Captain Jack’s Woman / A Gentleman's Honor

Chapter 12

After that first run, Kit had been sure she’d face no real problem in being Young Kit for the requisite month. Unfortunately, affairs did not run so smoothly. Her pride was her problem: it rose to the fore on two different counts, both stemming directly from Jack’s irritating behavior.

In the third week of their association, she sought solitude in the gazebo to thrash out how to counteract Jack’s stubborn refusal to deal reasonably with her. She was always the lookout-that she could understand-but for all his apparent experience, Jack persisted in placing her to the east of the ran area, away from Hunstanton. Yet if the Revenue were to mount a sortie, surely they’d be coming from Hunstanton?

Plonking herself down on the gazebo’s wooden seat, Kit stared at the roses. Any attempt to question Jack’s peculiar orders met with a highly discouraging scowl, topped by a growl if she pushed him. A snarl would no doubt be next, but she’d never had the nerve to test him. She had the distinct impression she was being bundled aside, out of harm’s way. Kit narrowed her eyes. It was almost as if Jack knew there’d be no interference from the Revenue but sent her in the opposite direction just in case.

Damn it! It had been at his insistence she’d continued her charade; being given token tasks was not what she’d expected. Enough! She’d have it out with him this evening. There was to be another run, on the promontory between Holme and Brancaster. Since they’d joined forces, the traffic had been constant-two runs a week, always on different beaches, mostly for Nolan, once for another agent. Spirits and lace had been the staple fare, high-quality merchandise that brought good returns to the smugglers.

With a rustle of skirts, Kit stood. Descending from the gazebo, she wended her way between the rose beds, indifferent to the perfect blooms nodding on every side. Lack of meaningful participation in the gang’s affairs was one of her points of contention. Her personal interaction with Jack, or rather, lack of personal interaction with Jack, was the other.

His behavior during her first visit to the cottage she’d understood. What had her confused was all that had, or hadn’t, come since. He’d blown hot for her initially, but ever since that night he’d appeared uninterested, as if he’d found her unattractive on second glance. For one who’d had the rakes of London at her feet, Jack’s failure to succumb was galling.

Kit dropped the petals she’d pulled from a fading white rose and headed for the house. All the other personable males who’d hovered on her horizon had done so without her exerting any effort to attract their notice. Jack’s notice, short-lived though it had been, had stirred her interest in a way none of the others had. She wanted more. But Jack, damn his silver eyes, seemed distinctly disinclined to supply it. He now acted as if she was a lad in truth-as if he couldn’t be bothered responding to her as a woman.

Climbing the steps to the terrace, Kit realized her teeth were clenched. Forcibly relaxing her jaw, she made a vow. Before she quit the Hunstanton Gang, she’d have Captain Jack at her feet. A rash resolution, perhaps, but the thought sent a thrill of delicious daring through her.

Her lips quirked upward. This was what she craved-what she needed. A challenge. If Jack insisted on removing all chance of other thrills, surely it was only right he provide her with suitable compensation?

Entering the morning room, Kit sank onto the chaise and considered the possibilities. She’d need to be on guard to ensure Jack didn’t take things farther than mere dalliance. His behavior on that first night in his cottage had been ample proof that he could and would take matters far farther than she would countenance. He was not of common stock. No fisherman had such an air-of command, of authority, and, frequently, of sheer arrogance. His diction, his knowledge of swordplay, his stallion-all bore witness that his origins were considerably higher than the village. And, of course, he was gorgeous beyond belief. Nevertheless, a liaison, however brief, between Lord Cranmer’s granddaughter and Captain Jack, leader of the Hunstanton Gang, did not fall within the bounds of the possible.

But he thinks you’re illegitimate, remember?

“But I’m not illegitimate, am I?” Kit pointed out to her wilder self. “I couldn’t possibly forget what I owe the family name.”

Why? The family was ready enough to sacrifice you for their own ends.

“Only my uncles and aunts-not Spencer or my cousins.”

