Captain Jack’s Woman / A Gentleman's Honor

Chapter 20

The stars fell from Kit’s eyes on Monday night. She’d decided to attend the meeting at the Old Barn. Although she no longer felt compelled to join the smugglers on their runs, she needed to see Jack, to try to learn more about his views on “human cargoes.” When better to lead the conversation in that direction than on the slow ride back to the cottage after the meeting? She held few illusions as to how much rational discussion they’d engage in once they entered the cottage. But he’d only run one “human cargo” in the last two months; she had time, she felt, to pursue his conversion at a leisurely pace.

The meeting had already started when she got there. She slipped into the protective shadows at the back of the barn and found a dusty crate to perch on. Some noticed her furtive entrance; a few nodded an acknowledgment before returning their attention to Jack, standing in the cone of weak light shed by a single lamp.

Kit saw his grey eyes sweep her, but Jack’s recitation of detail never faltered. He was midway through describing a cargo to be brought in the next night on the beaches east of Holme. Kit listened with half an ear, fascinated by the way the lamplight gilded the odd streaks in his hair.

Jack turned to address Shep. “You and Johnny collect the passenger from Creake at dusk. Bring him direct to the beach.”

Kit froze.

Shep nodded; Jack turned to Noah. “Come in and pick him up. Your boat should be the last to the ship. Transfer him and get the last of the goods.”

“Aye.” Noah ducked his head.

“That’s it, then.” Jack scanned the faces, all weatherworn, most expressionless. “We’ll meet again Thursday as usual.”

With grunts and nods, the band dispersed, unobtrusively slipping into the night in twos and threes. The lamp was hauled down and extinguished.

Still Kit sat her crate, head down, her face hidden by the brim of her tricorne. Jack eyed her silent figure. His misgivings grew. What the devil was wrong now? He’d expected her to arrive, but her pensiveness was unsettling. Eagerness was what he’d been expecting after her efforts of Sunday afternoon.

George and Matthew joined him by the now open door.

“I’m heading straight home.” George spoke in a subdued tone, clearly aware Kit was behind in the gloom. He raised a questioning brow.

Jack’s jaw set. He nodded decisively. George slipped into the night.

“You’d best be on your way, too.”

“Aye.” Matthew went without question. Jack watched him mount and head south, through the shielding trees and into the fields beyond.

In the darkness behind Jack, Kit struggled to bring some order to her mind. Jack must have known about this latest “human cargo” since his visit to the Blackbird last Wednesday. Although she’d spent all Wednesday night and Sunday afternoon by his side, he’d not mentioned the fact. He’d not even alluded to it. So much for her ideas of learning of the spies ahead of time. Now, she’d less than twenty-four hours to make a decision and act.

When the silence of the barn remained unbroken, Jack turned and paced inside. He stopped where the moonlight ran out, and looked to where he knew Kit still sat. “What is it?”

At his impatient tone, Kit bristled, a fact Jack missed in the dark. Realizing her advantage, she took a long moment to weigh her strategy. She’d intended dissuading Jack from his treasonous enterprise; it was still worth a try. But the drafty barn, with its loose boards and warped doors, was no place to have a discussion on treason, particularly not with the person you suspected of committing it. “I need to talk with you.”

Hands on hips, Jack glared into the dark. Talk? Was she up to her tricks again? He was getting damned tired of her changes in mood. He’d thought, after Sunday, that their relationship had got itself on an even keel-that she’d accepted her position as his mistress. Admittedly, she didn’t know whose mistress she was, but he didn’t think she’d jib at the change from smuggler to lord of the castle. He didn’t think she’d jib, period.

Then he remembered she’d been watching him avidly when she’d first come in. Her attitude had changed later. An inkling of his problem blossomed in Jack’s brain. “If you want to talk, it’d better be back at the cottage.”

Kit stood and walked forward.

