Captain Jack's Woman (33 page)

Out of sight and sound, Kit’s fingers closed about the small pistol tucked into the pocket in Champion’s saddle. She let out a sigh of relief. If only she could get back in time.

As she scurried into the dunes, she heard Belville’s voice, angry and demanding. Clearly, he hadn’t liked being known. Jack’s voice answered, smooth and confident, which only seemed to wind Belville’s spring tighter. Kit forced herself to take care twisting through the dunes, praying her husband’s glib tongue wouldn’t get him shot before she made it back.

“Let’s just say I’m someone with an interest in the traffic.” Jack kept his eyes on Belville’s. “Perhaps, if we talk, we might discover our interests are complementary?”

Belville frowned, clearly debating the possibility. Then he slowly shook his head. “There’s something damned odd about your ‘traffic.’ You sent a man out tonight—Henry and I would like to know what he was carrying. There’s no other traitor in Whitehall bar us—Henry’s quite sure of that. Which means you’re running a double deal, one which may well rebound on Henry’s and my necks.” Belville smiled, a chilling sight. “I’m afraid, dear sir, that your days in the profession have come to an end.”

So saying, he raised both pistols.

Ten feet behind him, Kit skidded to a soundless halt in the sand, eyes wide and terrified. She jerked Jack’s pistol up before her, clutching it in both hands. Screwing her eyes tight shut, she pulled the trigger.

An explosion of sound ricochetted from the cliffs. Both Jack and George rocked back on their heels, expecting to feel the searing pain of a bullet somewhere in their flesh. As the veil of powder smoke drifted past on the breeze, they looked at each other and realized neither had stopped a bullet. Matthew reached them, equally astonished to find both unharmed. In amazement, they all turned to stare at Belville.

His lordship’s pasty complexion had paled, a look of incredulity stamped across his fleshy features. Both pistols were smoking but pockmarks in the sand at Jack’s and George’s feet bore evidence that he’d not raised his weapons far before discharging them.

Bewildered, Jack looked into the man’s eyes, only to find them glazing. As he watched, Belville twisted to the right and collapsed in a heap on the sand.

Facing them stood Kit, now revealed, a smoking pistol in her hands, her eyes enormous pools of shock.

Jack forgot about Belville, about missions and spies. In a split second, he’d covered the space between them and wrapped Kit in his arms, crushing her to him, furious and thankful all at once. “Damn woman!” he said into her curls. “How the hell did you get here?”

He felt weak, shock and relief offsetting his anger that she was there at all. As he reached for the gun, hanging from her limp fingers, he swore softly. “What the hell am I to do with you?”

Kit blinked up at him, thoroughly disoriented. She’d just killed a man. She wriggled in Jack’s arms, trying to peer around his shoulders to where George and Matthew were bent over Belville’s body. But Jack held her firmly, using his body to shield her. “Be still.”

With no alternative, Kit did. Almost immediately waves of nausea swept through her. She paled and swayed into Jack’s embrace as faintness dragged at her senses.

“It’s all right. Breathe deeply.”

Kit heard the words of comfort and did as she was told. Gradually, the world stopped spinning.

Then George was beside them.

Jack held her tight, her face pressed to his chest. Beneath her cheek she could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady, very much alive. Tears started to her eyes. Annoyed at her weakness, Kit blinked them away.

One look at George’s face was enough for Jack, but he had to know and Kit had to hear. “Dead?”

George nodded. “Clean through the heart.”

Jack stifled a ridiculous urge to ask Kit whether, among her many odd talents, she included pistol shooting. Even at such close range, a clean shot under pressure took skill. And courage. But he had no doubt of her reserves of that quality.

The resigned overtones in each man’s voice brought Kit’s head up. She stared at Jack. “Didn’t you want him dead?”

To his exasperation, Jack couldn’t come up with a convincing affirmative fast enough to allay her suspicions. Instead, her shocked gaze compelled him to stick to something like the truth. “It would have been more help if we could have got him alive, but,” he hurried on, “in the circumstances, Matthew, George, and I are perfectly happy to be alive. Don’t think we’re complaining.”

Jack couldn’t tell what she was feeling; her eyes reflected a turmoil far deeper than his own. To his relief, George came to his aid.

“Matthew says a body put in here will be taken out to sea.”

Jack nodded. A disappearance would be easier all around. Bodies had to be explained, and explaining Belville’s would not help their mission.

“Joe—we have to find Joe!”

