Captain Jack’s Woman / A Gentleman's Honor

Chapter 9

By the time he reached the cottage, Jack’s jaw was clenched with the effort of ignoring the thoroughly female body in his arms. With every stride, Champion’s gait pressed the warm swell of Kit’s bound breasts against Jack’s chest, alternating with the even more unnerving rub of her firm bottom against his thigh. The ride was torture-a fact he was sure Kit, whoever she was, would delight in, if he was ever fool enough to tell her. He suspected she’d wake with a headache. On the sands, he’d felt a touch guilty about that. Now, he considered it only her due-he was sure he’d have a splitting head by dawn. And no chance of sleep, either.

Champion’s hooves thudded on the packed earth before the cottage. The door opened, and Matthew came out. “What happened?”

Jack drew rein some paces from the door. “The lad didn’t take kindly to my invitation. In fact, he didn’t even wait to hear it. I had to exert my powers of persuasion.”

“So I see.” Matthew advanced, clearly intent on taking Jack’s burden from him.

Jack brought his leg over the pommel and slid to the ground, Kit’s inanimate form clasped to his chest. He brushed past Matthew and headed for the door. “Stable Champion and the mare. I doubt she’ll give you much trouble.” Jack paused in the doorway and looked back. “Then you may as well go home. He’s apt to be out for a while.” He smiled. “I think Young Kit would probably feel more comfortable if he thought no one but me had seen him in extremis.”

Wise in the ways of lads and young soldiers, Matthew nodded. “Aye. You’ll be right enough there, no doubt. I’ll be off then.” So saying, he caught Champion’s reins and headed for the small stable beside the cottage.

Jack entered the cottage and kicked the door shut, leaning back on the rough panels to juggle the latch with his elbow. Then he straightened and looked down at his burden. Thank God he’d put Kit’s hat back on. The wide brim had shaded her face enough for him to get her past Matthew. Quite why he was keeping her little secret from his unquestionably loyal henchman he wasn’t entirely certain. Perhaps because he hadn’t yet had time to consider just what Kit’s secret meant and how he was going to deal with it, and, from long experience, he knew Matthew would unhesitatingly avail himself of the license accorded longtime servitors to disapprove, vociferously, should his master elect to follow some less than straightforward course.

But before he could think of anything, he had to get rid of the distracting body in his arms.

Jack strode to the bed and dropped Kit onto the coverlet as if she was a lump of hot iron. In truth, she’d set him alight, and he couldn’t see any prospect of dousing the flames. Making love to unconscious women had never appealed to him. He stared down at the slender and still silent form. The muffler had shaken loose and lay about her throat. Her hat had fallen off, exposing her curls and telltale face to the lamplight.

Abruptly, Jack took a step back.

Now that she was out of his arms, he could think clearly. And it didn’t take much thought to conclude that making love to Kit at any time was likely to prove dangerous, if not specifically to himself, then certainly to his mission. He’d already dropped the appellation “Young”-having carried her for half an hour, he knew she wasn’t that young. Certainly not too young.

With a growl of frustration, Jack swung around and crossed to the sideboard. He poured himself a generous brandy, wryly wondering if Kit actually drank the stuff. What would she have done if he’d invited her back to share a bottle?

Jack grinned; the grin faded when he glanced toward the bed. What the hell was he to do with her?

He prowled the room, intermittently shooting glances at the figure on the bed. The brandy didn’t help. He drained the glass and set it aside. Kit hadn’t stirred. With a long sigh, Jack approached the bed and stood beside it, staring down at her.

She was too pale. Tentatively, he touched her cheek. It was reassuringly warm. Leaning over her, he pulled off her leather gauntlets and chafed the small hands, fine-boned and delicate. It didn’t help. Jack grimaced. Her breathing was shallow, her chest constricted by the tight bands she wore to conceal her breasts. He’d felt them when he’d carried her.

His arms felt leaden; his feet wouldn’t move. His body definitely didn’t like what his brain was telling it. But there was no help for it. And the sooner he got it over with, the better.

