Page 87 of Captain Jack’s Woman

George raised his brows, his expression growing wary. “I suspect it depends very much on the nature of the relationship, don’t you think?” With a smile for Amy, George sat on the chaise beside her.

“True,” Kit acknowledged. “But given the relationship was right, the husband’s willingness to confide is the next hurdle, don’t you think? What reasons could a man have for keeping secrets from his wife?”

Their next half hour was spent in a peculiar three-way conversation. George and Kit traded oblique references to Jack’s reticence, none of which Amy understood. Amy, for her part, urged Kit to unburden herself and explain her problem more fully—an undertaking George endeavored to discourage. In between, all three traded local gossip, and George managed to discuss the details of their wedding, which he’d come to the Manor to clarify.

Sensing the currents between Amy and George, suppressed in her presence, Kit rose and picked up her gloves. “I must be going. I feel sure my husband won’t approve of my being out after dark.”

With that acerbic comment, she embraced Amy fondly, nodded to George, and sailed from the room.

Amy watched her go, sighed—then went straight into George’s arms. They closed about her; she and George exchanged a warm and unrestrained kiss. Then Amy pulled back with a sigh. “I’m worried about Kit. She’s troubled by something—something serious.” She met George’s gaze. “I don’t like to think of her riding alone in such a mood.”

George grimaced. “Kit’s a big girl.”

Amy pressed closer. “Yes, but…” The eyes that met George’s twinkled. “And Mama will be home any minute.”

George sighed. “Very well.” He kissed Amy again, then set her from him. “But I’ll expect a reward next time I call.”

“You may claim it with my blessing,” Amy declared. “Just as long as Mama is out.”

George grinned, more than a touch wickedly. “I’ll be back.” With a wave, he headed for the stables.

He caught up with Kit as she left the stables, mounted on a chestnut mare. George stared. “Where’s Delia?”

For one fractured moment, Kit thought she’d erupt in flames. Her glance seared George. “Don’t ask!” She swung the chestnut toward the drive.

“Wait!” George called. “I’ll ride part of the way with you.”

When he rode out a minute later, Kit was schooling the mare in prancing circles, her groom watching from a distance. She fell in beside George; together they headed north and west.

George glanced at Kit. “I take it Jack hasn’t explained about the smuggling?”

Kit narrowed her eyes. “Explanations do not seem to be his strong point.”

George chuckled. When Kit glared, he explained: “You don’t know how true that is. Neither explanations nor excuses are part of Jack’s makeup. They weren’t characteristics of his father’s either.”

Kit frowned. “Someone once said he was ‘Hendonish.’ Is that what that means?”

George grinned. “If it was a woman who said it, not entirely, but it’s not unrelated to what I’m trying to say. Jack’s a born leader—all Hendons have been for generations. He’s used to being the one who makes the decisions. He knows what he wants, what needs to be done, and he gives orders to make it happen. He doesn’t expect to have to explain his actions and doesn’t relish being asked to do so.”

“That much, I’d gathered.”

George glanced at Kit’s disgruntled expression. “If it’s any consolation, despite the fact Matthew and I have known him for most of his life, and shared most of it, too, we received not the smallest word of explanation for your inclusion in the Gang. He didn’t even tell us you were a woman.”

They rode on in silence, Kit considering George’s words. His confidence did, in fact, ease some of the frustration dragging at her heart. Clearly, her husband was an autocrat of long standing; if George was right, a hereditary one. Equally clearly, none of those close to him had made the slightest push to influence his high-handed ways. The determination to make him change his attitude, at least with respect to her, grew with every short stride her meek chestnut took.

The fork that led to Smeaton Hall appeared ahead. Kit drew rein. “You know the truth about the smuggling, don’t you?”

Pulling up beside her, George sighed. “Yes, but I can’t tell you. Jack’s my superior in this. I can’t speak without his approval.”

Kit nodded and held out her hand. “Thank you.”

George met her eyes, then squeezed her fingers encouragingly. “He’ll tell you in the end.”

Kit nodded. “I know. When it’s over.”

George could only grin. He bowed and they parted, understanding each other rather better than before.

Kit stared at the packages on the carriage seat opposite. Had she bought enough? She’d come to Lynn to get some cambric. After last night, she’d decided that cambric shirts would be much more sensible for Jack to wear around the estate. He’d spent all yesterday helping thin coppices. She hadn’t known but should have guessed he’d be the sort of landowner who got off his horse, took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and helped his men. She’d come upon him entirely unintentionally, when, just before changing for dinner, she’d gone into his room in search of the sash that went with her silk negligee. It had been missing ever since the storm, three nights before. A groan emanating from the room beyond had drawn her to the open door.