Captain Jack's Woman (31 page)

On the afternoon he’d been detained at Hunstanton, she’d swallowed her pride and asked for the mare he’d chosen as Delia’s substitute to be saddled. Escorted by a senior groom, she’d set out for Gresham Manor.

As newlyweds, their first weeks would be theirs, to settle into married life without distraction. But after that, the bride visits would start. And the dinners. Kit knew what to expect; the prospect held no terrors for her, but she did wonder how her socially ept but reluctant husband would cope.

Her visit with Amy had been relaxing but had highlighted the truth of Jack’s warning that her status as Lady Hendon was a far cry from the importance of one Miss Cranmer. The idea of taking precedence over Lady Gresham required some adjustment. Her ladyship commented favorably on the correctness of her escort. Kit bit her tongue. Amy was dying to hear her private news, but Lady Gresham, also curious, did not leave them alone. Kit departed the Manor with the definite impression that she’d disappointed her friends by remaining essentially herself, rather than being visibly transformed in some miraculous way by her husband’s legendary skills.

She’d ridden back to Castle Hendon chuckling all the way, much to the confusion of her groom.

The fire crackled and hissed as a drop of rain found its way down the chimney. Kit stifled another yawn. Of all the times in their day, the evenings were the most peaceful. Until they went upstairs to her bedroom. But even there, the atmosphere had calmed. The tenor of their lovemaking had changed; knowing there was nothing to keep them from spending however many hours they wished on the road to paradise, Jack seemed content to keep progress as slow as she wished, spinning out their time in that bliss-filled world. His touch was exquisite, his timing faultless. Each night there were new doors to open, new avenues to explore. Each led to the same peak, beyond which lay a selfless void of indescribable sensation. Her delight in learning the pathways of pleasure was unfeigned; he was a patient teacher.

Kit sighed and smiled at his bent head.

She was eagerly awaiting her next lesson.

A boom of thunder shook Kit awake. She curled tight and clutched the covers over her ears, but still the reverberations echoed through her bones. Then she remembered she was a married woman and reached for her husband. Her groping hand met empty air. There was nobody in the bed beside her.

Kit sat up and stared, first at the rumpled sheets, then about the empty room. Lightning lit the chamber, a bright beam shafting through a chink in the curtains. Kit flinched. Where was Jack when she needed him?

The following thunderclap propelled her to her feet. She snatched up the scandalous silk negligee Jack had insisted she wear so he could enjoy divesting her of it, and wrapped its gossamer folds about her, cinching the tie tight. With a determined frown, Kit made for a door beyond which she’d yet to explore—the one that led to Jack’s rooms. Whatever his reasons for going to his own bed on this of all nights, she intended making it perfectly plain that during thunderstorms, his place was by her side.

As she’d suspected, the door led to the master bedroom. If her room was large, Jack’s was enormous. And equally empty. Kit stared into the shadowy corners, then sank onto the bed as realization struck.

Lord Hendon is Captain Jack.

In the upheavals of the past weeks, she’d completely forgotten that fact. After recovering from her wound, she’d tacitly accepted that becoming Lady Hendon meant no more smuggling. She was convinced Lord Hendon would see it that way. She’d put all thought of the Hunstanton Gang from her. But, apparently, Captain Jack intended to go his own road, regardless.

Oblivious of the storm raging outside, Kit sat on Jack’s bed and struggled to make sense of the facts in her hands. It was no use—they simply did not form a coherent whole. When the cold penetrated her thin gown, she crawled to the pillows and drew the coverlet about her. Lord Hendon had been appointed as High Commissioner specifically to stop the smuggling of spies. The same Lord Hendon, in his guise as Captain Jack, was actively engaged in smuggling spies. Despite his total disinterest in the subject, she’d gleaned sufficient snippets to confirm her vague notion that the same Lord Hendon had a war record—an exemplary war record. In fact, according to Matthew, he was a damned hero. So what the hell was he doing smuggling spies?