Jack heard her. He turned and strode to the door, not looking back to see if she was following. He went to where Champion stood tethered under a gnarled fir and vaulted into the saddle. He nudged the stallion into a canter, ignoring the horse’s reluctance. Champion’s gait didn’t flow freely until halfway across the first field, when Delia drew alongside.

Jack rode in silence, his eyes probing the shadows ahead, his mind firmly fixed on the woman by his side. Why should she get her inexpressibles in a twist over him smuggling spies? Did she even know they were spies? The road appeared ahead, and he turned Champion onto the beaten surface.

Edging Delia up alongside Champion, Kit glanced at Jack’s stern profile. It wasn’t encouraging. Far from dampening her determination, the observation strengthened her resolution. Matthew was Jack’s servant, George a too-close friend; neither had shown the slightest ability to influence Jack. Clearly, it was time someone forced him to consider his conscience. She didn’t expect him to like the fact she intended to be that someone, but male arrogance was no excuse. She’d tell him what she thought regardless of what he felt.

They turned south and walked their mounts up the winding path to the top of the rise. Kit watched as Jack peered down, automatically ensuring that they hadn’t been followed. The path below remained clear. She saw Jack grimace before he turned Champion’s head for the cottage. Setting Delia in Champion’s wake, she fell to organizing her arguments.

Jack dismounted before the stable and led Champion in. Kit did likewise, taking Delia to the neighboring stall. Having decided on her route of attack, she went straight to the point. “You do know the men you bring in and take out are spies, don’t you?”

Jack’s answer was to thump his saddle down on top of the partition between the stalls. Kit stared into the gloom. So he was going to be difficult. “You’ve been in the army, haven’t you? You must know what sort of information’s going out with your ‘human cargoes.’”

When silence prevailed, Kit dropped her saddle on the partition and leaned on it to add: “You must have known men who died over there. How can you help the enemy kill more of our soldiers?”

In the dark, Jack closed his eyes against the memories her words unleashed. Known men who’d died? He’d had an entire troop die about him, blown to hell by cannon and grapeshot. He’d only escaped because a charger harnessed to one of the guns he’d been trying to reposition had fallen on him. And because Matthew, against all odds, had found him amidst the bloody carnage of the retreat.

Champion shifted, nudging him back to the present. Unclenching his fingers, he grabbed a handful of straw and fell to brushing the glossy grey coat. He had to keep moving, to keep doing, letting her words, however undeserved, wash over him. If he reacted, the truth would tumble out, and, God knew, the game they were playing was too dangerous for that.

When Kit realized she wasn’t going to get any verbal reaction, she plowed on, determined to make Jack see the error of his ways. “Just because you survived with a whole skin doesn’t mean you can forget about it.”

Jack paused and considered telling her just how little he’d forgotten. Instead, he forced himself to continue mutely grooming Champion.

Kit glared in his direction, uncertain whether he could see her or not. She grasped some straw and started to brush Delia. “Smuggling’s one thing. It might be against the law, but it’s only dishonest. It’s more than dishonest to make money from selling military information. From selling other men’s lives. It’s treason!”

Jack’s brows rose. She should be in politics. He’d finished rubbing Champion down. He dropped the straw and headed for the door. As he crossed the front of the cottage, he heard a muffled oath from the stable. As he went through the doorway, he heard Kit’s footsteps following. Jack headed straight for the keg on the sideboard.

Kit followed him into the room, slamming the door behind her. “Well, whatever…” Her voice died as she blinked into the black void left once the door had shut. She heard a muttered curse, then a boot hit a chair leg. An instant later, a match scraped, then soft light flared. Jack adjusted the wick, until the lamp threw just enough light to see by. Then he grabbed his glass, half-filled with brandy, and dropped into the chair on the other side of the table, his long legs stretched before him, his eyes broodingly watching her.

“Whatever,” Kit reiterated firmly, trying to ignore all that lounging masculinity, “you can’t continue to run your ‘human cargoes.’ They may pay well, but you’re running too great a risk.” She glared at the figure across the table, as inanimate as the chair he occupied. In the low light, she could barely make out his features, much less his expression. “What sort of leader knowingly exposes his men to such dangers?”

