Page 91 of Captain Jack’s Woman

Behind them, Kit lay burrowed in the sand, thoroughly perplexed. Why “Good luck”? And why was she so sure Jack would have shaken the man’s hand, but had stopped himself from doing so? She’d sensed his intent quite clearly. Yet, from everything she’d been able to see, the man was French.

She bit her lip, then shook her head. She simply could not believe Jack was smuggling spies. Damn the man—why couldn’t he relieve her of this miserable uncertainty? It was all his fault. Her peace of mind was in tatters purely because he had a constitutional objection to being understood!

Suppressing a snort, Kit glanced back over her shoulder.

And froze.

A few feet away, so close his grey shadow almost touched her, stood the hulking figure of a man. A scream of fright stuck in her throat. Her wide eyes took in a heavy frame and fleshy jowls. The man was staring at Jack and George, still watching the waves some fifteen feet ahead, presenting her with a haughty profile. He was oblivious of her, prone almost at his feet. Moonlight glinted on the long barrels of the pistols he carried.

The man was Lord Belville.

Kit couldn’t breathe.

“We may as well go.”

Jack’s voice cut through the frozen moment. It brought Belville to life. He stepped forward, passing Kit, still lying immobile, to drop the last few feet to the sand. Another step took him clear of the dunes to face Jack and George as they turned toward the horses, Matthew a few steps behind them.

“Not so fast, gentlemen.”

Jack pulled up, startled by the appearance of an armed stranger from dunes he had every right to expect were safe. Where the hell was his lookout?

As if reading his mind, Belville’s lips twisted in an unpleasant smile. “I’m afraid your lookout met with a fatal accident.” He glanced at the fingers of his right hand, closed about a pistol butt. “Slitting a throat is silent, but such a messy business.”

Kit felt her blood run cold. She saw the expression on Jack’s face harden. Oh, God! If she didn’t do something, he would be shot! Pressing her fingers to her lips, she struggled to think.

Thankfully, Belville seemed inclined to conversation. “I must admit that when our courier died in that brawl, we originally believed it simply bad luck. However, when we had no further approaches from our French comrades, when, in fact, they suggested they no longer needed our services, we thought an investigation was in order.” Belville rolled the syllables from his tongue, his genial manner counteracted by the menace of the pistols in his hands. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “given the trouble you’ve put me to, you’d like to explain just who you are and who you’re working for? Before I put a bullet into each of you.”

Kit wished him luck. She couldn’t believe Jack would tell him anything, even under such pressure, but she wasn’t about to wait to find out. She’d remembered Jack’s saddle pistol. Pray God he kept it loaded. As she wriggled back through the dunes, she heard her husband’s voice.

“You’re Lord George Belville, I take it?”

Kit wondered what her erstwhile suitor would make of that. She hurried toward the horses, protected from sight by the dunes.

His gaze steady on Lord Belville’s malevolent eyes, Jack inwardly cursed himself for a fool. He should have taken the time to learn why Kit had wanted to tell him about Belville. She’d been uneasy enough to mention him in the first place. He should have trusted her instinct. Now Joe was dead. And God knew how he, and George and Matthew, were going to get out of this without ending in the same state.

“How do you know who I am?” Belville’s honeyed tones had become a snarl.

“You’ve been identified by someone with a direct connection to the High Commissioner. You could say that person has his lordship’s ear.”

Jack heard George, beside him, choke. Carefully, he weighed up the odds. They weren’t encouraging. Belville had only two pistols, but he could see the butt of a smaller gun glinting in the man’s waistband. Presumably, he also had a knife somewhere about him. Even if he missed one shot—and why should he, he’d plenty of room and they’d no cover—he’d still have a weight advantage over either George or Matthew in a knife fight.

Keep talking and pray for a miracle seemed the best bet.

“Who is this person? This intimate of the High Commissioner’s?”

Jack’s brows flew. “Ah—now that would be telling secrets, wouldn’t it?”

Belville leveled his pistols. “I don’t believe there is such a person.”

Jack shrugged. “But how did I know you? We haven’t met before.”

The barrels wavered. Belville stared, eyes narrowing. “Who are you?”

Out of sight and sound, Kit’s fingers closed about the small pistol tucked into the pocket in Champion’s saddle. She let out a sigh of relief. If only she could get back in time.

As she scurried into the dunes, she heard Belville’s voice, angry and demanding. Clearly, he hadn’t liked being known. Jack’s voice answered, smooth and confident, which only seemed to wind Belville’s spring tighter. Kit forced herself to take care twisting through the dunes, praying her husband’s glib tongue wouldn’t get him shot before she made it back.

“Let’s just say I’m someone with an interest in the traffic.” Jack kept his eyes on Belville’s. “Perhaps, if we talk, we might discover our interests are complementary?”