Jack forced his limbs to function. He turned Kit over, making sure she didn’t suffocate in the soft folds of the coverlet. He bundled her out of her coat, then pulled her shirttails free of her breeches, trying to ignore the most unmasculine curve of her buttocks. Pushing the back of the shirt up to her shoulders, he located the flat knot securing the linen bands, craftily tucked under one arm. The knot was well and truly tight. Jack swore as he tugged and fumbled, fingers brushing skin that felt like cool silk and burned like a brand. By the time the knot finally gave, he’d exhausted his repertoire of curses, something he’d hitherto believed impossible.

He sat on the edge of the bed, garnering strength for the next move, willing his mind not to see the beauty revealed to his senses, the slim back, delicate shoulder blades sheathed in ivory silk. With slow deliberation, he loosened the bindings and shifted them until they gave. Quickly, he pulled the shirt back down, wisely refraining from tucking it in and, rising, turned Kit onto her back once more.

Almost immediately, her breathing deepened. Within a minute, her color improved, but still she didn’t stir. Resigned to more waiting, Jack drifted to the table and pulled out a chair. Leaning back, he gazed broodingly at his unconscious visitor. He reached for the brandy bottle.

Consciousness trickled into Kit’s mind in dribs and drabs, a flash of memory, a tingle in her fingertips. Then her eyelids fluttered, and she was awake. And confused. She kept her eyes shut and tried to think. The memory of the wild chase on the beach, and Captain Jack riding her down-it must have been his body that had hit her-crystallized in her brain. That was all she could recall. Warily, she let her senses search out her surroundings, stiffening with apprehension at the incoming information. She was lying on a bed.

From under her lashes, Kit surveyed what she could see of the room-rough walls and an old oak wardrobe. Beyond confirming the fact she was in someone’s bedroom, in someone’s bed, they told her little.

But you can guess who that someone is, can’t you? And now you’re in his bed.

Don’t be silly, Kit lectured her wilder self.I’m still dressed, aren’t I? On the thought, the looseness of her bands registered. Kit sat up with a gasp.

The bands immediately slipped lower, freeing her breasts. Her head swam. With a weak, “Oh,” Kit fell back on her elbows, closing her eyes against the pain in the back of her head. When she opened them, she saw Captain Jack watching her from across the room. He was lounging in a chair on the other side of a table, a look of aggravation on his handsome face.

For the life of him, Jack couldn’t tear his gaze from the proof of Kit’s womanhood, thrust provocatively against the fine cotton of her shirt. The front was pulled taut by her reclining position, revealing the rich swells beneath tipped by the tight buds of her nipples. When she just lay there and stared at him, Jack felt his temper stir. Hell and the devil! Was she doing it on purpose?

Kit raised a hand to her head, stifling a groan. “What happened?”

The shirt eased, and Jack could breathe again. “You hit your head on a rock buried in the sand.”

Kit sat up and gingerly felt her skull. She’d forgotten how velvety deep his voice was. Her fingers found a sizable lump on the back of her head. She winced and shot a frowning glance at her nemesis. “You could have killed me with that foolish stunt.”

The accusation brought Jack upright, the legs of his chair crashing onto the floor. “Foolish stunt?” he echoed in disbelief. “What the hell do you call a woman masquerading as a boy and leading a gang of smugglers? Sensible?” Real anger at the risks she’d courted rose up. “What the hell do you think would have happened after your first slip? Do you swim well with rocks tied to your feet?”

Kit winced. “Don’t bellow.” She dropped her head into her hands. She didn’t feel all that well. Coping with Captain Jack at any time would have proved problematical, but right now, feeling as woozy as she did, this was shaping up to be a disastrous encounter. And he was already annoyed, though what he had to be annoyed about she couldn’t imagine. She was the one with the lump on her head. “Where are we?”

“Where we won’t be interrupted. I want some answers to one or two questions-understandable in the circumstances, don’t you think? We can start with the obvious-what’s your name?”

“Kit.” Kit grinned into her hands. Let him make what he liked of that.

“Catherine, Christine, or what?”

Kit frowned. “You don’t need to know.”

“True. Where do you live?”

Kit reserved her answer to that one. Her head ached. A quick reconnoiter yielded the information that they were in a small cottage, alone. The fact that the door led directly outside was reassuring.