Jack shifted as her words pricked him. He prided himself on taking care of those in his command.

Kit sensed her advantage and pounced. “Smuggling’s a transportable offense; treason’s a hanging matter. You’re deliberately leading these men, who don’t know enough to understand the risks, to court death.” When no response came, she lost her temper. “Dammit! They’ve got families dependent on them! If they’re taken and hanged, who’s going to look after them?”

Jack’s chair crashed to the floor, overturned as he surged to his feet. Kit’s nerves jangled. She took an instinctive step back.

“What the hell would you know of taking care of anyone? Taking responsibility for anything? You’re a woman, dammit!”

The outburst hauled Jack to his senses. Of course she was a woman. Of course she knew nothing of leading and the consequent worries. He should know better than to let a woman’s words get under his skin. He frowned and took another sip of his brandy, holding her silent with a glower. What he couldn’t fathom, what he should pay more attention to understanding, was why she was so opposed to him running spies. In his experience, women of her ilk cared little for such abstract matters. Whoever heard of a lowborn mistress lecturing her aristocratic lover on the morality of political intrigue?

With an effort, Kit shook free of Jack’s intimidating stare and glared back. Setting her hands on her hips, she opened her mouth to put him right on the role of women.

Jack got in first, one long finger stabbing the air for emphasis. “You’re a woman. You’re not the leader of a gang of smugglers-you played at being a lad in charge of a small group, but that’s all.” His empty glass hit the table. He placed both hands beside it and leaned forward. “If I hadn’t come along and relieved you of command, you’d have sunk without trace long since. You know nothing-nothing-of leading men.”

Kit’s eyes sparked violet daggers; her lips parted on words of rebuttal.

Jack was in no mood to give her a chance. “And if you’ve any notion on lecturing me on the matter, I suggest you keep your ill-advised opinions to yourself!”

Fury surged through Kit’s veins, cindering her innate caution. Her eyes narrowed. “I see.” She studied the large form, bent intimidatingly over the table, the very table where she’d lain, sprawled in wanton abandon, five nights before, with him, erect, engorged, between her wide-spread thighs.

Kit blinked and shook aside the unhelpful memory. She rushed into speech. “In that case, I’ll have to take…” Some sixth sense made her pause. She looked into the grey eyes watching her. Caution caught her tongue.

“Have to take…?”

Jack’s soft prompt rang alarm bells in Kit’s brain. Desperation came to her rescue. She put up her chin, cloaking her sudden uncertainty in truculence. “Take what steps I can to see that you don’t get caught.” Racked by nerves, she resettled her muffler. It was time for her to leave.

A cold calm descended on Jack, leaving little room for emotion. He saw straight through her obfuscation. “You mean to warn the authorities of our activities.”

The statement brought Kit’s head up so fast, she’d no time to wipe the truth from her eyes. The moment hung suspended between them, her silence confirming his conjecture more completely than any confession.

Realizing the trap she’d fallen into, Kit blushed. Denial was pointless, so she took the other tack. “If you continue to run spies, you leave me little choice.”

“Whom do you plan to convince? Spencer?” Jack moved, smoothly, to come around the table.

Her mind on his words, Kit shrugged, raising her brows noncommittally. “Perhaps. Maybe I’ll look up Lord Hendon-it’s his responsibility, after all.”

She swung to face Jack. And found him on the same side of the table and advancing slowly. Her heart leapt to her throat. She recalled the time on the Marchmont Hall terrace when she’d underestimated his speed. Cautiously, she backed away.

Her eyes rose to meet his. She read his intent in the darkened grey that had swallowed all trace of silver. “What do you think you’re doing?” Irritation colored her tone. How like him to decide to play physical just now.

