Captain Jack's Woman (37 page)

Gradually, the perfume of her warm body reached out to flick his senses. He felt his body react and smiled at the ceiling. She’d been well loved, and it was a long way to Lisbon. He closed his eyes. He’d give her another hour or two.

He was woken by Kit scrambling over the bed. “My dress,” she said, catching hold of the garment and kneeling on the bed to inspect it. “You’ve ripped it.” She turned to throw an accusing stare his way. Then she glanced at the large armoire against one wall. “I don’t suppose that contains any dresses?”

Jack grinned and shook his head. Then he frowned. “Haven’t you got another in that bag of yours?” Her black bag had been left near the door.

Kit shook her head. “I didn’t expect to be away from home for long, remember?”

“What’s in there?”

Warily, Kit eyed the long muscled length stretched, relaxed, on the bed. “My breeches. Both pairs.”

Jack’s head came up; his eyes found hers. Then, to her relief, he chuckled and dropped his head back on the pillow. “Actually, I’d hoped you’d be reduced to wearing them when I found you at Jenny’s. I spent the entire trip down from London fantasizing about your punishment.”

Kit stared at him. Fantasizing? She licked her lips. “You never did say what my punishment would be.”

“Didn’t I?” Jack raised his head. One brow rose; his eyes glinted wickedly. “But that’s half the delight. Your imagination running riot in anticipation.”

“Jack!” Kit frowned and shifted on the bed, drawing the counterpane about her. Her imagination was stimulated enough already.

He dropped his head back again, then she felt the bed rock with his deep laughter. “I just had a thought.”

She could see the smile on his face. It grew. He came up on one elbow, the look on his face growing more wicked with every passing second.

“If your breeches are all you’ve got to wear, then perhaps you’d better put them on now. Then we can get your punishment over and done with and you can wear them in Lisbon, until we can buy you some new clothes.”

Kit stared as one arrogant brow rose, sending delicious shivers skittering through her. His gaze held Hers steadily, as if what he was suggesting was the most straightforward proposition in the world. Dazed, Kit reflected that if she had a single proper bone in her body, she would tell him that married women did not indulge in realizing fantasies. Particularly not his fantasies. She concluded she didn’t have a proper bone to her name.

She ran the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. “What sort of punishment did you have in mind?”

Jack smiled. “Nothing too drastic. Nothing that would hurt. I’d intended it as a purely educational exercise.” He sat up in bed and leaned back to study her, his arms crossed behind his head. “I thought I should widen your experience by showing you what could happen should you be caught by a man while wearing breeches. But you’d have to promise not to squeal.”

Squeal?
Kit blinked. This was madness. But she’d never be able to sleep without knowing what he’d planned. Now he’d told her that much, and no more, sometime, somewhere, she’d wear her breeches again just to learn the rest. Why not now?

Jack knew she’d never be able to refuse, to walk away without knowing. Curiosity was something his kitten possessed in abundance. He sat back, entirely confident, and waited for her agreement.

“Perhaps—”

A knock on the stateroom door interrupted Kit’s tentative acceptance.

“Lord Hendon?”

Jack got up and reached for his breeches, a smile still on his lips. “I’ll take care of whatever it is. Why don’t you get dressed?”

Buttoning his breeches, he went out.

Kit stared at the door through which he’d disappeared. She could hear talk in the next room, the voices muffled by the panels. Her gaze dropped to her small black bag, resting where Jack had dropped it, just inside the door.

She was buttoning up the flap of her riding breeches, her back to the door, when she heard Jack enter.

He saw her and, with a half-suppressed whoop, swooped down on her, one arm slipping around her waist to drag her up hard against him, her back to his chest. Without effort, he lifted her feet clear of the floor.

“Jack!” Kit struggled, keeping her voice down, remembering that she mustn’t squeal. She assumed his surprise attack was what he’d meant. He’d certainly startled her. Her hands fastened on the muscled arm about her waist. “Put me down.”

A rumbling chuckle ruffled her curls. Then his lips nuzzled her ear. “Remember, this is your punishment, love. Not something you have any say in. Just something you
feel.
”

Kit closed her eyes. She wished she hadn’t heard that. Her nerves were in turmoil. What fiendishly arousing act had he planned? She hadn’t a single doubt as to its nature. His shaft was already hard and throbbing, pressed between the firm hemispheres of her bottom.