Sure it’s not just an old-fashioned dose of maidenly nerves? How will you learn if Amy’s right if you don’t give it a try? And if you’re ever going to take the plunge-he’s the one. Why not admit you go weak at the knees at the thought of all that lovely male muscle and those silver devil’s eyes?

“Oh, shut up!” Kit reached for her embroidery. Prying her needle free, she poked it through the design. Drawing the thread through, she set her lips. She was bored. Excitement was what she needed. Tonight, she’d make sure she got some.

The roar of the surf as it pounded the sand filled Kit’s ears. She stood in the lee of the cliff, holding Delia’s reins, watching the Hunstanton Gang gather. The men huddled in small groups, their gruff voices barely audible above the surf. None approached her. They all viewed Young Kit as a delicate youth, a young nob, best left to Captain Jack to deal with.

Kit looked up and saw Jack approaching, mounted on his grey stallion and flanked by George and Matthew. Her confidence in Jack’s ability to organize and command was complete. She’d heard tales, some decidedly grisly, of the Hunstanton Gang’s activities before Jack had taken over. In the past three weeks, she’d seen no evidence of such excesses. Jack didn’t even exert himself to impress his will-the men obeyed him instinctively, as if recognizing a born leader.

Kit peered out at the waves, black tipped with pearl in the weak moonlight. She could see no sign of the boats.

Jack drew rein some yards away and the men gathered about to receive their orders. Then they were off down the beach to wait, huddled on the sand like rocks just above the waterline. Dismounting, Jack set Matthew and George to watch for the signal from the ship that would tell them the boats were on their way in, then trudged through the sand toward Kit.

He stopped in front of her. “Up there should give you a good view.”

To Kit’s surprise, he indicated the cliff above the western end of the beach. Then she remembered they were out on the headland-if the Revenue came from anywhere it would have to be from the east; beyond the western point was sea. Her time had come. “No!” She had to shout over the din of the waves.

It took Jack a moment to realize what she was saying. He scowled. “What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“I mean there’s no sense in my keeping a lookout from that position. I may as well stay on the beach and watch the boats come in.”

Jack stared at her. The idea of her scurrying around among the boats, being shoved aside by the first fisherman into whose path she stumbled, was one he refused to contemplate. A shout told him the signal had come. Soon, the boats would be beaching. He eyed the slight figure before him and shook his head. “I haven’t time to argue about it now. I’ve got to see to the boats.”

“Fine. I’ll come, too.” Kit looped Delia’s reins about a straggling bush clinging to the cliff and turned to follow Jack.

“Get up to that cliff top immediately!”

The blast almost lifted her from her feet. Kit stepped back, eyes widening in alarm. Jack towered over her, one arm lifted, one finger jabbing at the western cliff. Transfixed, she stared at him. And saw him set his teeth.

“For Christ’s sake, get moving!”

Shaken to her boots, furious to the point of incoherence, Kit wrenched Delia’s reins from the bush and swung up to the saddle. She glared down at Jack, still standing before her, fists on hips, barring the way to the beach, then hauled on the reins and sent Delia up the cliff path.

On the western cliff top, Kit dismounted. She left Delia to graze the coarse grasses a few yards back from the edge. Seething, she threw herself down on a large flat boulder and, picking up a small rock, hurled it down onto the sands. She wished she could hit Jack with it. He was clearly visible, down by the beaching boats. A slingshot might just make it.

With a disgusted snort, Kit sank her elbows into her thighs and dumped her chin in her hands. God-could he shout. Spencer bellowed when in a rage, but the noise had never affected her. She’d always considered it a sure sign her grandfather had all but lost the thread of his argument and would soon succumb to hers. But when Jack had bellowed his orders, he’d expected to be obeyed. Instantly. Every vestige of defiant courage she possessed had curled up its toes and died. The idea of her doing anything to overcome such an invincible force had seemed patently ridiculous.

Thoroughly disgusted with her craven retreat, Kit glumly watched the gang unload the boats.

