Captain Jack's Woman (6 page)

The predatory gleam in her ladyship’s eyes set alarm bells ringing; Kit’s interest fled.
Good God
—
she’s trying to marry me off to Lord Hendon!

To Kit’s immense relief, Jenkins chose that precise instant to enter with the tea tray. If not for the timely interruption, she’d never have stilled the heated denial that had risen, involuntarily, to her lips.

Conversation became general over the teacups. With the ease born of considerable practice in company far more demanding than the present, Kit contributed her share.

Suddenly, Spencer slapped his thigh. “Forgot!” He looked at Kit. “There’s a letter for you, m’dear. On the table there.” His nod indicated a small table by the window.

“For me?” Kit rose and went to fetch it.

Spencer nodded. “It’s from Julian. I got one, too.”

“Julian?” Kit returned to the
chaise,
examining the packet addressed in her youngest cousin’s unmistakable scrawl.

“Go on, read it. Lord and Lady Marchmont’ll excuse you, I’m sure.”

Lord Marchmont nodded benignly, his wife much more avidly. Kit broke the Cranmer seal and quickly scanned the lines, crossed and recrossed, with two blots for good measure. “He’s done it,” she breathed, as Julian’s meaning became clear. “He’s enlisted!”

Her face alight, Kit looked at Spencer and saw her happiness for Julian mirrored in his eyes. Spencer nodded. “Aye. About time he went his own road. It’ll be the making of him, I don’t doubt.”

Blinking, Kit nodded. Julian had wanted to join the army forever but, as the youngest of the Cranmer brood, he’d been protected and cosseted and steadfastly refused permission to break free. He’d reached his majority a fortnight ago and had signed up immediately. A passage toward the end of his letter sent a stab of sheer, painful pride through her.

You broke free, Kit. You made up your mind and went your own way. I decided to do the same. Wish me luck?

Her grandfather and Lord Marchmont were discussing the latest news from Europe; Lady Marchmont was eating a queen cake. With a happy sigh, Kit refolded the letter and laid it aside.

Jenkins returned, and the Marchmonts rose to take their leave, Lady Marchmont evolving plans for a ball to introduce the new Lord Hendon to his neighbors. “We haven’t given a ball in years. We’ll make it a large one—something special. A masquerade, perhaps? I’ll want your advice, my dear, so think about it.” With a wag of her chubby finger, Lady Marchmont sat back in her carriage.

On the steps, Kit smiled and waved. Beside her, Spencer clapped the Lord Lieutenant on the shoulder. “About that other matter. Tell Hendon he can count on support from Cranmer if he needs it. The Cranmers have always stood shoulder to shoulder with the Hendons through the years—we’ll continue to do so. Particularly now we’ve one of our own at risk. Can’t let any spies endanger young Julian.” Spencer smiled. “Just as long as Hendon remembers he’s Norfolk born and bred, that is. I’ve no mind to give up my brandy.”

The twinkle in Spencer’s eye was pronounced. An answering gleam lit Lord Marchmont’s gaze. “No, b’God. Very true. But he keeps a fine cellar, just like Jake, so I doubt we’ll need to explain that to him.”

With a nod to Kit, Lord Marchmont climbed in beside his wife. The door shut, the coachman clicked the reins; the heavy coach lurched off.

Kit watched it disappear, then dropped a kiss on Spencer’s weathered cheek and hugged him hard before descending the steps. With a last wave to Spencer, she headed for the gardens for a last stroll before dinner.

The shrubbery welcomed her with cool green walls, leading to a secluded grove with a fountain in the middle. Kit sat on the stone surround of the pool, trailing her fingers in the water. Her pleasure at Julian’s news gradually faded, giving way to consideration of Lady Marchmont’s fixation.

It was inevitable that the local ladies would busy themselves over finding her a husband; they’d known her from birth and, naturally, not one approved of her present state. With the appearance of Lord Hendon, an apparently eligible bachelor, on the scene, they had the ingredients of exactly the sort of plot they collectively delighted in hatching.

Grimacing, Kit shook the water from her fingers. They could hatch and plot to their hearts’ content—she was past the age of innocent gullibility. Doubtless, despite his eligibility, Lord Hendon would prove to be another earl of Roberts. No—he couldn’t be that old, not if Jake had been his father. Fortyish, a dessicated old stick but not quite old enough to be her father.