With a frustrated growl, Kit thumped the pillow and laid her head down. She was missing bits of this jigsaw. Jack, damn his hide, was playing some deep game.

Sleep tugged at her lids and she yawned. She could understand why he hadn’t told her before. But she wasn’t a smuggler anymore—she was his wife. Why shouldn’t he tell her now? With a little nod, Kit settled her chin deeper into the pillow and closed her eyes. She’d stay here until he did.

The bed curtains stirred in the current of air as the door opened and shut. Kit came awake with a start. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, she instantly espied her husband’s large form as he crossed the room to the washstand.

He hadn’t seen her in the shadows of the bed.

Kit watched as he stripped off his shirt, then grabbed a towel and dried his hair. She tuned her senses to the night sounds; the storm had eased; it was raining. As Jack passed the towel over his shoulders and chest, Kit realized he must be soaked. He sat on a chair and, with an effort, pulled off his boots. When he stood, bending to place the boots aside, she asked: “What was the cargo tonight? Brandy or lace?”

She saw every muscle in his large frame tense, then relax. Slowly, Jack straightened and looked directly at her. Kit held her breath. The silence was so deep she could hear the rain spattering the window panes.

“Brandy.”

Kit hugged her knees. “Nothing else?” she inquired innocently.

Jack didn’t answer. Her presence in his room at this particular moment had not been part of his plan. Just as it formed no part of his plan to satisfy her curiosity about Captain Jack’s nocturnal adventures. From Spencer, he had learned about her cousin Julian; he now understood her interest in stopping the spies. A praiseworthy ideal for the High Commissioner’s lady. But telling her anything at all was out of the question.

This was the woman who’d blithely accepted a position as leader of a smuggling gang, the same woman who on more than one occasion had disobeyed his explicit orders. Even hinting at the truth was too dangerous.

Intent on getting warm as quickly as possible, Jack peeled off his sodden breeches, leaving them in a heap on the floor. He toweled his legs and cast a considering glance at the bed. Now she was here…

Kit tried to ignore the tingle of anticipation that flickered along her nerves. “Jack, what’s—
Oh!”

She bit back a squeal as Jack landed on the bed beside her. He wrestled the covers away from her. The thin film of her negligee was summarily dispensed with before he rolled her beneath him. His lips found hers as her hands, and the rest of her, made contact with his naked body. After a blood-stirring duel of tongues, Kit drew back to gasp: “You dolt! You’re freezing! You’ll catch your death of cold.” His skin was iced, all except one part of him, which was already basking in the heat at the juncture of her thighs.

“Not if you warm me up.”

Kit gasped as she felt one large hand slip beneath her bottom, tilting her hips, opening her to his invasion. She felt his spine slowly flex. Hard as steel, smooth as silk, he entered her. Kit gasped again, her body arching in instinctive welcome.

His lips sought hers. They moved together, Kit following his lead, rising to his thrusts, stoking the flames higher until they broke in a molten wave, sending heated pleasure coursing through them.

Later, he moved off her, drawing her about so she lay curled with her back to him. He settled his larger body around hers and immediately fell deeply asleep.

Snuggled beneath a heavy arm and halfway to sleep herself, Kit grimaced. Marriage to Lord Hendon had changed nothing. When it came to smuggling, he was Captain Jack. And Captain Jack kept his own counsel.

W
hy wouldn’t he tell her? Kit cantered up the Gresham’s drive with that refrain ringing in her ears. She’d not seen her aggravating husband since dawn, when, after exhausting her thoroughly, he’d carried her back to her bed. She vaguely recalled him saying something about inspecting his coverts. She wasn’t deceived. He’d purposely found some activity to keep him out all day so she couldn’t pursue her questions. Doubtless, he thought time would blunt her curiosity.

With a snort, Kit slid from the saddle without waiting for the assistance of her groom. “Is the family in, Jeffries?”

“Lord Gresham’s off to Lynn, miss—I mean, your ladyship.” Jeffries smiled as he took her bridle. “Lady Gresham took the carriage out an hour ago. But Miss Amy’s inside.”

