Captain Jack's Woman (Bastion Club 0.50)

Amy got no chance to press Kit for details of her disguise. The carriages rounded the corner of Marchmont Hall, and she was forced to bid Kit farewell. “Come and visit tomorrow. I want to hear more of this plan of yours.”

Kit nodded and waved, but her laughing eyes left Amy with the distinct impression that she did not intend to reveal more of her plans.

Jack stood, feet planted well apart, resisting the tug of the surf surging about his knees. He glanced at Kit, slender beside him, and prayed she didn’t overbalance. Even in the shadowy night, soaked to the skin, her anatomy was sure to show its deficiencies.

The yacht they’d been waiting to board came over the next wave and slewed as the helmsman threw the rudder over. Matthew, some way to their right, steadied the prow. Kit grasped the side of the boat with both gauntleted hands and hauled herself aboard. Or tried to.

Anticipating her helplessness, Jack planted a large palm beneath her bottom and hefted her over the side. He heard her gasp as she landed on the deck in a sprawl of arms and legs. Then he remembered her bruised posterior. He grimaced and followed her. Serve her right if she felt a twitch or two. He was in constant agony with a pain she delighted in compounding.

Kit scurried to get out of Jack’s way as he clambered into the yacht, glaring through the night at him once he’d arrived on her level. She’d love to give him a piece of her mind, but didn’t dare open her mouth. Just being where she was had stretched the tension between them to the breaking point; she was too wise to add fuel to the fire just at present.

As far as she was concerned, tonight was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and she’d no intention of letting Jack spoil it. She’d gone with them to the Blackbird as usual on Wednesday, two nights ago. An agent had approached them with an unusual cargo—bales of Flemish cloth too unwieldy to be loaded into rowboats. To her surprise, Jack had accepted. The money on offer was certainly an incentive, but she couldn’t imagine where he’d get large enough boats to do the job.

But he had—she knew better than to ask how.

She’d come to the beach tonight prepared to do battle if he dared suggest she be lookout. Although he’d eyed her with misgiving, Jack had included her in the group to go in the boats. The relief she’d felt when she’d learned she was to accompany Jack and the taciturn Matthew on board the yacht, rather than going on one of the other boats with the other men, was something she’d never admit. Its dampening effect was counteracted by her excitement over the yacht being the fastest boat in the small fleet. She’d always dreamed about sailing, but Spencer had never allowed her to indulge that particular whim.

Kit stood by the railings as the yacht cleaved through the swell. The ship they were to meet was a pinprick of light, gleaming occasionally well out in the Roads.

Jack kept his distance. He’d brought Kit along, unwilling to risk leaving her beyond his reach. Forcing his gaze from the slim figure with the old tricorne jammed over her curls, he focused on their destination, a black shape on the horizon, growing larger with every crest they passed. Via Matthew, he’d already started rumors of Young Kit’s difficulties in continuing as part of the Gang. The stories revolved about Kit’s grandfather, unidentified, kicking up a fuss at his grandson’s frequent nocturnal absences.

Young Kit’s retirement could not come soon enough. Jack gritted his teeth as memories of their last evening at the Blackbird replayed in his mind. Kit had sat beside him in her usual place. But instead of keeping her distance as she’d done in the past, she’d shuffled closer, far closer than had been detectable from the other side of the table. The insistent pressure of her thigh against his had been bad enough. He’d nearly choked when he’d felt her hand on his thigh, tapered fingers stroking down the long muscle.

Luckily, she’d stopped when the agent appeared, else he’d never have had the wits to negotiate. In fact, he doubted he’d have had the strength to resist paying her back in her own coin which, given the predilection of females for forgetting where they were and what they were doing at such times, would probably have landed them in an unholy and potentially fatal mess.

After that, he’d kept Matthew with him, a fact that had his henchman puzzled. But he’d rather face a puzzled Matthew than a female determined to bring him low in typical female fashion. She might call him a coward—as she had last night when Matthew had dutifully followed them into the cottage after the meeting at the barn—but she didn’t know what type of explosive she was playing with. She’d find out soon enough. Salacious imaginings of exactly how he’d exact his retribution filled his sleepless nights.

The yacht overtook three slower, square-rigged luggers, the rest of the Hunstanton Gang’s fleet, then slewed sharply to come alongside the hull of the Dutch brigantine. Matthew stood in the prow, a coiled rope in his hands. The other two crewmen brought down the sails. As the waves drifted the hulls closer, Matthew threw the rope to waiting hands. Within minutes, they were secured against the Dutchman’s side.

Jack turned to the helmsman. “Lash the wheel and let the boy watch it.” The man obeyed; Jack turned to see Kit already on her way midships. He grinned. Bales of cloth were not packets of lace.

They unloaded the cargo smoothly, lowering the bales on sets of ropes over the brig’s side, directly into the hold of the yacht.

Her hands on the fixed wheel, Kit watched, her heart leaping when one bale swung crazily toward her, threatening to slip free of its lashings. Jack jumped onto the cabin roof directly between the wheel and the hold and steadied the large roll, reaching high with both hands and leaning his entire weight into it to counter its swing. Relief swept Kit when the bale settled; it was lowered without further drama.

The Dutch ship had been carrying a full load; at the end, each of the four smugglers’ boats was fully laden, even carrying bales on deck, lashed to the railings. The entire process was accomplished in total silence. Sound traveled too well on water.

The men worked steadily, stowing the bales. Kit’s mind drifted to the comment Jack had made the night before, when she’d been late for the meeting in the barn. She’d slipped unobtrusively around the door, but Jack had seen her instantly. He’d smiled and asked if she’d had trouble with her grandfather. She’d had no idea what he’d meant but had scowled and nodded, and then been astounded by the laughing understanding that had colored many of the men’s faces. Later, she’d learned enough to guess that Jack had started paving her way out of the Gang. Clearly, he’d meant what he’d said about one month being more than long enough.

She’d gone on being Young Kit under duress; now, she was reluctant to part with her alias, her passport to excitement.

And you haven’t had him at your feet yet, have you?

Kit eyed Jack’s broad shoulders, presently directly in front of her, and fantasized about the muscles beneath his rough shirt. Before she broke with him, she was determined to convert at least some of her fantasies to reality. Thus far, the only response her tricks had brought was a general stiffening of his muscles, a clenching of his jaw. She was determined to get more than that.

A low whistle signaled that they were done. Ropes were released; the smaller boats poled off from the brig’s hull, drifting until they were out of the larger ship’s wind shadow before hoisting their sails.

Relieved of her watch by the wheel, which had been every bit as useless as her lookout duty but infinitely more exciting, Kit strolled down the deck, heading for the bow. She’d cleared the cabin housing when the yacht passed the brig’s prow and the wind caught its sails. The yacht leapt forward.

Kit screamed and just managed to stifle the sound. She was flung against the bale lashed to the railing. Her desperately groping fingers tangled in the lashings. Drawing a deep breath, she hauled herself upright.

Immediately she’d regained her feet, she heard an almighty crack, like a tree branch snapping.

“Kit! Duck!”

She reacted more to Jack’s tone than his words, but duck she did. The boom went sailing past, level with where her head had been split seconds before. Kit stared at the long pole swinging outward over the waves, a rope dangling behind it. She grabbed the rope.

Instantly, she realized her mistake. The sudden tug on her arms wa