Jack nodded. Nolan was his primary source of cargoes although there were three other agents in the area.
“I’ve already met Nolan without mishap, so I doubt there’s any real danger there. He’ll accept me as Young Kit. Seeing me with you will confirm we’ve joined forces, so he won’t go trying to contact my men behind your back. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it—a monopoly on this coast?”
Jack made no comment. There wasn’t any he could make; she was dead on target with her reasoning, damn her.
Kit smiled. “So. Where and when do you make contact?”
Jack’s expression turned grim. He’d been maneuvered into a corner and he didn’t like it one bit. Their meeting place had been expressly chosen to be as unilluminated as possible, to ensure Nolan and his brethren had little chance of recognizing him, or George or Matthew. He was most at risk—he’d learned long ago that effectively disguising the streaks in his hair was impossible—so they’d found a venue where the light was always bad and keeping their hats on raised no eyebrows. But taking Kit to a hedge tavern frequented by local cutthroats and thieves was inconceivable.
“It’s out of the question.” Jack sat up and leaned both elbows on the table, the better to impress Kit with the madness of her suggestion.
“Why?” Kit fixed him with a determined stare.
“Because it would be the height of lunacy to take a woman, however well disguised, into a den of thieves.” Jack’s growl was barely restrained.
“Quite,” Kit affirmed. “So no one will imagine Young Kit to be anything other than a lad.”
“Christ!” Jack ran long fingers through his hair. “I wouldn’t give a sou for Young Kit’s safety in that place—male or female.”
For a minute, Kit stared at him, incomprehension stamped on her fine features. Then she blushed delicately. Determined not to lower her head, she let her gaze slide to a consideration of the brandy bottle. “But you’ll be there. There’s no reason why any of them should…”
“Proposition you?” Jack kept his voice hard and matter-of-fact. If there was any possibility of scaring her off, he’d take it. “Allow me to inform you, my dear, that even I don’t frequent such places alone. George and Matthew always accompany me.”
Kit perked up. “So much the better. If there’s four of us, and the three of you are large, then the danger will be minimal.” She cocked an eyebrow at Jack, waiting for his next argument.
Her attitude, of patiently awaiting his next quibble in the calm certainty that she’d top it, brought a wry and entirely spontaneous grin to Jack’s lips. Damn it—she was so cock-sure she could pull the thing off, he’d half a mind to let her try. She wouldn’t find the Blackbird at all to her liking; maybe, after her first trip there, she’d be content to let him manage their contacts on his own.
His thoughts reached Kit. She smiled, only to be treated immediately to a scowl.
Hell and the devil! He was going mad. Jack fought the impulse to groan and bury his head in his hands. The effort of ignoring his besotted senses, and the pressure in his loins, was sapping his will. If only she was angry or frightened or flustered, he could cope. Instead, she was calm and in control, perfectly prepared to sit smiling at him, trading logic until he capitulated. He could render her witless easily enough, but only by unleashing something he was no longer sure he could reharness.
“All right.” His jaw set uncompromisingly. “You can come with us next Wednesday night provided you do exactly as I say. Only I know your little secret. I suggest we keep it that way.”
Content with having gained her immediate goal, Kit nodded. She was perfectly prepared to do as Jack said, as long as she could learn, firsthand, of the cargoes on offer. If there was any “human cargo,” she’d have time to sound the alarm without risking her little troop, and, if possible, without endangering Captain Jack or his men, either.
Pleased, she reached for her hat. “Where do we meet?”
Engaged in an inventory of all the dangers attendant on taking Kit to the Blackbird, Jack shot her a decidedly malevolent glare. “Here. At eleven.”
Kit grinned, then hid her face with her muffler. Her mood was buoyant; she wished she dared tease him from his grouchy attitude, but her instinct for self-preservation hadn’t completely deserted her.
Jack slouched in his chair. This wasn’t how this meeting was supposed to have gone, but at least she was leaving. He watched her assume her disguise and decided against going to the stable to help her with her horse. She could saddle her own damned mare if she was so keen on playing the lad. He acknowledged her flippant bow with something close to a snarl, which didn’t affect her in the least. She seemed impervious to his bad temper—thrilled, no doubt, to have got her way. The door shut behind her, and he was alone.
Jack stretched but didn’t relax until the sound of the mare’s hooves died. He wasn’t looking forward to Wednesday—the potential horrors were mind-numbing. To cap it all, he’d have to watch over her without letting on it was a her he was watching. Freed of Kit’
s inhibiting presence, Jack groaned.
Chapter 11
Kit’s initiation into the dim world of the Blackbird Tavern was every bit as harrowing as Jack had anticipated. Sidelong, he studied the top of her hat, all he could see of her head as she sat at the rough trestle beside him, her nose buried in a tankard of ale. He hoped she wasn’t drinking the stuff; it was home brewed and potent. He had no idea if she was wise to the danger. The fact that he wasn’t sure of her past experience only further complicated his role as her protector. And Young Kit certainly needed a protector, even if the blasted woman didn’t know it.
She’d seemed oblivious of the stir her appearance at his elbow had caused. Garbed in severe black, her slim form drew considering glances. Luckily, the Blackbird’s patrons were not given to overt gestures. He and George had made straight for their usual table, taking Kit with them. He’d wedged her between the wall and his own solid bulk. The curiosity of the motley crew who’d taken shelter within the Blackbird’s dingy walls on this drizzily June night washed over them, Young Kit its focus.
“Where the hell’s Nolan?” George growled. Sitting opposite Kit, he nervously eyed the section of the room within his orbit.
Jack grimaced. “He’ll be here soon enough.” He’d warned both George and Matthew of Kit’s heritage but continued to keep her sex a secret. Her coloring was so obvious it was impossible not to comment; to them, she was Christopher Cranmer’s bastard son who lived at the Hall under Spencer’s wing. Over “the stripling’s” wish to join them in negotiations over cargoes, George’s tendency to watch over youngsters had been of unexpected help.
He’d agreed Kit should accompany them. “If the place serves to put the lad off smuggling, so much the better,” he’d said. “At least in our company he’ll see a bit more of life in greater safety than might otherwise be afforded him.”