Captain Jack's Woman (21 page)

With a groan, he’d delved deep and heard her breath catch. An instant later, he’d rolled her onto her back and, with one powerful thrust, had sheathed himself to the hilt in her welcoming warmth. And it hadn’t stopped there.

He’d tried to remind himself she was new to the game, but her responses drove him far beyond rational thought. However hard he pushed her, she met him and urged him on, matching his passion with hers. Of her own volition, she’d wrapped her long legs about his waist, opening to him completely. As her tension had mounted a second time, he’d remembered what he’d promised himself.

“Open your eyes.” Thankfully, she’d responded to his gravelly command, ground out through clenched teeth. His next thrust had sent her spiraling over the precipice. As her lids drooped, he’d closed his own eyes in satisfaction. Her eyes had gone black.

Sensing that her release had been total, he’d opened her even wider and thrust deeply, seeking his own ticket to heaven in her fire. He’d found it.

When next he’d been able to sense anything, he’d felt her soft breath on his cheek. She’d fallen asleep while he was still inside her, a small, satisfied smile on her lips. Feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, he’d held her close and turned to his side, careful not to disturb their union. He’d surrendered to sleep, feeling her heartbeat in his veins.

He’d woken ten minutes ago. After gathering his wits, he’d carefully unwound their tangled limbs and pulled the sheets over her. Then headed for the brandy.

The intensity of his satisfaction was one thing. What was much more worrying was this other feeling, an irrational emotion which the events of the night had caused to grow alarmingly. Her whispered plea had been his undoing, in more ways than one.

Jack snorted and sipped his brandy, raising his head to listen to the storm as it swept past. The wind was still howling; the rain was still drumming against the shutters. There’d been a number of cracks of thunder; from them, he judged the worst was past. Outside. Inside, he was far from convinced Kit’s seduction was the end of anything. It felt much more like a beginning.

His eyes traced the curves concealed beneath the sheet. If it’d just been lust, all would be well, but what he felt for the damn woman went far beyond that. Jack grimaced. No doubt George could define the emotion for him, but he, of his own volition, wasn’t ready to do so yet. He didn’t trust the feeling—he’d wait to see what came next. Who knew how she’d behave tomorrow—she’d been one surprise after another thus far.

With a sigh, Jack drained the glass and replaced it on the table. He stoked the fire, then joined Kit between the sheets. She stirred and, in her sleep, snuggled closer. Jack smiled and turned on his side, drawing her to him, curving her back into his chest. He heard her contented sigh as she settled under his arm. At least he wouldn’t have to spend any more nights following her home through the dark.

D
awn was painting the sky when Kit rode up the paddock at the back of the Cranmer Hall stables. She dismounted and led Delia inside, then unsaddled the mare and rubbed her down. Delia had survived the storm, safe in her stall beside Champion. As for herself, Kit wasn’t so sure.

She couldn’t even remember any thunder, let alone the panic that usually attacked her at such times. What she could remember had kept her cheeks rosy all the way home from the cottage.

The weight of Jack’s arm across her waist had penetrated her doze and brought her fully awake. She’d spent minutes in stunned recollection, as the events of the night had replayed in her brain. Jack had been sound asleep beside her. She’d edged from under his arm, conscious of a reluctance to leave his safe warmth yet quite sure she wouldn’t want to be there when he awoke.

With a last pat for Delia, Kit left the stables. The morning-room windows which gave onto the terrace had long been her favored route for clandestine excursions. Minutes later, she was safe in her chamber. She discarded her clothes, a simple matter now that they were dry. She’d dressed in silent haste, petrified lest Jack should hear her and wake up. But he’d slumbered on, a smile she’d long remember on his lips.

She’d remember his lips for a long time, too. Kit blushed and clambered into her bed. Damn the man—she’d wanted to be initiated, but had he needed to go so far? She couldn’t even think of the experience without blushing. She’d have to get over it, or Amy would become suspicious. The idea of confiding in Amy surfaced, only to be discarded. Amy would be horrified. Scandalized by her wildness. But then, Amy was marrying for love. She, Kit, was not marrying at all.

Kit pulled the covers to her chin and turned on her side, conscious of the empty bed behind her and annoyed at herself for it. She’d have to put the entire episode from her mind or even Spencer would notice. She wasn’t up to analyzing how she felt and what her conclusions on the activity were—she’d do that some other time, when she could think straight again.

She closed her eyes, determined to find slumber. She’d learned what she’d wanted to know—Jack had been a thorough teacher. Her curiosity had been well and truly satisfied. She was free and unfettered. She was no longer in charge of smugglers; she no longer needed to appear at their runs to be a redundant lookout. All was well in the world.

Why couldn’t she sleep?

Seven miles to the north, Jack came awake and instantly knew he was alone. He sat up and scanned the room, then, his privacy confirmed, fell back to the pillows, a puzzled frown on his face. Had he dreamed it?

A glance to the left revealed two bright strands of curling red hair, lying in an indentation in the pillow. Jack picked them up; the dim light filtering through the shutters struck red glints from their surface. Memories flooded him. One brow quirked upward. He lifted the sheet and looked down to where a few flecks of reddish brown stained the cream sheets.