Frowning, Jack stared at the glossy curls crowning Kit’s bent head. In the lamplight, they glowed a rich coppery red. In sunlight, he suspected they’d be redder and brighter still. The color tugged at his memory, an elusive recognition that refused to materialize. When she pulled her knees up, the better to support her hands which in turn were supporting her head, Jack grimaced. He supposed he should give her some brandy, but he didn’t really want to get closer. The table was a protective barricade and he was loath to leave its shelter. At least he was wearing his “poor country squire” togs; the loosely fitting breeches gave him some protection. In his military togs, or, heaven forbid, his town rig, she’d know immediately just how much she was affecting him. It was bad enough that he knew.

Her head was still down. With an exasperated sigh, Jack reached for the bottle. Rising, he fetched a clean glass and half filled it with the best French brandy to be found in England. Glass in hand, he approached the bed.

She’d glanced up at the sound of his chair on the boards. Now, she raised her head, to look first at the glass, then into his face.

Memory returned with a thump. Jack stopped and blinked. Then he looked again and suspicion was confirmed. “Kit,” he repeated. “Kit Cranmer?” He allowed one brow to rise in mocking question. Her eyes staring up at him, liquid amethyst, were all the answer he needed.

Kit swallowed, barely aware of his words. Heavens-it was worse than she’d thought! He was perfectly gorgeous-mind-numbingly, toe-curlingly gorgeous-with his wild mane of hair, wind-tousled brown streaked with gold. His brow was wide, his nose patrician and autocratic, his chin decidedly square. But it was his eyes that held her; set deep under slanted brows, they gleamed silver-grey in the lamplight. And his lips-long and rather thin, firm and mobile. How would they feel…

Kit clamped off the thought. Parched, she reached for the proffered glass. Her fingers brushed his. Ignoring the peculiar thrill that twisted through her, and suppressing the panic that swam in its wake, Kit sipped the brandy, very aware of the man beside her. He’d stopped by the side of the bed, towering over her. Entranced by his face, she’d spared no more than a glance for the rest of him. How did he measure up? She leaned back on her elbows the better to bring him into view.

Her shirt drew taut.

Beside the bed, Jack stiffened. Kit shifted to stare up at him. She saw his jaw clench, saw the planes of his face harden. Then she noticed his gaze was not on her face. She followed its direction, and saw what was holding him transfixed. Smoothly, she sat up, taking another sip of brandy, telling herself it was just the same as when London rakes had sized her up. There was no need to blush or act like a missish schoolgirl. Another sip of brandy steadied her. She hadn’t answered his question. Perhaps it would be wise to do so. Trying to hide her paternity was hopeless; the Cranmer coloring was known the length and breadth of Norfolk.

“Now you know who I am, who are you?” she said.

Jack shook his head to clear his befogged senses. Christ! It’d been too long. His mission was in grave danger. With some vague idea of safety, he walked to where a chair stood against the wall and, swinging it about, sat astride, resting his arms on its back, facing her. He ignored her question; at least she hadn’t recognized him.

“I doubt that you’re Spencer’s.” He watched her closely but could detect no reaction. Not the current Lord Cranmer’s child, then. “He had three sons, but if memory serves, the elder two don’t have the family coloring. Only the youngest had that. Christopher Cranmer, the wildest of the bunch.” Jack’s memory lurched again. His lips twisted wryly. “Also known as Kit Cranmer, as I recall.” A lifting of the corners of Kit’s lips suggested he’d hit the target. “So you’re Christopher Cranmer’s daughter.”

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 illegimate daughter, nothing would be more likely. Her father had been Spencer’s favorite. Her grandfather would naturally assume responsiblity 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.

Shaken, Jack drew a deep breath, grimly wondering if the silly minx knew how close she’d come to being rolled in the bed she was lolling so provocatively upon. Another second, and he’d have given in to the urge to stand up, set the chair aside, and fall on her like the sex-starved hellion he was.

Luckily, she’d drawn back. Later, he fully intended to pursue a more intimate relationship with her, but at the moment, business came first. What had she asked? He remembered. “I want to make one gang out of two. If I expose you, your men will be a laughingstock, which won’t help me in my aims. If you suddenly disappear, your men will think I’ve done away with you-scared you off at the very least. They’ll probably decide not to join us so there will still be two gangs operating along this coast.”

Kit frowned and looked down into the amber fluid swirling in her glass. He was suggesting she remain a boy-her true sex known only to him and herself-for an indefinite time. She wasn’t sure she could keep up the pretense for a day. It was all very well to prance about in breeches when everyone watching thought you were male; she suspected it would be quite a different matter when one watcher, this particular watcher, knew the truth. Besides, she didn’t really want to play the boy with Jack. Determinedly, Kit shook her head. “If I explain it to them-”

“They’ll think I’ve scared you off.”

