Captain Jack's Woman (30 page)

“Lovis, perhaps you’d show Lady Hendon to her room?”

Lovis bowed deeply. “Very good, m’lord.”

Kit hid a nervous grin, realizing there was a tradition to be upheld. Lovis led the way, positively steeped in ceremony. Kit followed him up the wide curving staircase. When she reached the bend, she was relieved to see her husband still at its foot, conversing with one of the male staff—the head groom, as far as she recalled. The thought that he would doubtless give her time to soothe her frazzled nerves before coming to her eased her skittish pulse.

Please, God, let it be slow and steady.
Too often, their first encounters resembled a clash of the furies.

The chamber Lovis led her to was enormous. Castle Hendon had grown up about a medieval donjon. Looking about her, Kit surmised her room might well have been part of the donjon’s main hall. The walls were of solid stone, papered and painted over, the doors and windows set into their thickness. Extensive reworking had enlarged the windows; Kit felt sure that when she drew the curtains the next morning, the views the Castle was famed for would greet her eyes. Her sleepy, sated eyes.

With a start, Kit fell to examining the furnishings. They were exquisite, every one. She stopped by the four-poster bed. It was huge, covered in pale green satin, the Hendon arms carved in the headboard.

Kit wondered what the pale satin would feel like against her skin.

Abruptly, she remembered she had no clothes with her. In a panic, she flew to the massive mahogany armoire, pulling open doors and drawers. She found a complete wardrobe—dresses, underwear, accessories—all put carefully away, as if she’d always lived here. But none of them were hers. Her luggage was somewhere between Cranmer and Castle Hendon, with Elmina.

Puzzled, she drew forth a fine voile nightdress. Shaking out its folds, she held up the almost transparent garment. That her husband had chosen this wardrobe—for her—was instantly apparent.

Muttering an imprecation against all rakes, Kit bundled the shocking nightgown into a ball and crammed it back in the drawer. Her fingers pulled at the next fold of material. They couldn’t all be like that, surely?

“What are you doing?”

Kit jumped and whirled to face her husband. To her surprise, he was not where she expected—at the door from the corridor—but lounged against another door she’d yet to investigate. Presumably, it led to his apartments. Kit swallowed nervously. The smile on Jack’s face sent the butterflies that had taken up residence in her stomach into a frenzy.

“Er…”
Think, dimwitl!
“I was looking for a nightdress.”

As she watched Jack’s smile widen, Kit could have bitten her tongue.

“You won’t need one.” Jack pushed away from the door and started toward her, his smile growing more devilish with every stride. “I’ll keep you warm.”

“Er…yes. Jack, stop!” Kit held up her hand in panic. “Shouldn’t you send for a maid?”

The witless question had the desired effect. It pulled him up short. It also brought a frown to his face and darkened his eyes.

Jack stopped in the middle of his wife’s bedroom and placed his hands on his hips, the better to intimidate her into dropping her silly pose. He’d had enough. “What the devil’s the matter with you, woman? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m perfectly qualified to undress you. I hardly need a maid to show me how.” With that statement of intent, he stepped purposefully forward but stopped when he saw sheer alarm flare in Kit’s eyes.

What was the matter with her? Kit wished she knew. If he’d come to her as Captain Jack, she’d have been in his arms in a trice. Making love to Captain Jack had been easy. With Captain Jack there hadn’t been a tomorrow.

But there was no way she could possibly confuse the man standing in the middle of her bedroom with Captain Jack. The physical manifestations were the same, but there the similarity ended. This was Lord Hendon, her husband. The superb cut of his coat, the fine linen of his shirt, the gleaming hair neatly confined, and especially the sapphire signet ring glinting on his right hand, all underlined the essential difference. This was the man she’d married, vowed to honor and obey. This was the man who as of this evening was all things to her. The man who now had legal rights over her far beyond those any other had ever had. Her mind was not capable of equating making love to this man with making love to Captain Jack.

It simply wasn’t the same.
He
wasn’t the same. Kit drew a shuddering breath. No matter what he thought, she’d never made love to him before.

Jack watched the expressions flit across her pale face and his confusion grew. She couldn’t possibly be nervous, but he hadn’t previously thought her such an accomplished actress. Her eyes were enormous pools of fright, skittering and restless. Her fingers were clenched so tightly on the door of the wardrobe her knuckles showed white. When a shiver of apprehension flickered over her skin, he gave up the fight against incredulity.

