucking her head into his shoulder. He looked at George, a worried frown on his face. “I’ll need you to get into Cranmer. After that, you’d better go home.” A weak, weary smile, a parody of Captain Jack’s usual ebullience, showed through his concern, then faded. “I’ve enough to answer for without you added to the bill.”

T
he ride to Cranmer Hall was the longest two miles Jack had ever traveled. Kit remained unconscious, a minor mercy. To have her severely wounded was bad enough; to be forced to watch her bear the pain would have been torture. His guilt ran deep, increasing with every stride Champion took. His fear for Kit was far worse, dragging at his mind, threatening to cloak reason with black despair.

At least he now knew she hadn’t betrayed them. If Tonkin had received word that his “big gang” was running a cargo that night, the whole Hunstanton Office would have been on the northern beaches. Instead, it seemed he’d set a small troop to patrol the area of his obsession. They’d just struck lucky.

Cranmer Hall rose out of the dark. Kit’s home slumbered amid darkened gardens, peaceful and secure. Jack stopped before the front steps. With Kit in his arms, he slid from the saddle. George tied his chestnut to a bush by the drive, then hurried to catch Champion’s reins.

“Once I’m inside, take him around to the stables before you go.”

George nodded and led the grey aside.

Jack climbed the steps and waited before the heavy oak doors for George to join him. When he did, Jack, his face impassive, nodded at the large brass knocker in the middle of the door. “Wake them up.”

George grimaced and did. The pounding brought footsteps flying. Bolts were thrown back; the heavy doors swung inward. George melted into the shadows at the bottom of the steps. Jack strode boldly over the threshold.

“Your mistress has had an accident.” Jack searched the four shocked male faces before him, settling on the oldest and most dignified as being the best candidate for Cranmer’s butler. “I’m Lord Hendon. Wake Lord Cranmer immediately. Tell him his granddaughter has been wounded. I’ll explain as soon as I’ve taken her upstairs. Which is her room?” During this exchange, he walked confidently toward the stairs. Turning back, brows lifting impatiently, he prayed the butler would hold true to his profession and not panic.

Jenkins rose to the challenge. “Yes, m’lord.” He drew a deep breath. “Henry here will show you Miss Kathryn’s room. I’ll send up her maid immediately.”

Jack nodded, relieved he wouldn’t have to deal with dithering servants. “I’ve sent my man for Dr. Thrushborne. He should arrive soon.” He started up the stairs, Henry hurrying ahead, holding a candelabrum aloft to light the way.

Jenkins followed. “Very good, m’lord. I’ll have one of the men watch out for him. I’ll inform Lord Cranmer of the matter directly.”

Jack nodded and followed Henry down a dark corridor deep into one of the wings. The footman stopped by a door near its end and set it wide.

Worried by the chilled dampness of Kit’s clothes, Jack’s eyes went immediately to the fireplace. “Get the fire going. Fast as you can.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Henry bent to the task.

Jack crossed to the four-poster bed. Kneeling on the white coverlet, he gently placed Kit upon it, carefully easing his arms from under her then arranging the pillows beneath her head, pulling the bolster around to cushion her injured shoulder. Then he stood back.

And tried to hold his thoughts at bay. He’d experienced war firsthand; he’d nearly perished twice. But the mind-numbing fear that threatened to possess him now was beyond anything he’d previously felt. The idea that Kit might not live he blanked from his mind; that was a possibility he could not face. Drawing an unsteady breath, he fought to focus his mind on the here and now, on the tasks immediately before him. The next hours would be crucial. Kit had to live. And she had to be protected from the consequences of her actions. First things first. He had to get her out of her wet clothes.

Jack turned to survey Henry’s handiwork. The fire blazed in the grate, throwing light and warmth into the room. “Good. Now go shake that maid awake.”

Henry’s eyes grew round. “Elmina?”

Jack frowned. “Miss Kathryn’s maid.” He nodded a curt dismissal, wondering what was wrong with Elmina.

Henry swallowed and looked doubtful, but went.

Jack paced before the fire, rubbing sensation and strength back into his arms. When Elmina failed to materialize, he swore and returned to Kit’s side. Carefully, he untied their makeshift bandage. The wound had stopped bleeding. He started the difficult task of easing Kit from her wet clothes.

He’d removed her coat and was fumbling with the laces of her shirt when the door behind him opened and shut. Quick footsteps and stiffly swishing skirts approached.

“Man Dieu! Ma pauvre petite! Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?”

