Page 59 of Captain Jack’s Woman

Sheer fury seared Kit’s veins. She clamped her lips shut and hauled on Delia’s reins. If she gave vent to her feelings here and now, her disguise would be blown past redemption.

Once on the cliff, she found a position overlooking Jack’s operations and dismounted. Too furious to sit still, she paced back and forth, twitching her gloves between her hands, her gaze on the beach, her temper on the boil.

Exclamations crowded her brain. How dare he? seemed far too mild. Besides, she knew how he dared—he knew damn well she wasn’t strong enough to withstand attack on that front, damn his silver eyes! If she didn’t need to know about the spies, she’d never come near him again. But she’d been through all the arguments, assessed all the alternatives. Until she had some facts, a run date for instance, there was no point in revealing her masquerade. If Spencer heard of it, he’d forbid her to continue, and then they’d never stop the spies.

Anger was not the only emotion coursing through her. Kit shivered with reaction. Damn the man—if she’d needed any confirmation he’d planned Wednesday night’s activities, that knowing caress had provided it. He’d purposely lit the fires of sensual pleasure in her flesh, so it would take just a caress to stir them to life. Kit ground her teeth and kicked a rock out of her way.

He was too damned sure of himself! He was too damned sure of her.

The run proceeded smoothly, as all Jack’s enterprises did. Kit watched, mulling over that fact. Jack’s cottage was on Lord Hendon’s land. And Lord Hendon had conveniently sent Sergeant Osborne to patrol the Sheringham beaches and Sergeant Tonkin to watch the shores of the Wash. A cynic might imagine there was a connection.

Kit snorted. The only real connection would be that Lord Hendon, like all the surrounding gentry, tolerated the smugglers. But not the spies. On that point, Jack had stepped beyond the line.

As the ponies headed for the cliff, Kit rose and caught Delia’s trailing reins. She mounted and urged the mare into the trees lining the first field. From there, she watched until the last of the pack train emerged from the cliff path. Then, before the grey stallion appeared, Kit turned Delia’s head for Cranmer Hall and dropped her hands.

She kept the mare to a steady gallop, the black hooves eating the miles. When the shadow of the Hall loomed out of the dark, Kit uttered a small whoop and sent Delia flying over the stable paddock fence.

Safe home. She’d escaped Jack’s trap, for one night at least. A fever might be the price she’d have to pay, but she’d pay gladly. Aside from anything else, it was safer this way.

Jack and his swaggering arrogance could spend the night alone.

On Sunday afternoon, after spending a virtuous morning at church, then presiding over the luncheon table, Kit sat Delia in the shadow of the trees facing Jack’s cottage, her confidence at an all-time low. Distrustful of her reasons for being there, uncertain of her chances of success, she bit her lip and eyed the closed door. There was nothing to tell her if the cottage was inhabited or not.

If she sat still for long and Champion was in the stable, the stallion would sense Delia’s presence and neigh, destroying any advantage surprise might otherwise give her. If she sat still for much longer, her courage would desert her and she’d turn tail for home. Kit directed Delia in an arc about the clearing. She approached the stable and dismounted, then led Delia inside.

Champion’s huge grey rump loomed out of the dimness.

Kit stopped, not sure if she felt relieved, excited, or dismayed. The stallion’s head came around; Kit took Delia to the stall alongside. After tethering the mare, she debated whether to unsaddle or not. In the end, she did, refusing to acknowledge the action implied anything at all about her intentions, much less her hopes. She rubbed the mare down, ears pricked to detect any sound of approaching danger.

She knew why she was there—she needed to mend her fences with Jack; he was her only reliable source of information on the spies. Her wilder self jeered; Kit strangled it. There might be other reasons she’d ridden this way, but she wasn’t ready to acknowledge them—not in daylight. Her innards were in a dreadful state; trepidation walked her nerves. She’d never felt like this before, not even when admitting to riding Spencer’s favorite stallion at the age of ten. Spencer’s rages had no power to make her quiver. The thought of how Jack would look when next she saw him, in a few minutes, did.

How would he welcome her this time?

The thought stopped her in her tracks as she headed for the stable door. She almost turned back to resaddle Delia. But her reason for being here resurfaced. She couldn’t walk away from “human cargo.” Kit set her jaw. With a determined stride, she made for the cottage door.

Kit paused with her hand on the latch, swept by the sense of being about to enter a potentially dangerous animal’s lair. The cold iron of the latch sent a thrill through her fingers. Her whole being vibrated with anticipation. In truth, she wasn’t sure where the danger lay—with him? Or with herself?

Inside the cottage, Jack lay sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed, his hands locked behind his head. He stared at the ceiling.

How long would it be before it got to her? How long before she came to find him?

He gave a disgruntled snort; his brows lowered. When he’d embarked on his scheme to embed passionate longing firmly beneath Kit’s satiny skin, he’d overlooked the inevitable effect such an undertaking would have on his own lustful appetites. Since Wednesday night, he’d been ravenous. And, thanks to Kit, he hadn’t been able to sate his hunger. No other woman would do. He’d retired to the cottage, to brood on his desire.

He wanted her—Kit—the redheaded houri in breeches.

When he stroked her, she purred. When he mounted her, she arched wildly. And later, when their passion was spent, she curled into his side like a small cream-and-ginger cat. His very own kitten.

His very own pedigree kitten. When it came to making love, she was an aristocrat, no matter what her breeding. Her performances to date had been eye-opening, particularly to one of his experience. He’d thought he’d known all there was to know of women; she’d proved him wrong. The feigned responses of the gilded whores of the ton had always bored him. Kit’s naturalness, her sincere enjoyment of their play despite the underlying prudery behind her occasional shocked protests, entranced him. He’d been able to turn her protests into moans with satisfying regularity.

With a stifled groan, Jack stretched his arms and legs, trying to ease the tension locked in the heavy muscles. His frown converted to a scowl. Twenty-four hours had been too long for him—seventy-two had been hell. The fact that she could deal with this particular disease better than he could was a severe blow to his male pride.

The latch on the door eased upward.

Instantly, Jack was alert, half-sitting before his mind took control and stilled his instinctive reaction. His impulse was to cross silently to stand behind the door. But if his visitor was Kit, he might scare her witless by appearing beside her so unexpectedly.

The door swung slowly inward. The shadow of a slender figure, topped by a tricorne, fell on the floor. Jack relaxed. He permitted himself a smug smile, then the memory of the past seventy-two hours intruded. He’d no guarantee she’d come to alleviate his discomfort. His expression bland, he settled back on the pillows.

Kit scanned the area revealed by the open door. Jack was not at the table. Swallowing her nervousness, she took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. She paused by the door, one hand on the edge of the worn wooden panel, and forced herself to look at the bed.