With a sigh, Kit stood and shook out her skirts. Unfortunately for Lady Marchmont, she hadn’t escaped London—and her aunts’ coils—to fall victim to the schemes of the local
grandes dames.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon. Kit turned back toward the house. As she passed through the hedged walks, she shivered. Were spies run through the Norfolk surf? On that subject, her opinions matched Spencer’s. The trade was tolerable, as long as it was just trade. But spying was treason. Did the Hunstanton Gang run “human cargo”?

Kit frowned; her temples throbbed. The day had gone and she was no nearer to solving her dilemma. Worse, she now had potential treason to avoid.

Or avert.

A
quiet dinner with Spencer did not advance Kit’s thoughts on Captain Jack’s offer. She retired early, intending to spend a few clear hours pondering the pros and cons. But once in her bedroom, the fidgets caught her. In desperation, she threw on her masculine clothes and slipped down the back stairs.

She’d become adept at bridling and saddling Delia in the dark. Soon, she was galloping over fields intermittently lit by a setting moon, half-hidden by low, scudding clouds. On horseback, with the breeze whistling about her ears, she relaxed. Now, she could think.

Try as she might, she couldn’t see a way off the carousel. If Young Kit simply disappeared, then riding alone dressed as a youth, by day or by night, became dangerous in the extreme. Young Kit would have to die in truth. Of course, Miss Kathryn Cranmer could still ride sedately about the countryside. Miss Kathryn Cranmer snorted derisively. She’d be dammed if she’d give up her freedom so tamely. That left the option of joining Captain Jack.

Perhaps she could retire? Individual members often withdrew from the gangs. As long as the fraternity knew who their ex-brothers were, no one minded. “I’ll need to develop an identity,” Kit mused. “There must be some place on Cranmer I could call home—some family with whom the smugglers have no contact.” An old mother hysterical over the wildness of her youngest son, the last of three left to her…Grimly, Kit nodded. She would need to concoct a convincing reason for Young Kit’s early retirement.

Which brought her to the last, nagging worry, a hovering ghost in the shadows of her mind. Were the Hunstanton Gang aiding and abetting spies?

If they are running spies, shouldn’t you find out? If you join them for a few runs and see nothing, well and good. But if they do make arrangements to run “human cargo,” you can inform Lord Hendon.

Kit humphed. Lord Hendon—wonderful! She supposed she’d have to meet the man sometime.

She turned Delia northeast, toward Scolt Head, a dense blur on the dark water. The sound of the surf grew louder as she approached the beaches east of Brancaster. She’d ridden north from Cranmer, passing in the lee of Castle Hendon, an imposing edifice built of local Carr stone on a hill sufficiently high to give it sweeping views in all directions.

Delia snuffed at the sea breeze. Kit allowed her to lengthen her stride.

Surely it was her duty to join the Hunstanton Gang and discover their involvement, if any, with spying? Particularly now that Julian had joined the army.

The ground ahead disappeared into blackness. At the edge of the cliff, Kit reined in and looked down. It was dim and dark on the sands. The surf boomed; the crash of waves and the slurping suck of the tide filled her ears.

A muffled shout reached her, followed by a second.

The moon escaped the clouds and Kit understood. The Hunstanton Gang was running a cargo on Brancaster beach.

Blanketing arms recaptured the moon, but she’d seen enough to be sure. The figure of Captain Jack had been clearly visible at the head of one boat. The two men who’d been with him the other night were there, too.

Kit drew Delia back from the cliff edge into the protection of a stand of stunted trees. The gang was nearly through unloading the boat; soon, they’d be heading…where? In an instant, Kit’s mind was made up. She turned Delia, scouting for a better vantage point, one from which she could see without being seen. She eventually took refuge on a small tussocky hill in the scraggy remnants of an old coppice. Once safely concealed, she settled to wait, straining eyes trained on the cliff’s edge.

Minutes later, they came up, single file, and passed directly beneath her little hill. She waited for Captain Jack and his two cohorts, bringing up the rear, to clear her, then counted to twenty slowly before taking to the narrow path in their wake. She followed them in a wide arc around the little town of Brancaster. In the fields west of the town, the cavalcade went to ground in an old barn. Kit watched from a distance, too wary to get closer. Soon, the men started leaving, some on foot, some riding, guiding ponies on leading reins.

At the last, three horsemen drew away from the barn. The moon smiled; Kit caught the gleam of Captain Jack’s hair. The trio divided, one heading east. Captain Jack and the third man went west. Kit followed them.