She didn’t have to wait long to learn her punishment.

“I really don’t think,” her husband continued conversationally, his fingers rapidly undoing the buttons she’d just done up, “that you appreciate just how fast a man can have at you when you’re dressed in breeches.”

With that, he pulled the offending garment down, letting it slip from her thighs to hang from the closures above her calves.

“And given that you’re so easily aroused,” he went on, moving closer to a chair which was facing away from them. He let Kit slide down until her toes touched the ground. With a gasp, she grabbed the back of the chair with both hands as she felt Jack’s fingers slide effortlessly into her. They withdrew and returned, delving deep, then left her.

“It takes but a second before you’ve…”

She felt him, hard and hot, behind her.

“Been…”

He lifted her hips slightly, the head of his swollen shaft nudging into her.

“Had.” Then he drove home.

The young cabin boy was leaving the Master’s cabin when he heard a very feminine “
Oo-oh!
” emanate from behind the oak door at the end of the corridor. His eyes widened. He cast a glance at the stairs but there was no one about. Quickly, he put down his tray and hurried to press his ear against the door to the bedroom.

At first, he heard nothing. Then his sharp ears caught a low moan, followed by another. One particularly long-drawn moan made his toes curl. Then he heard, quite distinctly, a definitely feminine voice sigh, “
Oh, Jack!
”

T
he wind whistled in the eaves of the Old Barn. It sent cold fingers sneaking through the crevices between the boards to set the lamp hung from the rafters wobbling. Shadows dipped and swayed eerily, ignored by the men gathered under the derelict roof. They were waiting. Waiting for their leader to return.

Captain Jack had led them to success after success. Under him, they’d enjoyed stability and strong leadership; he’d welded them into an efficient force, one they all felt proud to be a part of. They’d steered clear of the Revenue and of any more heinous crimes. They’d suffered no losses, other than poor Joe. And, thanks to Captain Jack, his family had been well taken care of.

All in all, Captain Jack’s reign had been one of prosperity. The news that he’d been forced to retire had hit them hard. George, Jack’s friend, had brought the news, more than a month ago. Since then, they’d done little, too demoralized to reorganize.

Then, last week, the message had gone around. Captain Jack was back. They’d gathered this foggy Monday night in the expectation of seeing their leader return.

George and Matthew had arrived. As ever, they’d taken up positions on either side of the door. The men chatted quietly, anticipation riding high.

A sudden gust howled about the roof; fingers of fog wreathed about the rickety door. Then the doors opened and a man strode in, fog clinging like a cloak to his broad shoulders. He walked in as Jack had always walked, to stand directly under the lamp, swinging high above.

The smugglers stared.

It was Jack, yet a Jack they’d never seen. His clothes marked him clearly as one born to rule. From the high gloss of his Hessians, to the faultless crease of his cravat, he was Quality. The grey eyes they all remembered scanned their faces, impressing power just as they recalled, only this time the personal strength was backed by social standing.

“Jack?” The puzzled question was asked by Shep, his grizzled brows knitted in consternation.

The slow smile they all remembered twisted the man’s lips. “Lord Hendon.”

The name should have sent shivers down every spine, but they all knew this man, knew he’d smuggled alongside them, that he’d saved their hides a good few times. So they sat and waited to have the mystery explained.

Jack’s grin grew. He took up his usual stance, feet apart, under the light. “It’s like this.”

He told them the story, simply, without detail or embellishment. The essential points were enough for them to grasp. He made no mention of Young Kit, a fact some noted but none made comment upon. When they grasped the fact they’d been helping His Majesty’s government to apprehend spies, the atmosphere lightened considerably. When Jack showed them the pardon he’d brought for them all, and read the official decree, they simply stared.

“This will be posted in all the Revenue Offices in Norfolk. It means that as of today, you’re absolved of any crime under the Customs Act committed up until last night.” Jack rolled the parchment up and tucked it into his pocket. “What you do with your lives from now on is up to you. But you’ll be starting with a clean slate, so I’d urge you all to think carefully before you re-form the Hunstanton Gang.” He smiled, wryly, convinced that no matter what he said, after a spell, the Hunstanton Gang would live again. “You’ll doubtless be pleased to know that I’m retiring as High Commissioner. In fact, it’s doubtful there will be another appointment made to the post.”