Kit glared and sat up. “Not if I tell them-”

“Regardless of what you tell them.”

The finality in his deep tones was not encouraging. But his scheme was the epitome of madness. “You said yourself it was a foolish thing to do. What if they, and the rest of your gang, discover the truth?”

“They won’t. Not while I’m there to make sure of it.”

His convinction sounded unshakable. How illogical, Kit thought, to be arguing for an outcome she didn’t really desire. Yet the more she considered his scheme, the more dangerous it seemed. Luckily, she had herself well in hand. He was offering just the sort of excitement that appealed to her wilder self. She narrowed her eyes and chose her words carefully. “How do I know you won’t give me away?”

Jack’s eyes glittered. She was getting very close to the bone. What did she think he was-an overreactive schoolboy? Coolly, deliberately, he let his gaze wander, lingering on her breasts-not visible anymore, but he knew they were there-before drifting downward for a leisurely perusal of her long legs.

Kit blushed. And pounced the instant before he did. “Like that!” It hadn’t been what she’d meant, but it would prove her point.

Jack blinked, then flushed with annoyance. He scowled ferociously. “I won’t! What would I have to gain from giving you away?” His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “I can assure you I’ll behave exactly as if you were the lad they all think you are.” He didn’t consider it wise to tell her what it was more likely the men would think if they realized he was overly interested in Young Kit. “I can’t, of course, answer for your reactions.”

Kit’s temper ignited. Of all the insufferable, conceited louts she’d ever faced, Jack took the cake. Presumably he knew he was gorgeous. Doubtless scores of women had told him so. Hell would freeze before he heard those words from her! Kit tilted her nose in the air. “What reactions?”

Jack hooted with laughter. Abruptly, he stood and flung the chair aside. All thought of his mission, of sense and safety, fled at her challenge. No reactions to him? He advanced on the bed.

Kit’s eyes felt as if they’d pop from her head. Horrified, she tried to shuffle back in the bed but her elbows tangled in the covers and she sprawled full-length instead. Then he was towering over her, his shadow engulfing her. Hands on hips, he looked down at her from the foot, of the bed. He held out one hand. “Come here.”

He was mad. She had no intention of going anywhere near him. He was smiling now, devilishly. She decided she preferred his scowl-it was infinitely less threatening. She tried a scowl of her own.

Jack’s smile gained intensity; his eyes grew brighter. He had every intention of putting the vixen in her place once and for all. She was giving him more trouble than a troop of drunken cavalry. First she played the tease, curling on the bed so much like a cat he was quite sure that if he’d stroked her she’d have purred. Now, because he’d forced her into a blush, she was playing the threatened virgin.

But he wasn’t so far gone in lunacy as to get on the bed with her. When she continued to scowl, her amethyst eyes spitting purple chips, he made a grab for her hand.

Unfortunately, Kit chose the same moment to sit up, the better to deliver a verbal broadside. She saw his movement; he saw hers. Both tried to compensate. Jack’s fingers curled about her hand as he tried to straighten to avoid a collision of heads. Kit half rose, then fell back, wrenching her hand in an effort to free it. The result was the reverse of both their intentions. Jack’s leg hit the bed end and he stumbled, then was pulled off-balance by the unexpected violence of Kit’s tug. He landed on the bed beside her.

Kit smothered a shriek and tried to roll off the bed. A large hand grabbed her hip and rolled her back. A curse she didn’t comprehend fell on her ears. Memories of tussles with her cousins awoke in her brain. Instead of fighting the pull, she turned with it.

It was purely reflex action that saved Jack’s manly parts from Kit’s rising knee. Giving up any attempt at gentlemanly behavior, he grabbed both her hands and swung over her, straddling her hips, pinning her beneath him.

To his amazement, she continued to struggle, her hips writhing between his thighs.

“Be still, you witless wanton, or I won’t answer for the consequences!”

That stopped her. Wide eyes stared up at him. The front of her shirt rose and fell rapidly. Jack couldn’t see through it, but the memory of what lay beneath it acted powerfully on his brain. The temptation to let go of her hands and cup the sweet mounds grew stronger by the second. His palms tingled in anticipation.

