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 ha
d 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.”