Kit’s voice jerked both her listeners to a sense of their duty.

“No!” came from both of them.

“I’ll take you home,” Jack continued. “George will deal with Joe.”

But Kit drew back as far as he’d let her, shaking her head vehemently. “But he might not…No. We have to look now!”

Both men registered the note of hysteria in her voice. They exchanged troubled glances over her head.

“Come on!” Kit was tugging at Jack’s arm. “He might be dying while you argue!”

Neither Jack nor George held much hope for Joe but neither felt confident of convincing Kit of the fact he was almost certainly dead already. With a sigh, Jack released her but retained a firm hold on her hand. Together, the three of them mounted to the cliff and approached the hillock.

A pathetic bundle in worn clothes was all that remained of Joe. The sand about was stained with the blood that had poured from the gaping wound in his neck. Kit stared. Then, with a convulsive sob, she buried her face in Jack’s shirt.

George checked but there was no vestige of life left in the huddled form.

Kit struggled to draw breath. For weeks, she’d been Jack’s lookout, playing smuggler without a care in the world. It had all been a game. But Joe’s death was no game. If she’d still been with Jack, she would have died. Instead, Joe had gone. Any possibility of feeling remorse for killing Belville disappeared, run to ground along with Joe’s blood. She’d avenged Joe, and for that she was glad.

The sudden rush of emotions weakened her to the point where Jack’s arms were the only thing holding her upright. He sensed her draining strength and swore.

To Jack, the sight of his murdered lookout was a scene from a nightmare. Of course, in his worst nightmare, the huddled figure was Kit. The fact that it was Joe who had died muted the shock, but it was still very real. Badly shaken, he swung Kit into his arms, drawing comfort from the warmth in her slim frame.

George looked up. “Matthew and I will sort this out. For the Lord’s sake, get her home. And don’t leave her alone.”

Jack needed no further urging. He carried his silent wife down to the horses and set her on Champion. He swung up behind her and settled her against him. “Where’s your horse?”

Kit told him as they negotiated the climb to the cliff. Jack rode to the trees and tied the mare to Champion’s saddle before setting a direct course for the Castle. His one aim was to get a brandy into Kit and then get her to bed. She was already shivering. He’d no experience of deep shock in women, but he fully expected her to get worse.

As they traversed the moonlit fields, Kit struggled to find her mental feet. She’d killed a man. No matter how she viewed that fact, she was unable to feel anything like guilt. In the same position, she’d do it again. He’d been about to kill Jack, and that was all that had mattered. As Castle Hendon loomed on the horizon, she accepted reality. Jack was hers—like any female of any species, she’d kill in a loved one’s defense.

“We’ll have to do something for Joe’s family.”

The sudden comment brought Jack out of his daze.

“Don’t worry. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yes, but…” Kit went on, unaware she was babbling all but incoherently.

Jack soothed her with reassurances. Eventually, she quieted, as if her outburst had drained her remaining strength. She sagged against him, comfortingly alive. Jack concentrated on guiding Champion through the darkening fields. His mind was full of conflicting emotions. The moon was setting; it was full dark by the time he clattered into his stables.

He shouted for Martins. The man came at a run, tucking his nightshirt into his breeches. Jack dismounted, then lifted Kit down, ignoring Martins’s shocked stare. His wife’s breeches were the most minor of the concerns pressing for his attention. He left Martins to deal with the horses and carried Kit to the house. He let them in through a side door. A single candle waited on the table just inside. Jack ignored it. He carried Kit straight to her room.

Once there, he stripped her of her clothes, ignoring her protests, handling her gently, like a child. He grabbed a towel and rubbed her briskly, over every square inch, until she glowed. Kit grumbled and tried to stop him, then gave up and lay still, slowly relaxing under his hands. He left her for a moment, stretched naked on her bed, her coverlet thrown over her. When he returned from his room, he was also naked and carried two glasses of brandy.

Jack slipped under the coverlet, feeling Kit’s satin skin warm against his. “Here. Drink this.”

He held the glass to her lips and persevered until, under protest, she’d drained it. He drained his own in one gulp and put both glasses on the table. Then he slipped down into the bed beside her, gathering her into his arms.

To his surprise, Kit turned to look up at him. She put up one hand to draw his head down to hers. He kissed her. And went on kissing her as he felt her come alive.

It hadn’t been his intention, but when later he lay sated and close to sleep, Kit a warm bundle beside him, he had to admit his wife’s timing had not been at fault. Their union had been an affirmation of their need for each other, of the fact that they were both still alive. They’d needed the moment.