Jack forced his gaze upward. He met her eyes and saw the panic there. Panic? Jack closed his eyes against the plea in the violet depths and drew a deep breath. What the hell was going on? Now, she even looked like a threatened virgin. As sanity slowly seeped back into his brain, the rigidity of the slim form between his thighs registered.

Could she be a virgin? Jack’s worldly brain rejected that idea out of hand. A woman of her background, of her age, with her attributes-one who declared herself “more than passing familiar” with men-could not be a virgin. Besides, she’d made moves enough that smacked of experience. No. The truth was, she didn’t, for whatever reason, want him. Because he wanted her? Some women were like that. Jack prided himself on his knowledge of the female sex. He’d spent fifteen and more years in an extensive study of the fascinating creatures. In between fighting a few wars. If she really had taken an aversion to him, he could use it to his advantage in the short term. And when the need for Young Kit had passed, he could look forward to spending countless interesting hours changing her mind.

Jack opened his eyes and studied Kit’s face. She was scowling again. He smiled crookedly. He was aching with need, but she wasn’t about to welcome him aboard. Not yet.

He changed his hold on her hands, so that his thumbs rested in her palms. Slowly, deliberately, he moved his thumbs in a circular motion, caressing her sensitive skin. He watched as her eyes grew larger, rounder.

Kit was speechless. Worse, she was close to mindless. Neither her own experiences nor Amy’s had prepared her for the effect Jack was having on her. Despite the fact that he hadn’t even kissed her, she couldn’t think straight. His touch on her palms was driving little shivers down every nerve, focusing her mind on her hands, as if to distract her from the heat seeping insidiously through every vein, radiating from the junction of her thighs. There was a complementary heat above, where he straddled her. Dimly, she sensed a growing urge to lift her hips and press heat to heat. She resisted it, struggling to break free of his spell. “Let me go, Jack.” Her words were soft, feminine, not the decisive demand she intended at all.

Jack grinned, inordinately pleased to hear his name on her lips. “I’ll let you go if you promise to do as I ask.”

Kit frowned. Was he threatening her? It was an effort to put her thoughts into words. Particularly when he looked as if he’d like to eat her. Slowly. “What do you mean?” She asked.

“Be Young Kit for two months. After that, we’ll arrange your retirement.”And you can start your next assignment-as my mistress. Jack smiled into her beautiful eyes. He was sure they’d turn deepest violet when she climaxed. He was looking forward to conducting that experiment.

Kit couldn’t steady her breathing. She shook her head. “It’ll never work.”

“It’ll work. We’ll make it work.”

The idea was tempting, very tempting. Kit struggled to get a grip on the situation. “What if I won’t?”

Jack’s brows rose but he was smiling-that devilish smile again. Then he sighed dramatically and stopped stroking her palms. Kit relaxed, relief surging through her. Only to be overridden by panic when he raised her hand to his lips and kissed one fingertip. Her lips formed an O of sheer shock.

Watching her, Jack nearly laughed. No reaction to him? If she was any more responsive she’d be climbing the walls. “If you won’t join me in abusiness venture, we’ll just have to consider what other type of…partnership we can enjoy.”

Kit stared at him in undisguised horror.

Jack turned her hand over to press a kiss to her palm. He felt her entire body tense. “The first thing we’ll have to investigate is whether this aversion of yours is any more than skin deep.” Involuntarily, his gaze dropped to her shirt and his mind shifted to a contemplation of the delights it concealed. Just a single thickness of material was all that protected her breasts from his hungry gaze. And his ardent attentions. Almost, he wished she’d hold firm to her resolve not to be Young Kit. At least long enough to make a little persuasion necessary.

Kit’s mind was sluggish. Aversion? Her aversion? Here she was, in a flat panic lest he realize just how very attracted she was, and he thought she held him in aversion? She almost laughed hysterically. If she hadn’t been so frightened by her response to him, she would have. Having him so close drained her willpower; every little attention he bestowed only made matters worse. Another few moves and he’d have her egging him on. The idea of what would happen if he kissed her brought her to a rapid decision. “All right.”

Jack hauled his gaze back to her face and his mind back to her words. “All right?”

