Replacing the brandy bottle on the sideboard, Jack turned to stare at her. In a month, long before the balmy nights of August, she wouldn’t have need of her muffler. In a month, she wouldn’t be masquerading as a smuggler. In a month, she’d be masquerading as his mistress. The thought brought a frown to his face. He’d still be masquerading, too, for he couldn’t tell her who he was until his mission was complete. With an inward sigh, Jack focused on the present. “I take it you were edified by the company at the Blackbird?”
Kit lounged in her chair. “The company I could do without,” she admitted. “But everything passed off smoothly. Next time, they’ll recognize me’, and I’ll be less of an attraction.”
Jack’s exasperated look spoke volumes. “Next time,” he repeated, drawing a chair to the other side of the table and straddling it. “I assume you’re aware that the only reason you came off safely was because George and Matthew and I were there, rather too large to overlook?”
Kit opened her eyes wide. “I hadn’t anticipated going there alone.”
“Christ, no!” Jack ran his fingers through his hair, the golden strands catching and reflecting the lamplight. “This idea of yours is madness. I should never have agreed to it. But let me educate you on one point at least. If you’d made the slightest slip back there, unwittingly led one of the men to believe…” Jack struggled to find the right words for his purpose. One glance at Kit’s open face, her eyes clearly visible now that she’d removed her hat and muffler, made it clear she wasn’t entirely au fait with the way things were in dens of iniquity. “Led them to believe it’d be worthwhile to make a push for you,” he continued, determined to bring her to a sense of her danger, “then we’d have had a riot on our hands. What would you have done then?”
Kit frowned. “Hid behind a table,” she eventually conceded. “I’m no good with my fists.”
The answer overturned Jack’s deliberate seriousness. The idea of her delicate hands bunched into fists was silly enough; the notion of them doing any damage was laughable. His lips twisted in a reluctant grin.
Kit smiled sweetly. Immediately, all traces of mirth fled Jack’s face, replaced by the scowl she was starting to believe was habitual. Dammit—he could smile, she knew he could. Charmingly.
Go on! Make him smile.
Shut up,Kit told her inner devil. I can’t afford a tussle with him—if he touches me, I can’t think and then where will I be?
Flat on your back, with any luck, came the unrepentant answer.
All I want is a smile, Kit told herself, repressing the inclination to scowl back. “You worry too much,” she said. “Things will work out; it’s only for a month.”
Jack watched as she wound her muffler loosely into place and jammed her hat Over her curls. He knew he should put his foot down and end her little charade, or at least restrict it to those areas he believed inev
itable. He knew it, but couldn’t work out how to do it. He argued and she returned a glib answer, then smiled, scattering his wits completely, leaving only an urgent longing in their place. He’d never worked with a woman before; socially, they were a push-over but professionally—he obviously didn’t have the knack.
The scrape of her chair as she stood brought Jack’s gaze back to Kit’s face. “Until tomorrow, then.” She smiled and felt a distinct pang of irritation when Jack glared back. Deliberately, she sauntered to the door, allowing her hips full license in their sway. She paused at the last to raise a hand in salute; his scowl was now definitely black. Her teeth gleamed. “Good night, Jack.”
As she closed the door behind her, Kit wondered if the low growl she heard was from the distant surf or a somewhat closer source.
The run was her first taste of Jack’s planning in action. All went smoothly. She was the main lookout, stationed on the cliff above and to the east of the bay into which they ran the goods. In answer to her protest that surely any danger would come from the west, Jack had pulled rank and all but ordered her to the headland. She had a fine view of the beach. Her men were there. They dropped the cargo, then, together with the others in boats, pulled out into the Roads and headed straight home. The land-bound smugglers transferred the barrels to pack ponies, and the cavalcade headed inland. This time, Jack chose to hide the cargo in the ruins of an old church.
Overgrown with ivy, the ruins were all but impossible to discover unless you knew they were there. The old crypt, dark and dry, provided a perfect spot for their cache.
“Who owns this land?” Kit turned to Jack, sitting on his stallion beside her. They’d pulled back into the trees to keep watch over the gang as they worked, unloading the barrels and carting them down the steps to the crypt.
“It used to belong to the Smeatons.”
Jack’s tone suggested it no longer did. “And now?” Kit asked.
She knew the answer before he said, “Lord Hendon.”
“Do you have a fetish of sorts, to constantly operate under the new High Commissioner’s very nostrils?” Delia sidled to avoid the grey’s head. Kit swore, and reined the mare in. “I wish you’d make your horse behave.”
Jack obediently leaned forward and pulled Champion’s ears. “Hear that, old fellow?” he whispered sotto voce. “Your advances are falling short of the mark. But don’t worry. Females are contrary creatures at the best of times. Believe me—I know.”
Kit ignored the invitation to take exception to his statement, quite sure there’d be a trap concealed amongst his words. In their few exchanges since the previous night, she’d detected a definite edge to Jack’s remarks; she assumed it sprang from a corresponding sharpening of his temper. “You were about to tell me why you use Lord Hendon’s lands.”
Jack’s lips twisted in a smile Kit couldn’t see. He hadn’t been about to do any such thing but hers was a persistent curiosity, one he should perhaps allay. She was also a persistent distraction, a persistent itch he couldn’t yet scratch. But soon, he vowed, soon he’d attend to her as she deserved. The vision of her bottom, swaying in deliberate provocation as she’d walked to the door of the cottage, wasn’t a sight he was likely to forget. “Sometimes, the safest place to hide is as close to your pursuer as possible.”
Kit thought about that. “So he overlooks you while searching farther afield?”
Jack nodded. The men came out of the crypt; the last barrels had been stowed. Jack urged Champion forward.
Within minutes, the gang was scattering, ponies led off, other men disappearing on foot. Soon, the only souls left were Kit, Jack, Matthew, and George. They waited a few minutes, to make sure all the men were safely away. Then George nodded to Jack. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
George rode into the trees. At Jack’s signal, Matthew drew away, to wait for him just beyond the clearing.