Despite his years of training, Jack couldn’t stop himself from admiring the threat she posed. Satisfied he could reach the door before she could, he stopped with two yards between them and met her aggravated amethyst gaze. “I’m afraid, sweetheart, that you can’t expect to leave just yet. Not after this little talk of ours.” Jack couldn’t keep a smile from twisting his lips as his mind assembled the rest of his plan. “You must see that I can’t have you scurrying off to Lord Hendon.” Heaven help him if she did!

Warily, Kit eyed the distance between them and decided it was enough. Despite his words, there was no overt threat in his tone or his stance. “And how were you planning to stop me? Wouldn’t it be easier to just stop running spies?”

Jack’s gilded head shook a decided negative. “As far as I can see,’ he said, “the best thing I can do is keep you here.”

“I won’t stay, and you know you sleep soundly.”

Jack raised a brow but didn’t attempt to deny it. “You’ll stay if I tie your hands to the headboard.” When Kit’s eyes widened, he added: “Remember the last time I had you with your hands tied? This time, I’ll have you flat on your back in the middle of my bed.”

Desire flickered hungrily in Kit’s belly. She ignored it, blinking to dispel the images conjured up by his words, by his deepening tones. “There’ll be a fuss if I disappear. They’ll search the county.”

“Perhaps. But I can assure you they won’t search here.”

His glib certainty struck Kit between the eyes. A conglomeration of disjointed facts fell into place. She stared at Jack. “You’re in league with Lord Hendon.”

Her tone of amazed discovery halted Jack; her words sent a thrill of expectation through him. She was so close to the truth. Would she guess the rest? If she did, what would she think?

It was his turn to be too slow with his denial to disguise the truth. Instead, he shrugged. “What if I am? There’s no need for you to spend any of your time considering the subject. I’ve much more urgent matters for your attention.” With that growled declaration of intent, Jack stepped forward.

Kit immediately backed away, her eyes wide. He was mad-she’d thought it often enough. “Jack!”

Jack took no notice of her imperious warning.

Kit drew a deep breath. And dashed for the door.

She’d taken no more than two steps before she felt the air at her back stir. With a shriek, she veered away from the door. Jack’s body rushed past her, slamming against the wooden panels. Kit heard the bolt fall home.

Wild-eyed, Kit scanned the room and saw Jack’s sword, propped against the wardrobe. Her heart thudding, she grabbed it up and whirled, wrenching the gleaming blade from the scabbard. She presented it, a lethal silver scythe transcribing a protective arc before her.

Jack froze, well out of her range. Inwardly, he cursed. Matthew had found the sword thrust to the back of the wardrobe. He’d taken it out and cleaned it before grinding the edge to exquisite sharpness. Apparently, he’d left it out in the belief his master should carry it.

Instead, his master, in full possession of his senses, now wished the sword he’d carried for ten years and more at the devil. If it’d been any other woman, he’d have walked calmly forward and taken it. But even though Kit had to use both hands to keep the blade balanced, Jack didn’t make the mistake of thinking she couldn’t use it. He didn’t for a moment believe she’d run him through, but by the time she realized that, her stroke might be too advanced to stop, given her unfamiliarity with that particular blade, weighted for slashing swings, not thrust and parry. She might not kill him, but she could do serious damage. Even more frightening was the possibility she might get hurt herself.

That thought forced Jack to move cautiously. His gaze locked with Kit’s, steadying, trying to will some of his calm into the frightened violet eyes. He wasn’t sure how far she was from real panic, but he didn’t think she’d hand over the sword, not after his threats. Slowly, he edged around the bed, away from her. Her eyes followed, intent on his movement, clearly puzzled by it.

Her breathing was too fast. Kit tried to contain her panic, but she was no longer sure of anything. She frowned when Jack stopped on the opposite side of the bed. What was he up to? She couldn’t make for the door; he was far too fast for that. The corner of the room was just a step away; she’d already backed as far as she could into its protection.