She kept Delia on the verge, the drum of hooves of her quarries’ horses making it easy to follow them. Luckily, they weren’t riding fast, else she’d have had difficulty keeping up without taking to the telltale road herself.

They traveled the road for no more than a mile before turning south along a narrow track. Kit paused at the turn. The sound of heavy hooves at a walk reassured her. She pressed on, careful to hold Delia back.

Jack and Matthew set their mounts up the steep curve that took the track over the lip of the meadowland. At the highest point, just before the track curved into the trees edging the first Hendon field, Jack glanced down onto the stretch of track below. It was a habit instituted long since to ensure none of the Hunstanton Gang followed them to their lair.

The track was a pool of even, uninteresting shadow. Jack was turning away when a slight movement, caught from the corner of one eye, brought every faculty alert. He froze, gaze used to the night trained on the track below. A shadow darker than the rest detached itself from the cover of the trees and crept along the verge.

Matthew, warned by the sudden silence, had reined in too, and stared downward. He leaned closer to whisper in Jack’s ear. “Young Kit?”

Jack nodded. A slow, positively devilish smile twisted his long lips. “Go on to the cottage,” he whispered. “I’m going to invite our young friend for a drink.”

Matthew nodded, urging his horse to a walk, heading south along the narrow track.

Jack nudged Champion off the path and into the deeper shadows by a coppice. Young Kit’s excess of curiosity was perfectly timed; he hadn’t been looking forward to another night like the last, tossing and turning while grappling with his ridiculous obsession with the stripling. What better way to cure his senses of their idiotic misconception than to invite the lad in for a brandy? Once revealed in full light for the youth he was, Young Kit would doubtless get out from under his skin.

Approaching the upward sweep of the trail, Kit heard the steady clop of hooves above cease. She reined in, listening intently, then cautiously edged forward. When she saw where the track led, she stopped and held her breath. Then the hoofbeats restarted, heading onward. With a sigh of relief, she counted to twenty again before sending Delia up the track.

She crested the rise to find the track, innocent and empty, leading on across the meadowland. Ahead, a coppice bordered the trail, darker shadows pooling on the track like giant ink puddles. She paused, listening, but the hoofbeats continued on, the riders invisible through the trees ahead.

All was well. Kit put her heels to Delia’s sleek sides. The mare sidled. Kit frowned and urged the mare forward. Delia balked.

The sensation of being watched enveloped Kit. Her stomach tightened; her eyes flared wide. She glanced to the left. Fields opened out, one adjoining the next, a clear escape. Without further thought, she set Delia at the hedge. As eager as she to get away, the mare cleared the hedge and went straight to a gallop.

In the trees bordering the track, Jack swore volubly. Be damned if he’d let the lad lose him again! He set his heels to Champion’s sides; the grey surged in pursuit.

Champion answered the call with alacrity, only too ready to give chase. Jack held him back, content to keep the bobbing black bottom of Young Kit in clear view, waiting until the Arab started to tire before allowing the grey stallion’s strength to show.

The thud of hooves behind her told Kit her observer had come into the open. She glanced behind and her worst fears were confirmed. Damn the man! She hadn’t seen anything worthwhile, and he must know he couldn’t catch her.

By the time the end of the fields hove in sight, Kit had revised her opinion of Captain Jack’s equestrian judgment. The grey he had under him seemed tireless and Delia, already ridden far that night, was wilting. In desperation, Kit swung Delia’s head for the shore. Riding through sand would hopefully slow the heavier grey more than the mare.

She hadn’t counted on the descent. Delia checked at the cliff’s edge and took the steep path in a nervous prance. The grey, ridden aggressively, came over the top in a leap and half slithered through the soft soil to land on the flat in a flurry of sand, mere seconds behind her.

Kit clapped her heels to Delia’s sleek flanks; the mare shot forward, half-panicked by the advent of the stallion so close.

To Kit’s dismay, the tide was in and just turning, leaving only a narrow strip of dry sand skirting the base of the cliffs. She couldn’t risk getting too close to the rocks and boulders strewn at the cliff foot. There was nowhere else to ride but on the hard sand, dampened and compacted by the retreating waves. And on such solid ground, the grey gained steadily.

Crouched low over Delia’s neck, the black mane whipping her cheeks, Kit prayed for a miracle. But the sound of the grey’s heavy hooves drew inexorably nearer. She started considering her excuses. What reason could she give for having followed him that would account for her bolting?