His glance took them all in, every last unlovely face. Jack smiled. “And now, my friends, I’ll bid you farewell.”

Without looking back, Jack walked to the door. Matthew opened it for him, then he and George followed him outside. There was a murmur of farewell from the men in the barn, but none made any attempt to follow.

Outside, Jack stood under the open skies, his hair glinting in the moonlight. He dropped his head back, his hands on his hips and stared at the pale orb, glowing amid the clouds.

George drew near. “And so ends the career of Captain Jack?”

Jack swiveled about. In the moonlight, George saw his devilish smile. “For the moment.”

“For the moment?” Incredulous horror filled George’s voice.

Jack threw back his head and laughed, then strode toward the trees.

Puzzled, George watched him go. Then he gasped and grabbed Matthew’s arm as a rider burst from the band of firs directly in front of Jack. Jack’s stride didn’t falter; if anything, he moved faster. Then George recognized the horse, and noticed Champion behind.

“Dangerous fools!” he said, but he was grinning.

“Aye,” said Matthew. “Imagine what their young’ll be like.”

“God preserve us.” George watched as Jack swung up to Champion’s saddle. Kit tossed some remark over her shoulder and set Delia for the road. Jack followed, bringing Champion up to ride by his wife’s side.

George watched until their shadows mingled with the trees and disappeared. Smiling, he turned to fetch his horse, his ride home made light by anticipation of Amy, now his wife, waiting safe at home in their bed.

“Incidentally,” Jack said to Kit, as Champion led the way up the narrow path onto Hendon lands. “You’ll have to give up riding Delia.”

Kit frowned and leaned forward to pat the glossy neck as Delia followed the stallion at a slow walk. “Why?”

Jack grinned, knowing his wife couldn’t see it. “Let’s just say you and she have more in common than you might at first suppose.”

It took Kit a moment to work that one out. On the ship, her bouts of queasiness had become more pronounced day by day, until, when they’d left Bruges, she’d had to admit to Jack that she suspected she was carrying his child. To her abiding irritation, he’d admitted he’d known she was since he’d first made love to her in the big bed in their stateroom. Ever since, he’d gone around positively glowing with a smug pride that never failed to get her goat. His protectiveness, of course, had reached new heights. She’d been surprised he hadn’t yet taken exception to her riding; doubtless that would come. But what could Delia and she have in common?

The answer made her rein in with a gasp. “You mean…? How…?” Jack drew up and turned to look at her. The truth was easy to read in his smile. Kit’s eyes narrowed. “Jack Hendon! Do you mean to tell me you’ve let that brute of a stallion get at Delia?”

Her husband’s eyes widened with unlikely innocence. “But, my love, surely you wouldn’t deny Delia a pleasure you take so much delight in?”

Kit opened her mouth, then abruptly shut it. She glared at her aggravating husband. Would he always have the last word?

With an irritated humph, she clicked her reins.

Jack laughed and fell in beside her. “Well, are you satisfied you’ve shared in Captain Jack’s end?”

Wide eyes turned his way. “Has Captain Jack died?” Her voice was sultry. “Or has he simply changed his clothes for a while?”

Jack’s eyes widened as he read her look. But before he could say anything, Kit urged Delia ahead. She led the way homeward, but pulled up in the clearing before the cottage.

Jack drew rein beside her. “Tired?”

Kit eyed the cottage. “Not exactly.” She slanted a look at her husband.

Jack saw it. He groaned, mock resignation not entirely concealing his anticipation, and dismounted. “I’ll take care of the horses, you take care of the fire.”

Kit laughed as he lifted her down. She reached up to draw his lips to hers, pressing her body against his in flagrant promise. Then, smugly satisfied with his immediate reaction, she released him and ran for the door.

Jack watched her go, a slow smile curving his lips. Despite all her adventures, Captain Jack’s damned woman was every bit as wild as she’d ever been—outwardly conservative, in reality as untamed as he. She was headstrong but his, in his blood as he was in hers; there could be no tighter bond. Caring for her would fill the empty center of his life; she’d already filled his heart. He could count on her to exasperate, frustrate and infuriate—and love him with all her soul.

She would keep him on his toes. Jack glanced at the cottage. He hoped she was getting impatient.

With a conspiratorial wink for Champion, and a last smiling glance at the moon, he took the horses to the stable before swiftly returning to the cottage—and the warm, loving arms of his wife.