Jack moved so fast Kit barely saw the blur. One moment he was standing still, feet apart, hands relaxed by his sides. The next, he’d grabbed the covers and whipped them over the sword, following them over the bed to wrench the blade from her hands. Over her shriek, Kit heard the muffled thud as the sword hit the ground, flung out of harm’s way. Jack’s arms closed about her, an oddly protective trap.

Struggling made no impression. Her legs were pressed against the bed, then she was toppled onto it. Kit’s breath was knocked out of her when Jack landed on top of her. He used his body to subdue her struggles, his legs trapping hers, his hips weighting hers down, long fingers holding her head, gradually exerting pressure until she kept still. Half-smothered by his chest, Kit had to wait until he shifted to look down at her before opening her mouth to blister his ears. But no sound escaped her. Instead, his mouth found hers and his tongue filled the void with brandy-coated fire.

One by one, Kit felt her muscles give up the fight, relaxing as his intoxicating taste filled her senses, warming her from the inside out. The scandalous idea of being tied to his bedhead took on a rosy glow. As the insidious effect spread, her beleaguered mind summoned its last defenses. It couldn’t happen. But she’d only have one chance to change her fate.

For one long moment, Kit flowed with the tide, then, abruptly, she threw every muscle against him, pushing hard to dislodge him and roll his weight from her.

Jack was taken aback by the force of her shove. But, instead of suppressing it by sheer weight, he decided to roll with her push and bring her up over him. Fully atop her, he couldn’t reach that particular area of her buttocks that always proved so helpfully arousing. Reversing their positions was an excellent idea. He rolled, pulling her with him.

His head hit the bedend, concealed beneath the disarranged sheets.

Kit knew the instant he lost consciousness. His lips left hers; his fingers slid from her hair. She stared down into his face, oddly stripped of emotion, relaxed and at peace. In panic, she wriggled off him. She placed a hand on his chest and breathed a sigh of relief when she felt his heart beating steadily. Puzzled, she felt under his head and found the rounded wood of the bedend. The mystery solved, she sat up and tugged him farther onto the bed, then fetched a pillow to cradle his head.

Kit sat and frowned at her threat removed. How long would he remain unconscious? Reflecting that his skull had shown every indication of being thick, she decided a tactical withdrawal was her only option. She’d tried her best to make him see sense; his actions, his words, left her no alternative but to act.

Late-afternoon sunlight spilled through the cottage door, glimmering along the gilt edges of the playing cards Jack shuffled back and forth. His long fingers re-formed the pack, then briskly set them out.

Jack grimaced at the hand. All very well to play at Patience; he was desperately short of the commodity. But, despite the promptings of his wilder self, there was blessedly little he could do. When he’d woken in the dead of night to find himself alone, nursing a sore skull, he’d initially thought Kit had coshed him. Then the final moments of their tussle had cleared in his painful head and he’d worked it out. Small comfort that had been. She’d stated, categorically, that she was going to cause him heaps of trouble.

Irritation itched; he shook aside his thoughts and stared at the cards.

What would she do? He didn’t feel qualified to guess, given he still couldn’t fathom her peculiar intensity over the spies. She’d threatened to go to Lord Hendon. He’d considered that long and hard, eventually quitting home immediately after breakfast, leaving his butler, Lovis, with a most peculiar set of instructions. Luckily, Lovis knew him well enough not to feel the remotest surprise. Hopefully, no other redheaded woman would call unattended on Lord Hendon.

Driven by a growing sense of unease, he’d gone to Hunstanton and put Tonkin through his paces. His message ought to have been clear, but Tonkin’s interest in his “big gang” had grown to an obsession. Regardless of orders, Jack didn’t trust the old bruiser an inch. He didn’t think Tonkin trusted him, either. The man wasn’t stupid, just an incompetent bully. He’d left Hunstanton even more disturbed than before.

The feeling that had taken root in his gut was all too familiar. Years of campaigning, both overtly and covertly, had instilled a watchfulness, a finely honed sixth sense, always on the alert for danger. With the steady drub of Champion’s hooves filling his ears, he’d headed for the cottage, watching the storm gathering on his horizon swell and grow, knowing it would soon unleash its fury, wreaking havoc with his well-laid plans. And feeling totally impotent in the face of impending disaster.