“Good!” Kit stalked to the house and entered by the morning room windows.

Amy was there, idly plying her needle. She jumped up as soon as she saw Kit. “Oh, good. Mama’s gone to Lady Dersingham’s. Now we can talk.” Then Amy noticed Kit’s high color and the brisk way she stripped off her gloves. Her eyes widened. “What’s the matter?”

“That damned husband of mine’s as close as an oyster!” Kit flung her gloves onto a table and fell to pacing the room, her long swinging strides more suited to Young Kit than Lady Hendon.

“What do you mean?” Frowning, Amy sank back onto the
chaise.

Kit glanced her way. Amy knew nothing of her husband’s alias but the need to unburden herself was strong. “What do you think of a gentleman who refuses to tell his wife,” Kit paused, searching for words, “the details of a transaction he’s involved in, when he knows she’s interested and it would not be a…a breach of confidence or any such thing?”

Amy blinked. “Why do you want to know about Jonathon’s business?”

The simple question sent Kit’s temper into orbit. With a frustrated growl, she went about the room again, struggling for calm. Why did she want to know what Jack was up to? Because she did. While she’d been Young Kit and he Captain Jack, she’d felt a part of his adventures. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept that being his wife meant she had to remain distanced from what affected him most nearly. Besides which, if she knew what he was up to, she was sure she could help.

She stopped in front of Amy. “Let’s just say that not knowing is driving me crazy. Besides which,” she added, kicking her skirts out of the way to pace again, “there are reasons of…of honor which say he should tell me. If he had
any
gentlemanly instincts, he would.”

Amy looked stunned—and thoroughly confused. “Do you mean that Jonathon’s not truly the gentleman?”

It was Kit’s turn to blink. “Of course not!” She frowned at Amy. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Amy eyed Kit with affectionate understanding and patted the
chaise.
“Do sit down, Kit—you’re making me dizzy. Now tell me—is it really as exciting as they say?”

The point of the question missed Kit entirely. She dropped into a chair opposite Amy and frowned. “Is what so exciting?”

“You know.” Amy’s slight blush jolted Kit’s mind into the right rut.

“Oh, that.” Kit waved dismissively, then abruptly changed her mind. She wagged a knowledgeable finger at Amy. “You know, you didn’t have the half of it when you told me all that stuff about getting hot and wet.”

“Oh?” Amy sat straighter.

“No,” Kit affirmed. “It’s much worse than that.”

When Kit fell into a reverie and said nothing further, Amy glared. “Kit! You can’t just stop there. I told you all I know—now it’s your turn. I’m marrying George next month. It’s your duty to tell me so I’ll know what to expect.”

Kit considered; she decided her vocabulary wasn’t up to it. “Do you mean to tell me your George hasn’t gone beyond a kiss and a fondle?”

“Of course not.” Amy’s expression held more disgruntled disgust than shock. “Jonathon didn’t go any farther with you before your marriage, did he?”

Kit’s eyes glazed. “Our relationship didn’t develop along quite the same lines as yours and George’s.” Her voice sounded strangled. Memories of how far Jack had gone threatened to overcome her. Even if she gave Amy an edited version, it would shock her to the core. “I’m sorry, Amy, but I can’t explain. Why don’t you press George for further details? Here he comes now.”

Through the morning room windows she could see George striding up from the stables. He reached the windows and checked at the sight of her. Then, smoothly, he entered and greeted Amy, bowing over her hand before raising it to his lips.

Watching closely, Kit noted the glow that infused Amy’s face and the brightness in her eyes. When his eyes met Amy’s, George’s face softened; as his lips brushed Amy’s fingers, his eyes remained on hers. The warm affection in his gaze was fully returned by Amy. Kit felt uncomfortably
de trop.

Releasing Amy with understated reluctance, George turned to Kit and took her hand in greeting. “Kit.”