Kit heard the disappointment in his voice. He’d have carried out his threat with enthusiasm. “Yes, all right, damn you!” She pushed hard at his hands. “If the others agree, I’ll be Young Kit, but only for a month. Until my men settle in with your gang.”

Jack’s sigh was heartfelt. Reluctantly, he released her. Before moving off her, he smiled winningly, directly into the large eyes lit by violet sparks. “Sure you won’t change your mind?”

The look he got set him chuckling. He rolled to her side and lay back on the pillows, content for the moment. Her capitulation wasn’t exactly complimentary, but he’d a month to work on that.

Beside him, Kit lay still, struck by the revelation that, although he was still close, now that he wasn’t touching her, her mind was functioning again. Recalling her uncertainties about the Hunstanton Gang’s cargoes, she remembered what had led her to such questions. “I take it you’ve heard about Lord Hendon, the new High Commissioner, and his interest in the trade?”

Jack managed to suppress the start her words gave him. What had she heard? He settled his hands behind his head and spoke to the ceiling. “It’s well known the Revenue are working out an excess of zeal about Sheringham.”

Kit frowned. “That’s not what I meant. I heard that Lord Hendon has been appointed specifically to take a greater interest in the traffic.”

From under his lashes, Jack watched her profile. “Who told you that?”

“I overheard someone tell my grandfather about it.”

“Who?”

“The Lord Lieutenant.”

Jack pursed his lips. It wasn’t exactly the message Lord Marchmont had been sent to deliver, but it was close enough. He was sure the Lord Lieutenant would have communicated his message accurately but if Kit had been flapping her ears at a distance, she might not have caught the whole of it. He couldn’t imagine the two peers openly discussing such business in front of Spencer’s housekeeper. “If that’s the case, we’ll have to keep a close eye on his lordship’s activities.”

Kit snorted derisively and sat up. “If he ever actually stirs himself to anything that can be so described. I’m beginning to think he’s gone to ground in that castle of his and just issues orders to the Revenue from his daybed.”

Jack looked at her in amazement. “What makes you think that?”

“He’s never seen about, that’s why. He’s been here for a few months, yet most people haven’t sighted him. I know because Spencer gave a dinner party. Lord Hendon was invited but had a prior engagement.”

The disgust in her voice made Jack blink. “What’s wrong with that?”

Kit’s lip curled. “A prior engagement with whom-when all the surrounding families were at Cranmer that night?”

Jack looked much struck, a fact Kit missed. She found the glass of brandy, now empty, amid the covers and, with the trailing ends of her muffler, ineffectually dabbed at the small stain where the dregs had spilt in their tumble. Suddenly, she giggled.

“What’s funny?”

“I was just wondering if I should pity the poor man, when he finally condescends to make a public appearance. The ladies of the neighborhood are all so anxious to meet him. Mrs. Cartwright has designs on him as a husband for her Jane, and Lady Marchmont-” Kit broke off, horrified by what she’d nearly said.

“Who’s Lady Marchmont got in mind for the poor devil?” The laughter bubbling beneath the smooth surface of Jack’s voice was encouraging.

“Someone else,” Kit replied repressively. “And I don’t envy the chit one bit.”

“Oh?” Jack turned a fascinated eye on her. “Why’s that?”

Kit was enjoying the unexpected sensation of sitting beside Jack, feeling oddly at ease and totally unthreatened, despite the panic of only minutes ago. For some inexplicable reason, she was quite sure he intended her no harm. His conviction that he could make her welcome his advances was frightening purely because she knew it was the truth. But when he wasn’t engaging in that sort of play, she felt completely at one with him, perfectly ready to share her opinion of the new High Commissioner. She pulled an expressive face. “From all I’ve heard, Hendon sounds a dry old stick, positively fusty.” She studied the glass in her hand. “He must be fifty and he limps. Lady Marchmont said he was ‘Hendonish’ but I’ve no idea what that means-probably stuffy.”

Jack’s brows had risen to considerable heights. He could have informed Kit precisely what “Hendonish” meant-she’d just been treated to a sample, albeit restricted-but he didn’t. He was too taken up with grappling with a sense of outrage. “You’ve met the man, I take it.”

“No.” Kit shook her head. “Hardly anyone has, so he can hardly take exception to our visions of him if they’re unfairly unflattering, can he?”

And that, thought Jack, was a deucedly difficult argument to counter.