Jack blinked at the torrent of French that followed hard on the heels of that beginning. He stared at the small dark-haired woman who appeared on the other side of the bed to lean over Kit, laying a hand on her forehead. Then she noticed what he was doing and slapped furiously at his hands.

Jack recoiled from the ferocious attack and her equally ferocious words. Glancing toward the end of the bed, he saw two young maids hovering uncertainly. From their blank looks, Jack surmised they couldn’t understand French. The virago, presumably Elmina, was dividing her time between verbally wringing her hands over Kit and hurling insults at him. What loosely translated as “black-guard” and “mountebank” were the least of them.

When Elmina bustled around and tried to shoo him from the room, Jack came to his senses.
“Silence!”
He spoke smoothly in French. “Cease your wailing, woman! We need to get her into something dry immediately.” Jack leaned back over Kit and started on her laces again. His idiomatic French had set Elmina back on her heels. “We’ll need bandages and hot water. Can you manage that?”

His sarcasm flicked Elmina to attention. She drew a fulminating breath; Jack looked at her and imperiously lifted one brow. Elmina’s glance fell to the still figure on the bed, then she swung about and addressed the two maids. “Ella—get all the old sheets you can find. Ask Mrs. Fogg. Emily—run to the kitchen and fetch the kettle. And tell Cook to prepare some gruel.”

Jack shook his head. “She won’t be able to eat. Not until we get the bullet out of her.”

“Man Dieu!
It’s still there?”

The last lace unraveled. Jack looked up into Elmina’s black eyes, pieces of coal in a face pale with anxiety. Despite her sprightly movements, she was a lot older than he’d expected. And, judging from her tirade, hellishly protective of Kit. How had his kitten escaped this mother cat? “Your mistress is lucky to be alive. She’s going to need help to stay alive. Now help me get this off her.” He pulled his sharp knife from its sheath in his boot and quickly slit the shirt. “Come around here. Bring that towel with you.”

Picking up the small towel lying folded on Kit’s washstand, Elmina hurried to obey. Jack freed the wound of torn fragments of shirt, then covered the angry flesh with the towel. “Help me ease off this sleeve.”

With Elmina’s help, the sleeve was removed without jarring the wound. Picking up his knife, Jack reached for Kit’s wet bands.

“Monsieur!”

Jack all but snarled. “What now?”

Elmina’s eyes were huge black orbs. Under Jack’s glare, she clenched her hands tight.
“Monsieur,
it is not proper that you should be here. I will take care of her.”

Proper? Jack closed his eyes in frustration. Neither he nor Kit possessed a proper bone in their bodies. He opened his eyes. “Damnation, woman! I’ve seen every square inch of skin your
pauvre petite
possesses. Right now, I’m trying to ensure that she lives. The proprieties be damned!”

He’d spoken in English. Elmina took a moment or two to catch up. By then, Jack had expertly slid the knife between Kit’s breasts and slit the bands.

Elmina’s
“Sacre Dieu!”
was a weak effort as, grudgingly, she gave up her fight. Muttered references to the madness of the English, and the shocking want of delicacy displayed by unnamed peers, punctuated the next ten minutes.

The hot water and bandages arrived. Jack watched Elmina bathe the wound. The maid’s hands were steady, her touch sure. When the ugly hole had been cleansed, he helped her tie a wad of torn sheeting over it. Kit’s breathing had improved, but her complexion remained alarmingly pallid.

Jack left Elmina in charge with strict instructions to be called immediately should Kit regain consciousness or Dr. Thrushborne appear. In the corridor outside Kit’s room, he slumped against the wall and shut his eyes. For one instant, despair overwhelmed him—Kit lay so very still, her skin so very cold. Her breathing was the only sign of life. Even if the wound didn’t kill her, in her weakened state, an inflammation of the lungs might.

He tried to imagine his life without her—and couldn’t. Abruptly, he opened his eyes and pushed away from the wall. Kit wasn’t dead yet. If she could fight, he’d be by her side.

His face grave, Jack went to face Spencer.

Jenkins was waiting at the top of the stairs. “Lord Cranmer’s in his chamber, m’lord. If you’ll follow me?”

A weary grin twisted Jack’s lips. The formal phrasing seemed out of place. He suspected he looked like a disreputable gypsy. And he was on his way to tell one of his father’s closest friends that he’d seduced his granddaughter.

Spencer’s rooms were in the opposite wing. Jenkins knocked, then held the door wide. Jack drew a deep breath and entered.