She returned his nod graciously. They’d met only twice since she’d dropped the guise of Young Kit—once at the wedding, once at their belated betrothal dinner. She’d always had the distinct impression that George disapproved of her wild ways far more strongly than Jack did. “Amy and I were discussing the merits of a husband being open with his wife.” Kit kept her gaze innocent and unthreatening. “Perhaps, in the interests of a well-rounded argument, you could give us your views on the matter.”

George raised his brows, his expression growing wary. “I suspect it depends very much on the nature of the relationship, don’t you think?” With a smile for Amy, George sat on the
chaise
beside her.

“True,” Kit acknowledged. “But given the relationship was right, the husband’s willingness to confide is the next hurdle, don’t you think? What reasons could a man have for keeping secrets from his wife?”

Their next half hour was spent in a peculiar three-way conversation. George and Kit traded oblique references to Jack’s reticence, none of which Amy understood. Amy, for her part, urged Kit to unburden herself and explain her problem more fully—an undertaking George endeavored to discourage. In between, all three traded local gossip, and George managed to discuss the details of their wedding, which he’d come to the Manor to clarify.

Sensing the currents between Amy and George, suppressed in her presence, Kit rose and picked up her gloves. “I must be going. I feel sure my husband won’t approve of my being out after dark.”

With that acerbic comment, she embraced Amy fondly, nodded to George, and sailed from the room.

Amy watched her go, sighed—then went straight into George’s arms. They closed about her; she and George exchanged a warm and unrestrained kiss. Then Amy pulled back with a sigh. “I’m worried about Kit. She’s troubled by something—something serious.” She met George’s gaze. “I don’t like to think of her riding alone in such a mood.”

George grimaced. “Kit’s a big girl.”

Amy pressed closer. “Yes, but…” The eyes that met George’s twinkled. “And Mama will be home any minute.”

George sighed. “Very well.” He kissed Amy again, then set her from him. “But I’ll expect a reward next time I call.”

“You may claim it with my blessing,” Amy declared. “Just as long as Mama is out.”

George grinned, more than a touch wickedly. “I’ll be back.” With a wave, he headed for the stables.

He caught up with Kit as she left the stables, mounted on a chestnut mare. George stared. “Where’s Delia?”

For one fractured moment, Kit thought she’d erupt in flames. Her glance seared George. “Don’t ask!” She swung the chestnut toward the drive.

“Wait!” George called. “I’ll ride part of the way with you.”

When he rode out a minute later, Kit was schooling the mare in prancing circles, her groom watching from a distance. She fell in beside George; together they headed north and west.

George glanced at Kit. “I take it Jack hasn’t explained about the smuggling?”

Kit narrowed her eyes. “Explanations do not seem to be his strong point.”

George chuckled. When Kit glared, he explained: “You don’t know how true that is. Neither explanations nor excuses are part of Jack’s makeup. They weren’t characteristics of his father’s either.”

Kit frowned. “Someone once said he was ‘Hendonish.’ Is that what that means?”

George grinned. “If it was a woman who said it, not entirely, but it’s not unrelated to what I’m trying to say. Jack’s a born leader—all Hendons have been for generations. He’s used to being the one who makes the decisions. He knows what he wants, what needs to be done, and he gives orders to make it happen. He doesn’t expect to have to explain his actions and doesn’t relish being asked to do so.”

“That much, I’d gathered.”

George glanced at Kit’s disgruntled expression. “If it’s any consolation, despite the fact Matthew and I have known him for most of his life, and shared most of it, too, we received not the smallest word of explanation for your inclusion in the Gang. He didn’t even tell us you were a woman.”

They rode on in silence, Kit considering George’s words. His confidence did, in fact, ease some of the frustration dragging at her heart. Clearly, her husband was an autocrat of long standing; if George was right, a hereditary one. Equally clearly, none of those close to him had made the slightest push to influence his high-handed ways. The determination to make him change his attitude, at least with respect to her, grew with every short stride her meek chestnut took.

The fork that led to Smeaton Hall appeared ahead. Kit drew rein. “You know the truth about the smuggling, don’t you?”