A sudden shriek of wind brought their situation forcibly to Kit’s mind. Heavens! Here she sat in Captain Jack’s bed, with him beside her, chatting the night away. She must have rocks in her head! She wriggled toward the edge of the bed. “I must go.”

Long fingers encircled her wrist. Jack didn’t exert any great pressure, yet Kit didn’t fool herself into thinking she could break free. “I take it we’re agreed, then. Your men and mine to join from now on.”

Kit frowned. “If the others agree. I’ll have to ask them. I’ll meet you at the quarries as we planned and tell you what we’ve decided.”

She glanced at Jack. His face was blank, his expression unreadable. But she sensed he didn’t like her conditions. Unconsciously, she tilted her chin.

Jack pondered her defiant expression and considered the advisability of pulling her to him and kissing her into agreement. Her lips were temptation incarnate, soft and full and devastatingly feminine. Particularly in their present half pout. Abruptly, he dragged his mind from its preoccupation. What she’d suggested was fair enough, but he didn’t trust her in the quarries. He’d a shrewd suspicion she knew them better than he did. “I’ll agree to wait two nights for your answer on the condition that you, personally, bring it to me here-not at the quarries.”

Kit forced herself not to look down at the hand trapping hers or at the long body stretched at ease on the covers. She needed no demonstration to understand her vulnerability. She looked into Jack’s eyes and read cool determination in their depths. Did it really matter if she came here again?

How deliriously dangerous, her wilder self purred.

“Very well.” The hand about her wrist was withdrawn. Kit stood. Then immediately sank back on the bed, blushing furiously. Her bands were still undone. She couldn’t ride back to Cranmer with them about her waist; and she didn’t fancy the idea of stopping along the way to get undressed and do them up.

It took Jack a moment to work out the reason for her blush. Then he laughed, a low chuckle that set Kit’s nerves skittering. He sat up. “Turn around and let me do them up for you.” When Kit sent him a scandalized look, he grinned wickedly. “I undid them, after all.”

At his teasing tone, Kit blushed again and reluctantly turned about, wriggling to work the bands into position. What else could she do? He’d already seen her naked back-and her seminaked front, too. She felt his weight shift on the bed, then he rolled up the back of her shirt.

“Hold them where you want them tied.”

Kit slipped her hands beneath her shirt to settle the bands over her breasts. “Tighter,” she said, as she felt him cinch the ends only just tight enough to stay up.

An unintelligible mutter came from behind her, but he tightened the knot.

“More.”

“Christ, woman! There ought to be a law against what you’re doing.”

Kit took a moment to work that out, then giggled. “There won’t be any permanent damage.”

The knot was tied, just tight enough, and her shirt pulled down. Kit stood and tucked the shirt into her waistband, then shrugged on her coat before winding the muffler tight about her nose and chin.

Lounging on the bed, Jack watched the transformation critically. Even knowing she was a woman, he had to admit her disguise was good. “Your mare’s in the stable out back, keeping company with my stallion. Don’t get too close to him; he bites.”

Kit nodded. She found her tricorne in the corner by the bed and crammed it over her curls. “You didn’t say where we are.”

“About two miles north of Castle Hendon.”

Beneath her muffler, Kit’s lips twisted wryly. Jack seemed a man very much after her own heart. “You do like to live dangerously, don’t you?”

Jack smiled brilliantly. “It keeps boredom at bay.”

With a regal inclination of her head, Kit sauntered to the door.

Jack grinned. With her husky voice and the mannish airs she assumed with such ease, he was confident they’d manage her charade for the requisite month.

At the door, Kit paused. “Until the night after tomorrow, then.”

Jack nodded, his expression leaching into impassivity. “Don’t try to disappear, will you? Your men might do something rash. And I know where to find you.”

For the first time that night, Kit confronted the side of Captain Jack that had, presumably, made him the leader of the Hunstanton Gang. She decided she wasn’t going to give him the joy of knowing how unnerving she found it. With a nourish, she swept him a bow before unlatching the door and pausing on the threshold to say, “I’ll be here.”

Then she left.

In the cottage, Jack dropped back onto the pillows and fell to a contemplation of the first woman to have ever left his bed untried. A temporary aberration but a novel one. He was deep in dreams when the quick clop of hooves told him Kit was on her way. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, wishing that Young Kit’s month of service was already past.