Jack yawned and tightened his hold about Kit. There were things he had to think of, before he could yield to sleep. Someone had to take news of Belville’s death posthaste to London. It sounded as if “Henry” was Belville’s superior in the spying trade, and presumably worked somewhere in Whitehall. Whoever Henry was, they needed to make sure of him before Belville’s disappearance tipped him off. Could George go to London? No—whoever went would need to explain Belville’s death. He could take responsibility for his wife’s actions; no other man could.

He would have to go, and go early.

Jack glanced down at Kit’s curly red head, a fuzz in the darkness. He grimaced. She wouldn’t be pleased, but there was no help for it.

The vision of her, his smoking pistol in her hand, came back to haunt him. He hadn’t known what he’d felt when he’d seen her standing there and realized what she’d done. He still didn’t.

No husband should have to go through the traumas she’d put him through. When he returned from London, that was something he
was
going to explain.

W
hen Kit woke and saw the letter, addressed to her in her husband’s scrawl, propped on the pillow beside her, she groaned and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the letter was still there.

Damn him! What now? Muttering French curses, she sat up and broke the seal.

Her shriek of fury brought Elmina hurrying in. “
Ma petite
! You are ill?”

“
I’m
not ill—but he will be when I get my hands on the bloody high-and-mighty High Commissioner! How
dare
he leave me like this?”

Kit threw down the letter and flung the covers from her legs, barely noticing her nakedness in her anger. She accepted the gown Elmina, scandalized, threw about her shoulders, shrugging into the silk confection before she realized it was one of those he’d bought her. “What’s the use of these things if he’s not even here to see them?”

Her furious question was addressed to the ceiling. Elmina left it unanswered.

By the time Kit had bathed and breakfasted, very much alone, her temper had cooled to an icy rage. She read her husband’s letter three more times, then ripped it to shreds.

Determined not to think about it, she tried to submerge herself in her daily routine with varied success. But when evening approached and she was still alone, her distractions became limited. In the end, after a lonely dinner, seated in splendid solitude at the dining table, she retired to the library, to the chair by the fire, to stare broodingly at the vacant chair behind his desk.

It wasn’t fair.

She still had very few clues as to his purpose, but her suspicions were mounting. She’d helped him gain control over all the smugglers in the area—she didn’t know why he’d needed that but was sure it had been his objective in joining his Gang with her small outfit. Despite her constant requests, he’d refused to divulge his plans. Even when she’d threatened him with exposure, he’d stood firm. Then she’d saved them from the Revenue, nearly dying in the process. Had he weakened? Not a bit!

Kit snorted and shifted in her chair, slipping her feet from her slippers and tucking her cold toes beneath her skirts.

His reaction to the latest developments was all of a piece. He’d hied off to London, to smooth things over regarding Belville’s death, so he’d said. Kit’s eyes narrowed, her lips twisted cynically. He’d slipped up there. Their story for public consumption was that Belville had disappeared, presumed a victim of the treacherous currents. She wished she knew who Jack was seeing in the capital. Doubtless, they were getting the explanation she’d been denied.

Kit sighed and stretched. The lamps were burning low. She might as well go up to her empty bed. There was no getting away from the fact that her husband simply didn’t trust her, was apparently incapable of trusting her.

Full lips drew into a line; amethyst eyes gleamed. Kit put her feet back into her slippers and stood.

Somehow, she was going to have to make clear to her aggravating spouse that his attitude was simply not good enough.

With a determined tread, she headed for bed.

When Sunday dawned, Kit found herself both husbandless and filled with restless energy—the latter a natural consequence of the former. Flinging back the curtains, she looked out on a fairy-tale scene. The green of the fields was dew-drenched, each jeweled blade sparkling under a benevolent sun. There was not a cloud to be seen; the birds sang a serenade of joy to the bluest of skies. A glint appeared in Kit’s eye. She hurried to the wardrobe. It would have to be her inexpressibles; Jack had been overly hasty in divesting her of her riding breeches and Elmina had yet to mend them.

Clad as a boy, she slipped from the still sleeping mansion. Saddling the chestnut with her convertible sidesaddle was easy enough. Then she was riding out, quickly, lest the grooms see her, heading south. She reached the paddock where Delia was held. The black mare came racing at her whistle. It was the work of a few minutes to transfer the saddle, then she turned the chestnut loose to graze in unwonted luxury, while she and Delia enjoyed themselves.