There was no viable answer to that one. Kit wished she’d had the nerve to stand her ground rather than fly when confronted with her nemesis. She glanced forward, contemplating hauling on the reins and capitulating, when, wonder of wonders, a spit of land loomed ahead. A tongue of the cliff, it cleaved the sands, running out into the surf, its sides decaying into the sea. If she could gain the rough-grassed dunes, she’d have a chance. Even tired as she was, climbing, Delia would be much faster than the heavy grey. As if to light her way, the moon sailed free of its cloudy veils and beamed down.

A length behind, Jack saw the spit. It was time to wind up the chase. The lad rode better than any trooper he’d ever seen. Once in the dunes, he’d be impossible to catch. Jack dropped his reins. Champion, sensing victory, lengthened his stride, obedient to the direction that sent him inland of the black mare, cutting off any sudden change of tack.

Kit was breathless. The wind dragged at her lungs. The dunes and safety were heartbeats away when, warned by some sixth sense, she glanced to her left. And saw a huge grey head almost level with her knee.

She only had time to gasp before two hundred odd pounds of highly trained male muscle knocked her from the saddle.

The instant he connected with Young Kit, Jack realized his error. He tried to twist in midair to cushion her fall but was only partially successful. Both he and his captive landed flat on their backs on the damp sand.

The breath was knocked out of him but he recovered immediately, sitting up and swinging around to lean over his prize, one leg automatically trapping hers to still her struggles. Only she didn’t struggle.

Jack frowned and waited for the eyes, just visible beneath the brim of her old tricorne, to open. They remained shut. The body stretched beside and half under his was preternaturally still.

Cursing, Jack pulled at the tricorne. It took two tugs to free it. The wealth of glossy curls framing the smooth, wide brow sent his imagination, already sensitized by her nearness, into overload.

Slowly, almost as if she might dissolve beneath his touch, Jack lifted a finger to the smooth skin covering one high cheekbone, tracing the upward curve. The satin texture sent a thrill from the tip of his finger to regions far distant. When she gave no sign of returning consciousness, he slid his fingers into the mass of silky hair, ignoring the burgeoning sensations skittering through him, to feel the back of her skull. A lump the size of a duck egg was growing through the curls. In the sand beneath her head, he located the rock responsible, thankfully buried deep enough to make it unlikely it had caused any irreparable hurt.

Retrieving his hands, Jack eased back to stare at his captive.

Young Kit was out cold.

Grimacing, he eyed the heavy muffler wound over her nose and chin, concealing most of her face. The conversion of Young Kit into female form was certain to wreak havoc with his plans, but he may as well leave consideration of such matters until later. Right now, he doubted he could raise a cogent thought, much less make a wise decision. Which was simply proof of how much of a problem she was destined to become.

He should get that muffler off—she’d recover faster if she could breathe unrestricted. Yet he felt reluctant to bare any more of her face—or any other part of her for that matter. What he’d already seen—the perfect expanse of forehead, gracefully arched brows over large eyes set on a slight slant and delicately framed by a feathering of brown, the rioting curls, glossy even in moonlight—all attested to the certainty that the rest of Young Kit would prove equally fatal to his equanimity.

Jack swore under his breath. Why the hell did he have to get a case of the hots just now? And for a smugglers’ moll, no less!

Metaphorically, and in every other way he knew, he girded his loins and reached for the muffler. She’d wound it tight, and it was some moments and a good few curses later before he drew the woollen folds from her face.

Just why she wore a muffler was instantly apparent. Grimly, Jack considered the sculpted features, rendered in flawless cream skin, the straight little nose, the pert, pointed chin and the full sensuous lips, pale now but just begging to be kissed to blush red. Young Kit’s face was an essential statement of all that was feminine.

Intrigued, Jack let his gaze slide over the figure lying inert beside him. The padding in one shoulder of her coat was pressed to his arm, explaining that point. He stared at her chest, slowly rising and falling. The fullness of her shirt made it difficult to judge, but experience suggested her anatomy was unlikely to be quite so uneventful. Jack decided he wasn’t up to investigating how she accomplished that feat of suppressing nature and turned instead to an expert inspection of her legs, still entwined with his. They were, in his experienced opinion, remarkably remarkable, unusually long and slender but firm with well-toned muscle.