But he was used to meeting that particular challenge and had long since perfected the mental and physical discipline needed to see any storm through.

However, the fact that Kit was enmeshed in the danger, up to her pretty neck, set a worried edge on his nervous energy. Theoretically, he should have already taken steps to nullify the threat she posed. In reality, there seemed little he could do without further jeopardizing his mission. Forced to spend the hours until the run in idle isolation, he’d had time to consider his options. The only one with any real merit was kidnapping. He’d have to be careful not to be seen by any on the Cranmer estate, but he could keep her here, in safety and comfort, for a week or so, until the worst was past. If the mission dragged on, as it quite possibly would, he’d move her up to the Castle once the first hue and cry had died. There, safety and comfort, both hers and his, would be assured. She’d be his prisoner, but after the first inevitable fury, he didn’t think she’d mind. He’d ensure she was occupied.

The idea of having time to get to know Kit, of having the leisure to learn why she thought as she did, felt as she did, blossomed before him. Jack forgot his cards, mesmerized by a sudden glimpse into a future he’d never previously found attractive. Women, he’d always firmly believed, had but one real role in life-to pander to their man’s wishes. An aristocratic wife-his, for instance-would bear his children and manage his households, act as his hostess and support his position socially. Beyond that, she figured in his mind much as Matthew or Lovis did. His many mistresses had had but one sphere of responsibility-the bedroom-where they’d spent the majority of time flat on their backs, efficiently catering to his needs. The only communication he recalled having with them was by way of soft moans and groans and funny little gasps. He’d never been interested in what they’d thought. Not on any subject.

Absentmindedly gathering the cards, Jack refocused his abstracted gaze. The more he thought of it, the more benefits he saw in kidnapping Kit. After tonight, assuming they both survived the coming storm, he’d act.

Spencer, of course, would have to be told. He couldn’t steal away the old man’s granddaughter, whom he clearly cared for, and leave him to grieve unnecessarily. It would mean overturning one of his golden rules-he’d never, not even as a child, told people more than they’d needed to know, a habit that had stood him in good stead over the years. But he couldn’t have Spencer on his conscience any more than he could tolerate Kit continuing her dangerous crusade.

At the thought of her, his redheaded houri, a stern frown settled over his face. He hadn’t asked to feel about her as he did, but there was no point in denying it. She was more than the latest in a long line; he cared for her in ways he couldn’t remember caring for anyone else in his life. Once he had her safe, he’d drum into her red head just what the upshot of that was. She would have to mend her ways-no more dangerous escapades.

Would she be silly enough to try to turn some of the men against him? Jack shuddered. There was no value in torturing himself. Shutting out his imaginary horrors, he purposefully reshuffled the cards.

Ten minutes later, the peace of sunset was interrupted by the steady clop of hooves, approaching from the east. Jack raised his head to listen. Both the confident pace and the direction suggested George had come to their rendezvous early. A glimpse of sleek chestnut hide crossing the clearing brought a half smile to Jack’s face. He needed distraction.

George came through the door, his face set in disapproving lines.

Jack’s smile of welcome faded. His brows rose.

George halted before the table, his gaze steady on Jack’s grey eyes. Then he glanced at the keg on the sideboard. “Is there anything in that?”

With a grunt, Jack rose and fetched a glass. After a second’s hesitation, he took a glass for himself and half filled both. Was this the start of his storm?

George drew up a chair to the table and dropped into it.

Placing one glass before George, Jack eyed his serious face. He resumed his seat. “Well? You’d better tell me before Matthew gets here.”

George took a sip and glanced at the open door. He got up, shut it, then paced back to the table. He put his glass down, but remained standing. “I went to see Amy this afternoon.”

When George fell into a pensive daze and yielded nothing further, Jack couldn’t resist. “She wants to call off the wedding?”