The dark was dispelled by a single lamp, turned low, set on a table in the center of the large room. In the uncertain light beyond, Jack saw the man he’d met in King’s Lynn months before. Swathed in a dressing robe, Spencer sat in an armchair. The mane of white hair was the same; the shaggy brows overhanging his deep-set eyes had not changed. But the anxiety in the pale eyes was new, etching lines about the firm lips, deepening the shadows in the sunken cheeks.

Held by Spencer’s gaze, Jack paused just inside the pool of lamplight, aware of Spencer stiffening as he took in his odd attire. Abruptly, Spencer raised a hand and dismissed the small man hovering at his side.

As the door closed, Spencer lifted his chin aggressively. “Well? What have Kathryn—and you—been up to?”

Feeling as if he was facing a court-martial, Jack clamped a lid on his natural arrogance and replied simply and straightforwardly. “I’m afraid Kit and I have become rather closer than is acceptable. In short, I seduced her. The only fact I can proffer in my defense is that I didn’t know at the time she was your granddaughter.”

Spencer snorted incredulously. “You didn’t recognize the coloring?”

Jack inclined his head. “I knew she was a Cranmer but…” He shrugged. “There were other possibilities.”

Spencer’s gaze was sharp. “Led you to believe she was something she’s not, did she?”

Jack hesitated.

“You may as well give me the whole of it,” declared Spencer. “I’m not likely to faint from the shock. Told you she was illegitimate, did she?”

Jack grimaced, remembering that first night, so long ago. “Let’s just say that when I made my supposition plain, she didn’t correct me. I’d hardly expected your granddaughter to be riding the countryside alone at night in breeches.”

Spencer sighed deeply. Slowly, his head sank. For a long moment, he stared into space, then in a gruff voice he muttered: “My fault—no denying it. I should never have let her grow so damned wild.”

Minutes ticked by; Spencer seemed sunk in abstracted gloom. Jack waited, not sure what was going through the old man’s mind. Then Spencer shook his head and looked him straight in the eye. “No sense in wailing over past history. You say you seduced her. What do you plan to do about it, hen?”

Jack’s lips twisted wryly. “I’ll marry her, of course.”

“Damn right you will!” Spencer’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “Think you’ll enjoy it—being married to a wildcat?”

Briefly, Jack smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Spencer snorted and waved him to a chair. “You don’t seem overly put out by the fall of the cards. But Jenkins said something about Kit’s being hurt. What’s happened?”

Jack drew an armchair to the table and sat, using the moments to assemble the essential elements of his tale. “Kit and I have been meeting by night at the old fishing cottage on the north boundary of my land.”

Spencer nodded. “Aye. I know it. Used to go fishing with your father from there.”

“I was on my way there tonight when I heard a commotion. Shots and horsemen. I went to investigate. From the cliffs I saw a chase on the sands—the Revenue following a horseman. Only the horseman was Kit.”

“
They shot her?
” Spencer’s incredulous question hung in the air. The sudden rigidity in his large frame was alarming.

“She’s all right,” Jack hastened to reassure him. “The bullet’s lodged in her left shoulder but too high to be fatal. I’ve sent for Thrushborne. He’ll dig it out, and she should be fine.” Jack prayed that was true.

“I’ll have their hides! I’ll see them swing from their own gibbets! I’ll…” Spencer ground to a halt, his face purpling with rage.

“I rather think we should tread warily, sir.” Jack’s quiet tone had the desired effect. Spencer turned on him.

“D’ye mean to say you’ll let the bastards get away with putting a damned hole in your future wife?” Spencer’s wild eyes dared him to confess to such weakness.

“Ah—but you see, that’s just the point.” Jack held Spencer’s gaze. “They don’t know they shot my future wife.”

The silence that followed was broken by a creak as Spencer sank back in his chair.

Jack examined his hands. “All in all, I’d rather the authorities were not made aware that my future wife rides wild through the night dressed for all the world as a man.”

Eventually, Spencer sighed deeply. “Very well. Handle it your way. God knows, I’ve never been much good at hauling on Kit’s reins. Perchance you’ll have more success.”

Recalling that he’d not succeeded in retiring Young Kit as he’d planned, Jack wasn’t overly confident on that point. “There’s a complication.” Spencer’s head came up, reminding Jack forcibly of an old bull about to charge. “Tonkin, the sergeant at Hunstanton, saw Kit without the hat and muffler she uses to conceal her face. He got a good look at her before I deprived him of his wits. When he comes to his senses, he’ll be around here as fast as he can.”