No, he hadn’t dreamed it. Once his mission was complete, he’d build on the start he’d made last night.

Jack groaned. Who was he fooling? His mission might take months. He couldn’t possibly wait that long; after last night, he sincerely doubted she could. Not that she’d know that, but she’d find out soon enough. He might as well face it—for good or ill, Kit Cranmer and his mission looked set to stay entangled, certainly for the forseeable future.

His glance strayed to the bright strands wrapped around his fingers. He should, of course, feel irritated. But irritation was not what he felt.

Four days later, irritation was very close to his surface. He’d spent his Saturday and Sunday in a peculiar daze. On both nights, he’d gone to the cottage, but Kit hadn’t shown up. He’d relieved his frustrations by visiting the Revenue Office at Hunstanton on Monday and making Sergeant Tonkin’s life miserable. His questions had been phrased in an idle way, concealing the fact that he was intimately acquainted with Tonkin’s unsuccessful attempt to trap his “big gang.” He’d made Tonkin squirm, then later felt guilty. The man was a blot on the landscape, but in this instance he’d only been doing his job.

Jack had ridden to the Monday meeting at the Old Barn, silently rehearsing the words he intended to burn Kit’s ears with, when they repaired to the cottage afterward. She hadn’t shown her face.

What annoyed him most was that he actually felt hurt by her nonappearance. And the emotional hurt was much worse than the physical manifestation. At least, thanks to her earlier antics, he’d got used to that.

Now, he stood on the sands in the lee of the cliff and waited for his first “human cargo” to come ashore. He forced his mind back to the present, slamming a mental door against all thoughts of a redheaded houri in breeches. He glanced up at the cliff. Joe was on watch, but Jack doubted Sergeant Tonkin would try his luck quite so soon after his last dismal failure.

The first boat came in, swiftly followed by three more. A cargo of kegs and one man. He was in the first boat, a slight figure muffled to the eyes in an old greatcoat. Matthew, beside Jack, snorted at the sight.

Jack grimaced. “I know, you old warhorse—I’d like to get my hands around his throat, too. But he won’t escape.”

Matthew shifted, checking their surroundings. “D’ye think Major Smeaton’ll have reached London by now?”

“George won’t have dallied on the road. He should have passed the news on by now. There will be a welcome awaiting this one when he gets to London. A welcome he wasn’t counting on.”

“Why can’t we just stop him here?”

“Because we need to know who he’s meeting in London.” Jack started down the beach. Reluctantly, Matthew followed.

Jack paid little attention to the spy, which gave the spy equally little chance of studying him. His disguise was good but not perfect; he’d no idea who the man was or what his station in life might be. A fellow officer, or the personal servant of a fellow officer, might well recognize him, or at least realize there was something a little odd about the Hunstanton Gang’s leader. Jack busied himself with his material cargo and ignored the man.

The spy was put on a pony, and Shep and two of the older members of the gang set out to deliver him to the ruins of Creake Abbey. From there, he’d be spirited to London, the Admiralty’s tracker on his tail.

Satisfied that all had gone smoothly, Jack followed the kegs to the Old Barn. They’d be taken to the abbey the following night. After the men had dispersed, he and Matthew rode to the cottage. From the first, he’d made a point of changing his clothes and his identity at the old fishing cottage; tonight, he had another reason for calling in. He didn’t have much hope Kit would appear, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep, alone between his silk sheets, if he didn’t check.

The cottage was empty.

Lord Hendon rode home to his castle, cursing all redheaded houris.

There was no moon on Wednesday night. Astride Delia, Kit sat concealed in the deepest shadows under the trees in front of Jack’s cottage and waited for him to return from the Blackbird. She’d determined not to come near him. Nothing could have got her to the cottage again—nothing except the news that the Hunstanton Gang had run a “human cargo” last night.

The past five days seemed an eon in time. She’d been consumed by an odd restlessness that increased daily. Doubtless the effect of delayed guilt. It had even disturbed her sleep. She didn’t need to convince herself of the threat Jack represented. He was a smuggler—not of her class, hardly an acceptable suitor. The events of Friday night were burned into her brain; the effects were burned into her flesh. She’d wanted to know—now she knew. But that didn’t mean she could turn her back on Spencer and all he represented. She was a gentlewoman, no matter how much that sometimes irked. After the night of the storm, Jack was not just forbidden fruit—he was danger personified.

So she’d stayed away from the Monday night meeting but had dropped by the little fishing village this afternoon. Noah and the others had been there. Without hesitation, they’d filled her in on the previous night’s activities.

Their lack of loyalty to their country didn’t overly surprise her. She doubted that, living isolated as they did, they understood the implication of “human cargo.” Jack hadn’t spelled it out for them. But nothing could convince her Jack didn’t have a military background. There was no possibility he didn’t comprehend the significance of the men he was smuggling into the country.

