Page 22 of Captain Jack’s Woman

Kit allowed her brows to rise. Then she shrugged and nodded. Who was he, to have such detailed recollections of her family? At the very least, he was a local, yet she’d never seen him before yesterday. From under her lashes, she glanced at the broad shoulders and wide biceps, bulging as he leaned forward on his forearms. There was no padding in the simple jacket—those bulges were all perfectly real. Powerful thighs stretched his plain breeches. Seated as he was, she couldn’t see much beyond that, but anyone who rode as he did had to be strong. The lamplight didn’t illuminate his face, but she supposed him in his thirties. There was no chance she would have forgotten such a specimen.

“Who was your mother?”

The question, uttered in an amiable but commanding tone, jerked Kit’s mind back from whence it had wandered. For a full minute, she stared uncomprehendingly. Then the implication of Jack’s question struck her. Her eyes kindled; she drew breath to wither him. Belatedly, her wilder self tumbled out of its daze and scrambled to clamp the lid on her temper.

Hang on a minute—stop, cease, desist, stow it, you fool! You need an identity, remember? He’s just handed you one. So what if he thinks you’re illegitimate? Better that than the truth—which he wouldn’t believe anyway.

Kit’s eyes glazed. She blushed and looked down.

The odd expressions that passed over Kit’s face in rapid succession left Jack bewildered. But the blush he understood immediately. “Sorry,” he said. “An unnecessarily prying question.”

Kit looked up, amazed. He was apologizing?

“Where do you live?” Jack remembered her mare. The stubborn pride of the present Lord Cranmer was as well-known as his family’s coloring. Jack hazarded a guess. “With your grandfather?”

Slowly, Kit nodded. Her mind was racing. If she was her father’s illegitimate daughter, nothing would be more likely. Her father had been Spencer’s favorite. Her grandfather would naturally assume responsibility for any bastards his son had left behind. But she had to tread warily—Captain Jack knew far too much about the local families to allow her to invent freely. Luckily, he obviously didn’t know Spencer’s legitimate granddaughter had returned from London.

“I live at the Hall.” One of her cousin Geoffrey’s maxims on lying replayed in her head. Stick to the truth as far as possible.“I grew up there, but when my grandmother died they sent me away.” If Jack was a local, he’d wonder why he’d never seen her about.

“Away?” Jack look interested.

Kit took another sip of brandy, grateful for the warmth unfurling in her belly. It seemed to be easing her head. “I was sent to London to live with the curate from Holme when he moved to Chiswick.” Kit grabbed at the memory of the young curate—the image fitted perfectly. “I didn’t really like the capital. When the curate was promoted, I came back.” Kit prayed Jack didn’t know the curate from Holme personally; she’d no idea if he’d been promoted or not.

Neither did Jack. Kit’s tale made sense, even accounting for her cultured speech and sophisticated gestures. If she’d been brought up at Cranmer under her grandmother’s eye, then spent time in London, even with a boring curate, she’d be every bit as confident and at ease with him as she was proving to be. No simple country miss, this one. Her story was believable. Her attitude suggested she knew as much. Jack’s eyes narrowed. “So you live at the Hall and Spencer openly acknowledges you?”

Now that, my fine gentleman, is a trick question. Kit waved airily. “Oh, I’ve always lived quietly. I was trained to look after the house, so that’s what I do.” She smiled at her inquisitor, knowing she’d passed the test. Not even Spencer would raise a bastard granddaughter on a par with the trueborn.

Grimly, Jack acknowledged that smile. She was certainly quick, but he could do without her smiles. They infused her face with a radiance painters had wasted lifetimes trying to capture. Whoever her mother had been, she must have been uncommonly beautiful to give rise to a daughter to rival Aphrodite.

“So by day, Spencer’s housekeeper; by night, Young Kit, leader of a smuggling gang. How long have you been in the trade?”

“Only a few weeks.” Kit wished he’d stop scowling at her. He’d smiled at her once at the quarries. She’d a mind to witness the phenomenon in the stronger lamplight, but Jack didn’t seem at all likely to oblige. She smiled at him. He scowled back.

“How the devil have you survived? You cover your face, there’s padding in your coat—but what happens if one of the men touches you?”

“They don’t—they haven’t.” Kit hoped her blush didn’t show. “They just think I’m a well-born stripling, not built on their scale.”

Jack snorted, his gaze never leaving her face. Then his eyes narrowed. “Where did you learn to swagger—and all the rest of it? It’s not that easy to pass as a male. You’ve not trod the boards, have you?”

Kit met his gaze—and chose her words with care. She could hardly lay claim to her cousins, much less their influence. “I’ve had opportunity aplenty to study men and how they move.” She smiled condescendingly. “I’m more than passing familiar with the male of the species.”

Jack’s brows rose; after a moment, he asked: “How long did you intend playing the smuggler?”

Kit shrugged. “Who knows? And now that you’ve found me out, we’ll never learn, will we?” Her smile turned brittle. Young Kit’s short career was at an end—the excitement and thrills were no longer to be hers.

Jack’s brows rose higher. “You plan to retire?”

Kit stared at him. “Aren’t you…” She blinked. “Do you mean you won’t give me away?”

Jack’s scowl returned. “Not won’t—can’t.” He’d never thought of himself as conservative—Jonathon was his conservative side and at the moment he was definitely Jack—but the thought of Kit trooping about in breeches before a horde of seamen, laying herself open to discovery and God only knew what consequences, awoke in him feelings of sheer protectiveness. Outwardly, he frowned. Inwardly, he seethed and swore. He’d known she’d be trouble; now, he knew what sort.

He stifled a groan. Kit was looking at him, uncertainty plainly writ in her fine features. He drew a deep breath. “Until your men are safely accepted as part of the Hunstanton Gang, Young Kit will have to continue a smuggler.”

Kit heard but was barely listening. She knew she wasn’t an antidote; if she’d wanted it, she could have had men at her feet the entire time she’d been in London. Yet Captain Jack, whoever he was, wasn’t responding to her in the customary way. He was still scowling. Deliberately, she lay back on her elbows and surveyed him boldly. “Why?”

The sudden stiffness that suffused his large frame was unnerving to say the least. Deliciously unnerving. Kit moved her shoulders slightly, settling her elbows more firmly, and felt her shirt shift over her nipples. She looked up to see how Jack was taking the display, ready to smile condescendingly at his confusion. Instead, she froze, transfixed by an overwhelming sense of danger.

His eyes were silver, not grey, clear and sparkling, like polished steel. And they weren’t looking at her face. As she watched, a muscle flickered along his jaw. Suddenly, Kit understood. He wasn’t responding because he didn’t wish to, not because she wasn’t affecting him. Only his control stood between her and what he would do—would like to do. Abruptly, Kit rolled to the side, on one hip, ostensibly to take a sip of brandy.