She rode straight for the north coast, passing close by the cottage, a black arrow speeding onward. When they pulled up on the cliffs, exhilaration pounded in her veins. She was breathing hard. Laughter bubbled in her throat. Kit held up her hands to the sun and stretched. It was wonderful to be alive.

It would be even more wonderful if her hideously handsome husband was here to enjoy it with her—only he wasn’t. Kit pushed that thought, and the annoyance it brought, aside. She cast about for a cliff path.

She rode eastward along the sands, then came up to the cliffs to make her way onto the anvil-shaped headland above Brancaster. Kit let Delia have her head along the pale sands where the Hunstanton Gang had run so many cargoes.

She found the body in the last shallow bay before the eastern point.

Pulling Delia up a few yards away, Kit stared at the sprawled figure at the water’s edge. Waves washed over his legs. He’d been thrown up on the beach by the retreating tide. Not a muscle moved; he was as still as death.

His black hair rang a bell.

Carefully, Kit dismounted and approached the body. When it was clear the man was incapable of proving a threat, she turned him on his back. Recognition was instant. The arrogant black brows and aristocratic features of Jack’s French spy met her wondering gaze. He was deathly pale but still alive—she could see the pulse beating shallowly at the base of his throat.

What had happened? More importantly, what should she do?

With a strangled sigh, Kit bent over her burden and locked her hands about his arms. She tugged him higher up the beach, to where the waves could no longer reach him. Then she sat down to think.

If he was a French spy, she should hand him over to the Revenue. What would Jack think of that? Not much—he wouldn’t be impressed. But surely, as a loyal English-woman, that was her duty? Which took precedence—duty to one’s husband or duty to one’s country? And were they really different, or was that merely an illusion Jack used for his own peculiar ends?

Kit groaned and drove her fingers through her curls. She wished her husband were here, not so he could take control but so she could vent her feelings and give him the piece of her mind he most certainly deserved.

But Jack wasn’t here, and she was alone. And his French friend needed help. His body was chilled; from the look of him, he’d been in the water for some time. He looked strong and healthy enough, but was probably exhausted. She needed to get him warm and dry as soon as possible.

Kit considered her options. It was early yet. If she moved him soon, there’d be less chance of anyone seeing him. The cottage was the closest safe place where he could be tended. She stood and examined her patient. Luckily, he was slighter than Jack. She’d found it easy enough to move him up the beach; she could probably support half his weight if necessary.

It took a moment to work out the details. Kit thanked her stars she’d trained Delia to all sorts of tricks. The mare obediently dropped to her knees beside the Frenchman. Kit tugged and pulled and pushed and strained and eventually got him into her saddle, leaning forward over the pommel, his cheek on Delia’s neck, his hands trailing the sands on either side of the horse. Satisfied, Kit scrambled on behind, drew a deep breath and gave Delia the signal to stand. She nearly lost him, but at the last moment, managed to haul his weight back onto the mare. Delia stood patiently until she’d settled him once more. Then they set off, as fast as she dared.

Dismounting was rather more rough-and-ready. Kit’s arms ached from the strain of holding him on. She slid to the ground, then eased the leaden weight over until, with a swoosh, he left the saddle to end in a sprawled heap before the door. Exasperated with his helplessness, Kit spared a moment to glare at him. She paused to tug him into a more comfortable position before going into the cottage to prepare the bed.

She found an old sheet and spread it on the bed. His clothes would have to come off, but not until she’d used them as handholds to get him up onto the mattress. Returning to her patient, she dragged him inside. Getting him up on the bed was a frustrating struggle, but eventually, he was laid out upon the sheet, long and slim and, Kit had to admit, handsome enough to make her notice.

Jack didn’t leave his knives lying about, but his sword still resided in the back of the wardrobe. Kit put it to good use, slicing the Frenchman’s clothes from him. She tried not to look as she peeled the material away, turning him over on his stomach as she went and pulling the muddy sheet from under him. There were bruises on his shoulders and arms, as if he’d been in a fight, and one purpling blotch on one hip, as if he’d struck something. She flicked the covers over him and tucked them in.

Glowing with pride in a job well-done, she set about lighting the fire and heating some bricks. Later, when her patient was as warm and dry as she could make him, she made some tea and settled down to wait.

It wasn’t long before, thawed by the warmth, he stirred and turned on his back. Kit approached the bed, confidently leaning across to lay a cool hand on his forehead.

