Kit heaved a heavy sigh.
So deep in contemplation was she that she failed to hear the footsteps approaching over the grass. Nevertheless, despite her distraction, her senses prickled as Jack drew close. She whirled with a gasp to find him beside her.
Her eyes locked with his. Her heart lurched to a standstill, then started to race. Anticipation welled. Then she saw his expression—stern, distant; not a flicker of a muscle betrayed any softer emotion.
“Good morning, my dear.” Jack managed to keep his tone devoid of all expression. The effort nearly killed him. He kept his arms rigid at his sides, to stop himself from hauling Kit into them. That, he promised himself, would come later. First, he was determined to demonstrate to his errant wife how seriously he viewed her actions. “I’ve come to take you home. Jenny’s packing your things. I’ll expect to leave directly she’s finished.”
Stunned, Kit stared at him and marveled that the words she’d so longed to hear could be delivered in such a way that all she felt was—nothing. No joy, no relief—not even any guilt. Jack’s words had been totally emotionless. Searching his face, she waited, more than half-expecting his austere expression to melt into teasing lines. But his frozen mask did not ease.
For the first time in her life, Kit did not know what she felt. All the emotions she’d expected to experience upon seeing Jack again were there, but so tangled with a host of newborn feelings, disbelief and resurgent anger chief amongst them, that the result was total confusion.
Her mind literally reeled.
Her face was blank; her mind had yet to sort out what her expression should be. Her lips were parted, ready to speak words she could not yet formulate. It was as if she was in a play, and someone had switched the scripts.
Wordlessly, Jack offered her his arm. Speech was still beyond her; her mind was in turmoil. Kit felt her fingers shake as she placed them on his sleeve.
Jenny was waiting, smiling, in the hall, Kit’s small bag at her feet. Still struggling to grasp what tack Jack was taking, and how she should react, Kit absentmindedly kissed her erstwhile governess, promising to write, all the while conscious of Jack’s commanding figure, an impregnable rock beside her.
Surely he hadn’t missed her point entirely?
Kit sank onto the cushions of the hired carriage, puzzled that it wasn’t one of the Hendon coaches. She blinked when Jack shut the door on her. Then it dawned that he’d elected to ride rather than share the coach with her.
Suddenly, Kit was in no doubt of what she felt. Her temper soared. What was going on here?
Ten minutes later, the carnage jolted to a halt. Sitting bolt upright on the carriage seat, Kit waited. Jack called an order. The keening of gulls came clearly on a freshening breeze. She narrowed her eyes. Where were they? Before she could slide to the window and peer out, Jack opened the door. He held out his hand, but his eyes did not meet hers.
Her temper on the tightest of reins, Kit coolly placed her fingers in his. He handed her down from the carriage. One glance was enough to tell her that she would have to delay giving him her reaction to his stoic performance. They stood on a wharf beside a large ship, amid bales and crates, ropes and hooks. Sailors rushed about; bustle and noise surrounded them. At Jack’s urging, she stepped over a coil of rope. His hand at her elbow, he guided her along the busy wharf to where a plank with a rope handrail led up to the ship’s deck.
Kit eyed the gangplank, rising and falling as the ship rode the waves of the harbor. She drew a deep breath.
Her chillingly civil request to be carried aboard never made it past her lips.
As she turned, Jack ducked. The next instant, Kit found herself staring down at the choppy green waves as Jack swiftly climbed the gangplank. Fury cindered the reins of her temper. She closed her eyes and saw a red haze; her fingers curled into claws. She’d wanted to be carried, but carried in his arms, not over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes!
Luckily, the gangplank was short. The instant Jack gained the deck, he set her on her feet. Kit immediately swung his way, her eyes going to his. But Jack had already turned and was speaking.
“This is Captain Willard, my dear.”
With an almighty effort, Kit shackled her fury—aside from not wanting to scare anyone else, she wanted to save it a
ll for Jack. Her face set, expressionless, her lips a thin line, she turned and beheld a large man, potbellied and jovial, dressed in a braided uniform.
He bowed deeply. “Might I say what a pleasure it is to welcome you aboard, Lady Hendon?”
“Thank you.” Stiffly, Kit inclined her head, her mind racing. The man’s manner was too deferential for a captain greeting a passenger.
“I’ll show Lady Hendon to our quarters, Willard. You may proceed on your own discretion.”
“Thank you, m’lord.”
The truth struck Kit. Jack owned the ship. Yet another not-so-minor detail her spouse had failed to mention.
Jack steered Kit aft, to where a stairway led down to the corridor to the stern apartments. With every step, he reminded himself to hold firm to his resolution. He had endured a full week of the most wretched worry—surely an hour of guilty misery was not unreasonable retribution? That Kit was shaken by his retreat, his withholding of the responses she would have expected from him, was obvious. The stunned, searching expression that had filled her eyes in Jenny’s garden had wrenched his heart; the quiver in her fingers when she’d laid them on his sleeve had nearly overset his careful plans. He hadn’t been game to meet her eyes after that.
Carrying her up the gangplank had nearly done him in. Even with her tossed over his shoulder, he hadn’t been sure he’d be able to let her go, which would have shocked Willard out of his braid.
He couldn’t take much more of his self-imposed reticence. He’d leave her in his cabin until her hour was up, then surrender as gracefully as possible.