On Sunday afternoon, after spending a virtuous morning at church, then presiding over the luncheon table, Kit sat Delia in the shadow of the trees facing Jack’s cottage, her confidence at an all-time low. Distrustful of her reasons for being there, uncertain of her chances of success, she bit her lip and eyed the closed door. There was nothing to tell her if the cottage was inhabited or not.
If she sat still for long and Champion was in the stable, the stallion would sense Delia’s presence and neigh, destroying any advantage surprise might otherwise give her. If she sat still for much longer, her courage would desert her and she’d turn tail for home. Kit directed Delia in an arc about the clearing. She approached the stable and dismounted, then led Delia inside.
Champion’s huge grey rump loomed out of the dimness.
Kit stopped, not sure if she felt relieved, excited, or dismayed. The stallion’s head came around; Kit took Delia to the stall alongside. After tethering the mare, she debated whether to unsaddle or not. In the end, she did, refusing to acknowledge the action implied anything at all about her intentions, much less her hopes. She rubbed the mare down, ears pricked to detect any sound of approaching danger.
She knew why she was there—she needed to mend her fences with Jack; he was her only reliable source of information on the spies. Her wilder self jeered; Kit strangled it. There might be other reasons she’d ridden this way, but she wasn’t ready to acknowledge them—not in daylight. Her innards were in a dreadful state; trepidation walked her nerves. She’d never felt like this before, not even when admitting to riding Spencer’s favorite stallion at the age of ten. Spencer’s rages had no power to make her quiver. The thought of how Jack would look when next she saw him, in a few minutes, did.
How would he welcome her this time?
The thought stopped her in her tracks as she headed for the stable door. She almost turned back to resaddle Delia. But her reason for being here resurfaced. She couldn’t walk away from “human cargo.” Kit set her jaw. With a determined stride, she made for the cottage door.
Kit paused with her hand on the latch, swept by the sense of being about to enter a potentially dangerous animal’s lair. The cold iron of the latch sent a thrill through her fingers. Her whole being vibrated with anticipation. In truth, she wasn’t sure where the danger lay—with him? Or with herself?
Inside the cottage, Jack lay sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed, his hands locked behind his head. He stared at the ceiling.
How long would it be before it got to her? How long before she came to find him?
He gave a disgruntled snort; his brows lowered. When he’d embarked on his scheme to embed passionate longing firmly beneath Kit’s satiny skin, he’d overlooked the inevitable effect such an undertaking would have on his own lustful appetites. Since Wednesday night, he’d been ravenous. And, thanks to Kit, he hadn’t been able to sate his hunger. No other woman would do. He’d retired to the cottage, to brood on his desire.
He wanted her—Kit—the redheaded houri in breeches.
When he stroked her, she purred. When he mounted her, she arched wildly. And later, when their passion was spent, she curled into his side like a small cream-and-ginger cat. His very own kitten.
His very own pedigree kitten. When it came to making love, she was an aristocrat, no matter what her breeding. Her performances to date had been eye-opening, particularly to one of his experience. He’d thought he’d known all there was to know of women; she’d proved him wrong. The feigned responses of the gilded whores of the ton had always bored him. Kit’s naturalness, her sincere enjoyment of their play despite the underlying prudery behind her occasional shocked protests, entranced him. He’d been able to turn her protests into moans with satisfying regularity.
With a stifled groan, Jack stretched his arms and legs, trying to ease the tension locked in the heavy muscles. His frown converted to a scowl. Twenty-four hours had been too long for him—seventy-two had been hell. The fact that she could deal with this particular disease better than he could was a severe blow to his male pride.
The latch on the door eased upward.
Instantly, Jack was alert, half-sitting before his mind took control and stilled his instinctive reaction. His impulse was to cross silently to stand behind the door. But if his visitor was Kit, he might scare her witless by appearing beside her so unexpectedly.
The door swung slowly inward. The shadow of a slender figure, topped by a tricorne, fell on the floor. Jack relaxed. He permitted himself a smug smile, then the memory of the past seventy-two hours intruded. He’d no guarantee she’d come to alleviate his discomfort. His expression bland, he settled back on the pillows.
Kit scanned the area revealed by the open door. Jack was not at the table. Swallowing her nervousness, she took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. She paused by the door, one hand on the edge of the worn wooden panel, and forced herself to look at the bed.
There he lay, sprawled full-length on the covers, arrogant male inscribed on every line of his tautly muscled frame. Watching her. With a distinctly predatory gleam in his silver eyes.
Kit’s breath suspended; her mouth went dry. She felt her eyes grow larger and larger.
Jack read her state in her eyes and knew precisely why she’d come. The news sent his senses soaring, but he clamped down on them before they addled his wits. His body had tensed w
ith the instinctive urge to rise and go to her, to sweep her into his arms and crush her lips, her breasts, her hips, to his. But if he did, what would happen next?
The door was midway between the bed and the table, not particularly close to either. Judging by his last effort in welcoming her, they’d probably end up on the floor. While he had nothing against al fresco intercourse, he hadn’t been particularly proud of his lack of control in taking her on the table. He didn’t know what she’d made of the experience, but he’d seen the red patches on her buttocks later. And felt hideously guilty. Too often he’d ended giving her bruises, however unintentionally. Some, like the marks his fingers left in the soft curves of her hips, were unavoidable, given she bruised easily. But he didn’t need to add to them through lack of thought.
“Bolt the door.” He tried to keep the raw passion pulsing his veins from coloring his tone and only partially succeeded.
Kit’s eyes grew rounder still. Her limbs felt heavy as, her gaze trapped in Jack’s silver stare, she moved slowly to obey. Her fingers fumbled and she dragged her eyes from his. The bolt slid home with a metallic thud. Slowly, she turned back to face him, expecting to see him rising.
He hadn’t moved. “Come here.”
Kit considered that carefully. She might be mesmerized; she wasn’t witless. But she was caught, very firmly, in the sensual web he’d woven with such consumate skill, her pulse already increasing in anticipation of what was to come. Acknowledging the inevitable, she placed one foot before the other. Slowly, warily, she approached the bed.
“Stop.” The gravelly command halted her a yard from the end of the bed. “Take off your hat and coat.”
Kit’s stomach contracted. She pulled off her hat and dropped it, then shrugged off her coat and let it slide to the floor. As the silver gaze dropped from her face to sweep her figure, Kit felt the embers of her passion glow.