When the last barrel was clear of the surf and the pack ponies were all but fully laden, Kit stood and dusted down her breeches. Whatever happened, however much Jack bellowed, this was the last, the very last time she’d keep watch from the wrong position for the Hunstanton Gang.

“Well? What is it?” Jack dumped the keg he’d brought back from the run on the table and swung to face Kit. George had ridden straight home from the beach and, after one glance at Kit’s rigid figure, Jack had sent Matthew directly on to the Castle. On the beach, he’d hoped that her knuckling under to his orders meant she’d forget her grievance over being a redundant lookout. He should have known better.

Kit ignored his abrupt demand and closed the door. With cool deliberation, she walked forward into the glow of the lamp Jack set alight. Pulling her hat from her curls, she dropped it on the table, then, in perfect silence, unwound her muffler.

Straightening from lighting the lamp, Jack pressed his hands to the table and remained standing. He felt much more capable of intimidating Kit when upright. Assuming, of course, that she, too, was upright. If she didn’t hurry up and get to her point, he wouldn’t give much for her chances of remaining so. Jack set his teeth and waited.

When her muffler had joined her hat, Kit turned to face Jack. “I suggest that in future you rethink your lookout policy. If you order me to a position in what is obviously the wrong direction, I’ll move to a more sensible place.”

Jack’s jaw hardened. “You’ll do as you’re told.”

Kit lifted a condescending brow.

Jack lost a little of his calm. “Dammit-if you’re on lookout and the Revenue appear, how the hell can I be certain you won’t do something stupid?”

Kit’s eyes blazed. “I wouldn’t just run away.”

“I know that! If I thought you would run away, I’d have no qualms about putting you on the Hunstanton side.”

“You admit you’ve been deliberately putting me on the wrong side?”

“Christ!” Jack raked a hand through his hair. “Look-you can’t unload the boats, so you may as well be our lookout. As it happens-”

“At the moment you don’t actually need a lookout.” Kit’s tone dripped with emphasis. “Because, as you well know, the Hunstanton Revenue men have been ordered to patrol the beaches south of Hunstanton.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”

Kit lifted one shoulder. “Everyone knows that.”

“Who told you?”

Kit eyed Jack warily. “Spencer. He had it from the owner of the Rose and Anchor in Lynn.”

The muscles in Jack’s shoulders eased. She didn’t have any contact within the Revenue Office. He’d been away so long, he’d forgotten how things got about in the country. “I see.”

“I take it that means I won’t have to stay stuck on a cliff twiddling my thumbs next time?” Kit’s look dared him to disagree.

He ignored it. “What the hell else can you do?”

“I can help unload the lace,” Kit stated, chin high.

“Fine,” said Jack. “And what happens the first time someone hands you a keg instead? Here, take this to the sideboard.” Without warning, he lifted the keg he’d brought in and handed it to her.

Automatically, Kit put out her hands to take it. Jack let go.

Jack could carry the keg under one arm. He didn’t have any idea how much Kit could carry, but he didn’t expect her to sink under the weight.

Kit’s knees buckled. Her arms slipped about the keg as she struggled to balance the weight against her own and failed. She went down, bottom first, and the keg rolled back to flatten her. The instant before it did serious damage, Jack lifted it from her.

In awful silence, Kit lay flat on the floor and glared at Jack. Then she got her breath back. Her bound breasts, swelling in righteous indignation, fought against the constraining bands; her eyes spat purple flame. “You bastard! What kind of a stupid thing was that to do?”

Carefully, Jack set the keg back on the table. He glanced once at Kit, sprawled at his feet, then rapidly away, biting his lips against the laughter that threatened. She looked fit to kill. “Here, let me…” Reaching down, he grasped both her hands. Gently, he hauled her to her feet. He didn’t dare meet her gaze; it was sharp enough to slice strips off him. Doubtless, her tongue soon would.

Back on her feet, Kit was agonizingly aware that a certain portion of her anatomy was very bruised. “Dammit-that hurt!”