She
was
nervous.

“Hell!” Jack turned toward the bed, running one hand through his hair, disarranging it. Absentmindedly, he tugged at the black riband and freed the long locks, dropping the riband on the floor. He shot a glance at Kit, all but petrified by the wardrobe. If she was nervous, he hoped she’d keep her gaze level, and not let it drop to the bulge he was well aware was distorting the perfect cut of his inexpressibles. Hell and the devil! This looked set to be a long-drawn act, and he wasn’t at all sure he was up to it.

“Come here.” He struggled to soften the raw desire in his growl and only partly succeeded.

Kit’s alarm flared again, but when he held out his hand, imperiously beckoning her forward, she hesitated, then came to his side, slipping a trembling hand into his. Smoothly, Jack drew her into his arms, turning to clasp her fully to him.

“Relax.” He breathed the command into the soft curls by her ear. Now that he had his hands on her, he didn’t need any further confirmation of her state. She was wound tight, quivering with tension. He wasn’t fool enough to ask for explanations. Instead, his lips found the pulse point beneath her ear.

Kit shivered and wondered how she was to obey that order. His lips traveled her jaw, placing gentle kisses along the curve. Reassured she was not about to be devoured, she leaned into the warmth of his embrace, yielding her mouth to his expert attentions.

When her lips parted automatically to receive him, Jack clamped an iron hold on his reactions. What sort of hell on earth had he landed himself in this time? Not only did she need to be wooed gently, but her responses were ingrained, a natural part of her that he’d taken care, in their earlier engagements, to encourage. Now they looked set to drive him to the brink of madness. Every time he thought he had their relationship pegged, she invented a new twist to torment him. Mentally gritting his teeth, Jack set about the task of seducing his wife.

Unaware of the trouble she was causing, Kit felt the knots in her stomach ease as Jack’s hands commenced a leisurely exploration of her fully clothed form, his tongue probing the soft contours of her mouth unhurriedly, as if he was willing to spend all night in such intoxicating play. She knew he wouldn’t, but it was a comforting sensation. The kiss deepened by almost imperceptible degrees, his caresses becoming increasingly intimate until she was warmed through. She was glad to slip her arms free of her jacket. Snuggling closer, she pressed her tingling breasts to his chest. His hands roamed her back, molding her to him until her thighs were wedged firmly against his. The evidence of his desire pressed strongly against her stomach. Kit felt a familiar ache grow inside.

What followed was a carefully orchestrated journey into delight. Throughout, Jack held tight to the reins of his desire, not relinquishing his grip even when Kit lay naked beneath him, gasping with desire, her thighs spread, her hips tilting in unmistakable invitation. He sank into her welcoming heat, his jaw clenched with the effort to remain in control, determined that, whatever the cost, she’d have a night of loving she’d never forget.

He filled her and Kit sighed deeply. She closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of being so thoroughly possessed. Her skin was alive, her swollen breasts ached, her body yearned for completion. When Jack moved within her, she bit her lip and held still, sensing his strength, his hardness, his unrelenting need. Then she moved with him, letting her own need flower, feeding and assuaging his. She wrapped her arms about him, wound her legs about his hips, and let the dance consume them. Their bodies strove, intimately locked, heated and slick. As the glory drew nearer, Kit gasped and surrendered—to passion’s flames, to mind-numbing delight, to incandescent sensation.

When, at last, they lay spent in each other’s arms, and Jack felt the last of Kit’s sweet spasms fade as her breathing slowed into blissfully sated slumber, triumphant possessiveness streaked through him.

She was his. He’d recaptured his wild woman. He’d never let go of her again.

With a sigh of contentment, deepened by the glow of achievement, of satisfaction in a job well-done, Jack turned on his side, taking Kit with him, carefully resettling her against him.

Halfway back from paradise, Kit felt his weight shift but was too deeply sated to protest. She’d forgotten what it was like—to lose her wits, to surrender her senses to the conflagration of their desire. Slow and steady she’d wanted; slow and steady she’d got. Jack’s loving was a potent brew; she was addicted beyond recall. There was no hope of denying it, so she might as well accept it as her lot.

Who knew what lay in store—for her, for him? After tonight, whatever happened, she’d have to face it acknowledging that, for her, only one man held the power to open the doors of paradise.

Her husband. Jack—Lord Hendon.