Delia shifted. Kit sighed. She shouldn’t have come—she didn’t want to be here. But she couldn’t let “human cargoes” be run and not do something about it. If she could make Jack stop, she would. If not…She’d think about that later.

A jingle of harness came to her ears, carried clearly over the silent fields. It was five minutes before they came into view, coming up the track from the northern coast, Matthew, George, and Jack. Kit held her breath.

They were walking their horses toward the small stable when Jack realized Kit was close. Or rather, Champion sensed Delia’s presence and showed every sign of refusing to go into the stable without his lady love. Jack dismounted and took hold of the stallion’s bridle above the bit. “Matthew, I’ll be here for a while. You go on home.”

With a mumbled “Aye,” Matthew turned his horse and headed south for the Castle.

Jack turned to George, who was eyeing him suspiciously. Captain Jack’s devilish smile appeared. “I’d ask you in, but I suspect I’ve got company.”

George looked down on him, his expression resigned. Jack knew he’d never ask who the company was. George didn’t approve of his rakish ways.

“I take it you’re sure you can handle this company alone?”

Jack’s smile deepened. “Quite sure.”

“That’s what I thought.” George pulled his chesnut about, then paused to add: “One day, Jack, you’ll get bitten. I just hope I’m around when it happens, to say ’serves you right.’”

Jack laughed; George touched his heels to his horse and departed.

Jack noted the direction of Champion’s fixed stare but didn’t follow it. Instead, he spoke sternly to the horse. The stallion tossed his grey head at the rebuke but consented to be led to his stable. Jack unsaddled the great beast and rubbed him down in record time.

He’d expected Kit to appear as soon as the others left. When she didn’t, Jack went back to stand in front of the cottage, wondering if Champion could have been mistaken.

From the shadows of the trees, Kit watched him. Up to the time he’d arrived, her course had been clear. But the sight of him had awoken memories of that stormy night in the cottage, reducing her to vacillating nervousness. Perhaps she’d do better to meet him in daylight?

Convinced by the pricking of his own senses that Champion hadn’t been mistaken, Jack lost patience. He stood in the doorway of the cottage, hands on hips, and faced the trees across the clearing. “Come out, Kit. I’ve no intention of playing hide-and-seek in the dark.”

The subtle threat in his tone made up Kit’s mind for her. Reluctantly, she nudged Delia out of the trees. Suddenly remembering she’d no idea what Jack had made of her absence, she reined in. But she’d already gone too far. Jack stepped forward and caught Delia’s bridle. The next instant, Kit felt his hands at her waist. She bit back a protest which wouldn’t have been listened to anyway, too stunned by the force of her reaction to his touch to do anything more than summon up her defenses. Things were more serious than she’d thought; she’d have to ensure she didn’t give herself away.

To her relief, Jack released her immediately. Without a word, he led Delia to the stable. Uncertain of her welcome and a host of related matters, Kit followed.

Jack hadn’t noticed her reaction, for the simple reason he’d been too busy registering the violence of his own feelings. He’d never known a woman to affect him as Kit did. It was novel, unnerving and bloody annoying to boot. He hurt like hell in two entirely different places. He intended to see she eased at least one of the ills she’d inflicted on him—the more accessible one. The other he wasn’t sure even she could cure.

Delia went readily into the stall next to Champion. Jack unsaddled her and rubbed her down. He was aware of Kit hovering at the stable door but ignored her as best he could. If he acknowledged her presence, she’d be on her back in the hay inside of a minute.

When she saw Jack unsaddling Delia, Kit sought for words to protest—she wasn’t staying long. None came. In fact, she was seriously wondering if it was safe to talk to Jack at all. There was a certain tension in the large frame, a tension that was making her decidedly uneasy.

Before she’d time to think of anything to the point, Jack finished with Delia and strode out of the stable. “Come on.”

To her annoyance, Kit found herself scurrying in his wake as he strode to the cottage door. He went through and held it open for her. Firelight cast a rosy glow through the room. Summoning what dignity she could, Kit sauntered to the table and dropped her hat on a chair. She was unwinding her muffler when the sound of the bolt on the door falling home set every nerve quivering. Her senses in turmoil, she forced herself to continue with her task, folding the muffler and placing it by her hat. Then she turned to face him.

Only to find he was right behind her. She turned into his arms and his lips came down on hers. Her moan of protest turned to a moan of desire, then faded to a whimper of pleasure as his tongue touched hers. Incapable of resisting, Kit placed her hands on Jack’s shoulders and gave herself up to his embrace. She remembered her mission—to make him see sense, to promise not to run more spies—but she wouldn’t be able to do anything until his passionate welcome came to an end. She might as well enjoy it until then. Besides which, thinking while Jack’s lips were on hers, while his tongue played havoc with her senses, was well-nigh impossible.

Thinking was certainly not on Jack’s agenda. What need was there for thought? He didn’t even need to rein in his desire—she’d already given herself to him. His expertise as a lover would take care of her needs. His most urgent thought, the only one left in his brain, was to satisfy his needs. The primal lust he’d denied for too long, which she’d fed then let go hungry for five days and four nights, was on the rampage and had to be assuaged.