Pulling up beside her, George sighed. “Yes, but I can’t tell you. Jack’s my superior in this. I can’t speak without his approval.”

Kit nodded and held out her hand. “Thank you.”

George met her eyes, then squeezed her fingers encouragingly. “He’ll tell you in the end.”

Kit nodded. “I know. When it’s over.”

George could only grin. He bowed and they parted, understanding each other rather better than before.

Kit stared at the packages on the carriage seat opposite. Had she bought enough? She’d come to Lynn to get some cambric. After last night, she’d decided that cambric shirts would be much more sensible for Jack to wear around the estate. He’d spent all yesterday helping thin coppices. She hadn’t known but should have guessed he’d be the sort of landowner who got off his horse, took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and helped his men. She’d come upon him entirely unintentionally, when, just before changing for dinner, she’d gone into his room in search of the sash that went with her silk negligee. It had been missing ever since the storm, three nights before. A groan emanating from the room beyond had drawn her to the open door.

The room had been fitted out as a bathing chamber, with a huge copper tub in the center. Jack had just sunk into the steaming water. He was facing away from her and as he bent forward to rest his head on his knees, she saw his back. It was covered with scratches.

“What on earth have you been doing?”

She’d strode forward, entirely forgetting her sash, oblivious of Matthew standing to one side.

Water had hit the floor as Jack swiveled, then he’d grimaced and leaned back in the tub, settling his head on the raised edge. “Falling through brambles.” A wave of his hand had sent Matthew from the room, a fact of which she should have taken more notice.

She’d stood by the tub, hands on hips, and examined all of her husband that she could see. Jack opened his eyes and squinted up at her through the steam. “You’ll be pleased to know it’s only my back.”

At his grin, she’d humphed. “Lean forward and let me see.”

She’d had to nag but in the end, he’d let her examine his wounds. Some of the scratches were deep and had bled, but none qualified as serious.

“Seeing you’re here, you may as well minister to my injuries.” He’d held out the sponge.

She’d pulled a face and taken the bait.

She should, of course, have guessed which track his mind had taken. But it hadn’t occurred to her that the tub was big enough for them both. And she’d certainly never imagined it was possible to perform the contortions they had within its slippery confines.

Yet another novel experience her husband had introduced her to.

Kit shook aside the distracting memory. She counted the ells of material again and wished she’d brought Elmina. Still, Lynn wasn’t so far that she couldn’t come again if they needed more. Kit turned to the window, to call to Josh the coachman that they could leave, when her gaze alighted on a natty trilby, entirely out of place in provincial Lynn.

Intrigued, she drew closer to the glass to view the body beneath the hat. “Good Lord!” Kit stared, seeing a ghost.

It was Belville—Lord George Belville.

Kit blinked, then stared again. The four years since he’d been a suitor for her hand had not treated him kindly. He still possessed a large, strong-boned frame, but his face was more fleshy and his girth had increased dramatically. His skin bore the pasty complexion of one who spent too much time in the gaming room. Features Kit remembered as finely chiseled had been coarsened by drink and general decadence, until he was but a bloated caricature of the man she’d nearly agreed to wed.

A cold shiver touched Kit’s nape and spread over her shoulders. Keeping within the shadows of the carriage, she watched as her erstwhile suitor strolled across the square to the King’s Arms, Lynn’s most comfortable inn. Belville was addicted to town pursuits. What was he doing here?

At the door of the inn, Belville paused. He glanced about, studying all those his pale gaze could find. Then, slowly, he entered the inn and shut the door behind him.

Frowning, Kit sank back against the squabs. Then, shifting to the other side of the carriage, she called to Josh to take her home. For some reason, she was sure she didn’t want Belville to see her. He represented part of her history that was no longer relevant; she didn’t intend to let him cloud her present happiness.

As the carriage rumbled out onto the open road, Kit’s frown deepened. Belville was nothing but a government official—he couldn’t harm her. So why did she feel so threatened?