T
he next morning, Kit entered the breakfast parlor already flustered by the lateness of the hour. It was not her habit to keep servants waiting on her but she’d slept in, drained by Jack’s method of waking her.

Instantly meeting her husband’s all-too-knowing gaze, and his slow smile, did nothing for her composure. Drawing dignity about her as best she could, she busied herself at the sideboard, praying the blush she could feel warming her cheeks wasn’t visible to the reprobate at the end of the table.

She’d thought he’d have left the house by now—doing whatever it was that gentlemen did—but she’d donned a new morning gown just in case. The delicate primrose shade was a favorite—she hoped he appreciated it. He was looking as hideously handsome as ever, lounging in his chair, long fingers crooked about the handle of a cup, yesterday’s paper spread before him.

Her plate in her hands, Kit turned. The question of where to sit was answered by Lovis, who held the chair at the other end of the table. Ignoring her husband, Kit sat and picked up her fork. From the corner of her eye, she saw Lovis dismissed by a languid gesture.

Jack waited until the door closed behind his butler to remark: “I’m glad to see your appetite’s returned.”

Kit glanced down at her plate, seeing for the first time the mound of rice pie she’d piled on it, two kippers nestling on one side with a serving of kidney and bacon on the other. A slice of ham was laid atop, a dob of pickle in the middle. Head on one side, she considered the sight before replying: “Well, I’m hungry.” It was his fault she was. How dare he tease her about it?

“Quite so.”

Kit glanced up in time to catch his proprietary gloat before Jack substituted a more innocent expression. Her eyes narrowed. She wished she could say something, do something, to wash the smug glint from his eyes.

When she continued to stare, Jack’s brows rose in deceptive candor. “You’ll need to keep up your strength,” he offered. “I suspect you’ll find the role of Lady Hendon unexpectedly tiring.”

Warning flames flickered at the back of Kit’s glare. Jack laughed and, setting down his cup, rose, coming around the table to stand by her side. “I hadn’t intended to leave you so soon, but I’m afraid I have to hie off to inspect some fields. I’ll be back by midday.”

Kit remembered her morning engagement and bit back her request to go with him. She looked up at him, her expression blank. “Mrs. Miles is to show me over the house this morning. No doubt I’ll be so enthralled I won’t even notice your absence.”

Jack tried to keep his lips straight and failed woefully. A rumbling chuckle escaped him. He put out one finger and wound it in the curls by Kit’s ear. Then he bent his head and whispered: “Never mind. Why not use the time to consider the more interesting aspects of Lady Hendon’s duties? Perhaps, when I get back, we could discuss those?”

Kit stiffened. He couldn’t mean…?

Jack’s fingers drifted down the sensitive skin beneath her ear. His lips followed, leaving a tickling trail of nibbling kisses. Before she could gather her wits, he tipped her chin up, kissed her full on the lips, and was gone.

Stifling a most unladylike curse, Kit wriggled her shoulders to dispel the delicious shiver he’d sent rippling down her spine, drew a deep breath, and applied herself to her breakfast.

Her morning went in the inescapable task of being ceremonially inducted into the workings of Castle Hendon. The staff was pleasant, clearly pleased to find a local filling Lady Hendon’s shoes. The business of running a household was second nature to Kit—a legacy from her grandmother. She dealt with the staff with an innate confidence that had the inevitable result. By midday, the domestic reins were firmly in her hands.

Jack was not at the luncheon table; Lovis confirmed he’d not yet returned. Used to solitude, Kit walked the extensive gardens, then, tiring of such tame exercise, went upstairs to change into her new riding habit. The day was fine, the breeze beckoned—what better way to spend an afternoon than riding her husband’s lands?

The stables were large, set around two interconnecting yards. Kit wandered along the rows of stalls, searching for Delia’s black hide. The head groom came out of the second courtyard. Catching sight of her, he hurried over, doffing his cap as he came.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.”

Kit waited for him to ask if he could help her. When he simply stood, plainly nervous, twisting his hat in his hands, she took pity on him. “I’d like my horse, please. The black mare.”

To her surprise, the man subjected his hat to a further twist and looked even more uncomfortable. Kit frowned, a nasty suspicion displacing her good humor. “Where is Delia?”

“The master said to put her in the back paddock, my lady.”

Kit put her hands on her hips. “Where is this back paddock?”

The groom waved in a southerly direction. “Over the hills a-way.”

Too far to walk. Before Kit could ask her next question, the groom added: “The master said she was only to be brought up at his orders, ma’am.”