The accusation was softened by the way her lips trembled. She frowned, and Jack felt a patent fool. He’d been trying to protect her and instead, he’d nearly squashed her to death.

“Sorry.” He was halfway into an apologetic smile, designed to charm her from her anger, when he remembered what would happen if he did. She’d smile back. He could just imagine it-a small, hurt little smile. He’d be felled. “But I’m afraid that’s precisely what will happen if you play the lady smuggler with me.” Realizing how close to danger he stood, Jack stalked back around the table.

Kit’s spine stiffened. Her fingers curled in fury. Her wilder self came to life. Remember your alternative to smuggling thrills?

Kit smiled at Jack and noted his defensive blink. Her smile deepened. She put her hands behind her waist and turned slightly, grimacing artistically. “How right you are,” she purred. “I don’t suppose you have anything here for bruises?” She let her hands press down and over the ripe curves of her bottom.

Despite years of training in the art of dissembling, Jack couldn’t tear his eyes from her hands. His body made the switch from semiarousal, his usual state in Kit’s presence, to aching hardness before her hands reached the tops of her thighs. His brain registered the implication in her husky tone and scrambled what few wits he had remaining. Only his instinct for self-preservation kept him rooted to the floor with the table, a last bastion, between them.

It was the silence that finally penetrated Jack’s daze. He glanced up and caught a gleam suspiciously like satisfaction in the violet eyes watching him.

“Er…no. Nothing for bruises.” He had to get her out of here.

“But you must have something,” Kit said, her lids veiling her eyes. Her glance fell on the keg. Her smile grew. “As I recall, there’s a rub made with brandy.” She looked up to see Jack’s face drain of expression.

A brandy rub? Jack’s mind went into a spin. The image her words conjured up, of him applying a brandy rub to her bruised flesh, his hand stroking the warm contours he’d just watched her trace, left him rigid with the effort to remain where he was. Only the thought that she was deliberately baiting him kept him still. Slowly, he shook his head. “Wouldn’t help.”

Kit pouted. “Are you sure?” Her hands gently kneaded her bottom. “I’m really rather sore.”

Forcibly, Jack clamped an iron hold over every muscle in his body. His fists bunched; he felt as if he had lockjaw as he forced out the words: “In that case, you’d better get on your way before you stiffen up.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed, then she shrugged and half turned to pick up her muffler and hat. “So I can help with the boats from now on?” She started winding the muffler about her face.

Further argument was beyond Jack, but he’d be damned if he’d let her best him like this. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” His voice sounded strained.

Kit pulled on her hat and swung about to discuss the matter further, only to find Jack moving past her on his way to the door.

“We’ll see what cargo Nolan has lined up for us. After all, you’ve only got a week more to go.” Jack paused with his hand on the door latch and looked back, praying she’d leave.

Kit moved toward him, a considering light in her eyes, a knowing smile on her lips. “I thought you wanted two months?”

She was getting far too close. Jack drew a ragged breath and pulled open the door. “You agreed to one month, and that’ll serve our purpose. No need for more.” No need for further torture.

Kit paused beside him, tilting her head to look up at him from beneath the brim of her hat. “You’re sure one month will be long enough?”

“Quite sure.” Jack’s voice had gained in strength. Encouraged, he grasped her elbow and helped her over the threshold, risking the contact in the interests of greater safety. “We’ll meet here at eleven as usual. Good night.”

Kit’s eyes widened at his helping hand but she accepted her departure with good grace, pausing in the patch of light thrown through the open door to smile at him. “Until tomorrow, then,” she purred.

Jack shut the door.

When the sound of the mare’s hooves reached him, he heaved a huge sigh and slumped back against the door. He glanced at his hands, still fisted, and slowly straightened his long fingers.

A week to go. Christ-he’d be a nervous wreck by the end of it!

Pushing away from the door, he headed for the brandy keg. Before he reached it, the image of his torment, riding alone through the night, surfaced. Jack dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling and vented his displeasure in a frustrated groan. Then he went out to saddle Champion.