George flushed and frowned. “Of course not! For God’s sake, be sensible. This is serious.”

Jack duly composed his features. George grimaced and continued: “When I was leaving, I got talking to Jeffries, Gresham’s head groom. The man’s a mine of information on horses.”

Jack’s stomach clenched, but his expression remained undisturbed.

George’s gaze leveled. “We were talking of bloodlines in the district. He mentioned a black Arab mare, finicky and highbred. According to Jeffries, she belongs to one of Amy’s friends.”

“Amy’s friend?” Jack blinked and the veils fell. He knew, then, what was coming. He should have guessed; there’d been enough inconsistencies in her performance. If he hadn’t been so besotted with her, doubtless he’d have unmasked her long ago. The idea that some part of him had known, but he hadn’t wanted to face the truth, he buried deep.

“Amy’s bosom-bow,” George confirmed, his voice heavy with disapproval. “Miss Kathryn Cranmer. Known as Kit to her intimates.” George slumped into his chair. “She’s Christopher Cranmer’s daughter, Spencer’s grandchild.” George studied Jack’s face. “His legitimate granddaughter.”

Spencer’s legitimate granddaughter. The thought reeled through Jack’s brain in dizzying splendor. Stunned shock vied with disbelief, before both gave way to an overwhelming urge to lay hold of Kit and shake the damned woman as she deserved. How dared she take such scandalous risks? Clearly, Spencer had no control over her. Jack made a mental note to be sure the full magnitude of her sins was made clear to his redheaded houri in breeches-not that she’d get a chance to wear breeches again. She’d have to learn to take very good care-of herself, of her reputation. As Lord Hendon, he’d every right to ensure the future Lady Hendon played safe.

For that, of course, was the crowning glory of George’s revelations. As Miss Kathryn Cranmer, Kit was more than eligible for the vacant post of Lady Hendon. And after their recent activities, there was no possibility he’d let her slip through his net. He had her right where he wanted her-in more ways than one. After tonight’s run, he’d call on Spencer. Between them, they’d settle the future of one redheaded houri.

A smile of pleasant anticipation suffused Jack’s face.

George saw it and sighed heavily. “From that besotted look, I take it affairs between you and Kit have gone a lot farther than I’d feel happy about?”

Jack grinned beatifically.

“Christ!” George ran one hand through his dark hair. “Stop grinning. What the hell do you plan to do about it?”

Jack blinked. His grin faded. “Don’t be a fool. I’ll marry the damned woman, of course.”

George just stared, too astounded to say anything.

Jack swallowed his irritation that George should have entertained any other option. That George had thought he’d entertain any other option. It was all Kit’s fault. Any woman running about in breeches was fair game. At least only George knew who she was. Then it hit him. “When did you guess she was a woman?”

George blinked, then shrugged. “A week or so ago.”

Puzzled, Jack asked: “What gave her away?” He’d thought Kit’s disguise particularly good.

“You, mostly,” George absentmindedly replied.

“What do you mean-me?”

Jack’s aggressive tone recaptured George’s attention. Briefly, he grinned. “The way you behaved toward Kit led to only one conclusion. Which I’ll be bound the rest of the Gang jumped to. Matthew and I know you rather better. Which made us wonder about Kit.”

“Humph!” Jack took a swig of his brandy. Had any of the others guessed? Now she’d assumed the title of his future wife, he felt much more critical of Kit’s wildness. He wasn’t at all sure he approved of her having the nerve to do such outrageous things. It didn’t auger well for a peaceful married life.

Jack glanced up to find the shadows deepening. The run was scheduled for immediately after nightfall. He hoped Kit would turn up. Now that he understood what a prize she was, he wanted her safe in his keeping. Quite how he’d handle her return to Cranmer and the inevitable interview with Spencer he hadn’t yet decided. But he wanted her with him tonight.

He wanted to give her a piece of his mind, apologize, propose, and make love to her.

The order was beyond him; he’d leave that in the hands of the gods.