Inwardly, Kit seethed. There was no point haranguing the groom; he was only obeying orders. The person she wanted to harangue,
needed
to harangue, was the giver of those orders. Abruptly, she turned on her heel. “Send word to me the moment Lord Hendon returns.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am but he came in not ten minutes ago.”

Kit’s eyes glittered. “Thank you—Martins, isn’t it?”

The groom bowed.

Kit rewarded him with a stiff smile and marched back to the house.

She found Jack in the library. She sailed into the room and waited until she heard Lovis shut the door before advancing on her husband. He was standing behind his desk, a sheet of paper in his hand. Noting the arrested look in his eyes, she realized any attempt to hide her anger would be wasted. She drew breath, only to have him seize the initiative.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t back for lunch. How did your tour with Mrs. Miles go?” Jack dropped his list on the blotter and came around the desk.

Thrown by the mild question, Kit blinked, then realized Jack was advancing on her. He was going to kiss her. Nimble-footed, she stepped around a chair. “Er…fine. What have you done with my horse?”

His flanking attack defeated, Jack halted and faced her guns. He contemplated her belligerent stance, muted in effect by her retreat behind the chair. “I’ve had her put in a paddock large enough for her to stretch her legs.”

“She stretches her legs often enough. I ride her every day.”

“Past tense.”

Kit frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“You
rode
her every day.”

When no further explanation was forthcoming, Kit gritted her teeth and asked: “Just what are you trying to say?”

“As of now, you ride Delia only when I ride with you. Other than Champion, there’s no beast in Norfolk that can keep up with that black streak you call a horse. I won’t saddle my grooms with the responsibility of trying to keep you in sight. Hence, you ride with me, or accept a meeker mount and take a groom with you.”

Kit had never known exactly
what flabbergasted
felt like. Now, she knew. She was so angry, she couldn’t even decide which point to attack first.

The obvious riposte—that Delia was her horse—had an equally obvious answer. As his wife, all her property was his. But his dictates were outrageous. Kit’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Jonathon,” she said, using his given name for the first time since their wedding vows, “I’ve been riding since I could walk. In the country, I’ve ridden alone all my life. I will not—”

“Be continuing in such unacceptable style.”

Kit bit her tongue to keep from screaming. The unemotional statement sounded far more ominous than Spencer’s ranting ever had. She drew a deep breath and forced her tone to a reasonable pitch. “Everyone around about knows I ride alone. They think nothing of it. On Delia, I’m perfectly safe. As you’ve just pointed out, no one can catch me. None of our neighbors would feel the least bit scandalized to see me riding alone.”

“None of our neighbors would imagine I’d allow you to do so.”

It was an effort, but Kit swallowed the curse that rose to her lips. Her husband’s calm gaze hadn’t wavered. He was watching her, politely attentive but with the cool certainty that he’d be the victor in this little contretemps stamped all over his arrogant face. This was the side of Jack she didn’t know but had surmised must exist; this was Jonathon.

Kit tried a different tack. “Why?”

Explaining was not his style, but in this case, Jack knew the ground to be firm beneath his feet. She was new to his bridle; it wouldn’t hurt to give his reasons. “Firstly, as Lady Hendon, your behavior will be taken as a standard for others to follow, a status not accorded Miss Kathryn Cranmer but a point I’m sure Lady Marchmont and company would quickly make clear to you if I did not.” He paused to let the implication of that sink in. Strolling toward the chair behind which Kit had taken refuge, he continued: “There’s also the fact that your safety is of prime concern to me.” Another pause enabled him to trap her gaze in his. “And I don’t consider riding the countryside alone a suitably safe pastime for my wife.”

Was he really just concerned for her welfare? Kit opened her mouth, but Jack held up a hand to stop her.

“Spare me your arguments, Kit. I won’t change my mind. Spencer let you ride alone for far longer than was acceptable. He’d be the first to admit it.” Kit stiffened as Jack’s gaze slowly traveled the length of her slim frame. A subtle smile twisted his lips. “You’re not a child anymore, my dear. You are, in fact, a most delectable plum. One I’ve no intention of letting any other man taste.”

One arrogant brow lifted, inviting her comment. Kit bit her lip, then blurted out: “If I were in breeches, no man would look twice at me.”

She shifted uneasily as she watched Jack’s smile grow. It wasn’t entirely encouraging, for it didn’t reach his eyes.