Strong fingers encircled her wrist. Heavy lids rose to reveal black eyes, hazed with fever. The man stared wildly up at her, his eyes searching her face. “
Qui est-ce vous êtes?
” The black eyes raked the cottage, then returned to her face. “
Où sont-nous?
”

The questions demanded an answer. Kit gave it in French. “You’re quite safe. You must rest.” She tried to ease her hand from his hold, but his fingers tightened instead. Irritated by this show of brute male strength when it was least helpful, Kit added with distinct asperity: “If you bruise the goods, Jack won’t be pleased.”

The mention of her husband’s name saw her instantly released. The black eyes scanned her, more confused than ever. “You are…acquainted with…Captain Jack?”

Kit nodded. “You could say that. I’ll get you something to drink.”

To her relief, her patient behaved himself although he continued to study her. He drank the weak tea without complaint. Almost immediately, he sank back into sleep. But his rest was disturbed.

Kit bit her lip as she watched him twist in the bed. He was muttering in French. She drew closer, to the foot of the bed. In his present state, she wasn’t certain how clear his mind was. Getting too close might not be wise.

Suddenly, he turned on his back and his breathing relaxed. To her surprise, he started speaking quite lucidly in perfect English. “There are
only two
of them—only two more of the bastards left. But Hardinges drank too fast—the cretin passed out before I could get anything more out of him, blast his ignorant hide.” He paused, a frown dragging the elegant black brows down. “No. Wait. There was one more clue—though God knows it’s not much to go on. Hardinges kept using the phrase ‘the sons of dukes.’ I think it means one of the two we’re after is a duke’s son, but I can’t be sure. However, I wouldn’t have thought Hardinges was given to poetic illusion.” A brief smile flickered over the dark face. “Well, Jack m’lad, I’m afraid that’s all I could learn. So you’d better get on that grey terror of yours and fly the news back to London. Whatever they do, they’ll have to do it fast. The vultures are closing in—they know something’s in the wind our side, and they’re determined to extract the ore by whatever means possible. If there’s a rat still left in our nest, they’ll find him.” The long speech seemed to have drained the man’s strength. After a pause, he asked: “Jack?”

Startled, Kit shook off her daze. “Jack’s on his way.”

The man sighed and sank deeper into the pillows. His lips formed the word “Good.” The next instant he was asleep.

With gentle snores punctuating the stillness, Kit sat and put the latest pieces of the jigsaw of her husband’s activities into place. He was the High Commissioner for North Norfolk—he’d been specifically entrusted with stamping out the smuggling of spies. It now appeared as if, not content with chasing spies on this side of the Channel, Jack had been instrumental in sending some of their own to France.

All of which was very well, but why couldn’t he have told her?

Kit paced before the fire, shooting glances every now and then at her patient. There was no reason why Jack couldn’t have entrusted her with the details of his mission, particularly not after her sterling service to the cause, albeit given in ignorance. It was patently clear that her husband harbored some archaic idea of her place in his life. It was a place she had no intention of being satisfied with.

She wanted to share his life, not forever be a peripheral part of it, an adjunct held at arms’ distance by the simple device of information control.

Kit’s eyes glittered; her lips thinned. It was time she devoted more of her energies to her husband’s education.

It was late morning before she felt comfortable in leaving the Frenchman—who was clearly no Frenchman at all. There was no possibility of hiding her male garb, so she didn’t try. She rode straight to the Castle stables and dismounted elegantly as Martins ran up, his eyes all but popping from his head.

“Take care of Delia, Martins. You can return her to the back paddock later and bring up the chestnut. I’ll not be riding again today.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kit marched to the house, stripping off her gloves as she went. Lovis was in the hall when she entered. Kit sent one defiant glance his way. To his credit, not a muscle quivered as he came forward, his stately demeanor unimpaired by a sight which, Kit suspected, sorely tried his conservative soul.

“Lovis, I want to send a message immediately to Mr. Smeaton. I’ll write a note; I want one of the men ready to carry it to Smeaton Hall as soon as I’ve finished.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Lovis moved to open the library door for her. “Martins’s son will be waiting.”

Pulling the chair up to her husband’s desk, Kit drew a clean sheet of paper toward her. The note to George was easy, suggesting he go immediately to the aid of his “French” friend, whom she’d left in the cottage, somewhat
hors de combat.
She paused, then penned a final sentence.