“If I ever come upon Lady Hendon in breeches, do you know what I’ll do?”

The soft, velvety tones transfixed Kit. She felt her eyes grow round, trapped in her husband’s gaze. Little flames flickered deep. Slowly, all but mesmerized, Kit shook her head.

“Wherever we are, indoors or out, I’ll take great delight in removing said breeches from her.”

Kit swallowed.

“And then—”

“Jack!” Kit scowled. “Stop it! You’re just trying to scare me.”

Jack’s brows flew. He reached out and, to Kit’s surprise, pushed the chair from between them. She hadn’t realized he was so close. Before she could react, he caught her elbows and pulled her to him. Trapped within the circle of his arms, Kit looked into his face, her pulse accelerating. A peculiarly devilish look had settled over his features. “Am I?”

For the life of her, Kit couldn’t decide if he was teasing or not.

“Try me, by all means, if you doubt it.”

The invitation was accompanied by a look which made Kit vow not to call his bluff. She became engrossed in smoothing his lapel. “But I need the exercise.”

Even as the plaintive words escaped her lips, Kit realized her error. Her eyes flew wide; there was no way she would risk looking up.

A nerve-stretching pause ensued. “Really?” came the mild reply.

Kit wasn’t about to answer.

“I’ll bear that in mind, my dear. I’m sure I can devise any number of novel ways to exercise you.”

Kit didn’t doubt it. The tremor in the deep voice suggested he didn’t either. A maxim of Lady Gresham’s recurred in her mind.
When all else fails, try cajoling.
She looked up. “Jack—”

But he shook his head. “Give over, Kit. I won’t change my mind.”

Kit stared into his perfectly serious eyes and knew it was beyond her powers to sway him. With a sigh of exasperation, of deep frustration, she grimaced at him.

He kissed her pouting lips. And kept kissing them until she yielded. Feeling her wits slip their moorings, Kit summoned enough will for one mental curse against masterful men, before settling down to enjoy one.

For the rest of that day, she maintained an attitude that was the very essence of wifely complaisance. Her halo positively glowed. Her husband had insisted—she’d desisted. If she couldn’t win the bout, she was determined to make the most of her defeat. Unfortunately, Jack showed every sign of being overly understanding. When he used her newfound meekness to trap her into agreeing to retire early, Kit rapidly reverted to her usual argumentative self. Only by then it was too late.

She had her revenge two days later, when the question of her visiting the shops in Lynn arose. It quickly became clear that Jack was not enamored of the idea of her being simultaneously out of his sight and off Hendon lands. She simply shrugged. “If you want to come with me, I’ve no objection.” She kept her eyes, wide and innocent, on the gloves she was buttoning up. “But I hadn’t imagined you sitting in on all the visits I’ll have to pay in a few weeks. Not but what the ladies would be only too pleased to see you.”

She won her carriage by default. But when she descended the front steps on her husband’s arm, it was to see, not one, but
two
footmen waiting in attendance. She hesitated only a moment, taken aback by the sight but, by now, too wise not to accept the better part of victory with good grace. The footmen dogged her steps throughout her expedition.

Despite such adjustments, the end of their first week of married life arrived without major drama. Settled in an armchair before the fire in the library, Kit yawned and gave in to one of her favorite fascinations, studying the way her husband’s brown hair glinted gold in lamplight. He was seated at the huge desk placed across one corner of the room, going through a ledger. Their interactions had fallen into a routine, a fact for which she was grateful. After so many years essentially alone, she found it reassuring to know when Jack would be with her and when her mind would be free to deal with the more mundane of Lady Hendon’s duties. To her surprise, she was fast coming to the conclusion that married life would suit her after all.

Her days tended to start at dawn, although she’d not yet managed to leave her bed before nine. Her previous habit of riding before breakfast had died a death, thanks to Jack’s amorous inclinations. He still rode early, though how he managed it was beyond her. After the shortest of recuperative naps, he’d be up and about while she lay sprawled under her green satin coverlet, her limbs weighted with delicious languor, utterly incapable of moving, let alone thinking. After bathing, dressing, and breakfasting, usually alone, she would check with Mrs. Miles and issue her orders for the day. The time before luncheon was easily filled with trips to the stillroom, the laundry, the kitchen or the gardens. Jack usually joined her for luncheon, after which, on all but one day, he made himself available to escort her on a ride. She’d accepted his offers with alacrity, thankful not to have to forgo her daily round with Delia.