Captain Jack's Woman (Bastion Club 0.50)

Matthew nodded. Unaided, Kit slipped over the side of the yacht, gently bobbing on the shallow swell, and waded to shore.

On board the yacht, Jack saw her in the surf. He swore and stepped to the rails, hands on hips. “Where the hell’s he going?”

Matthew was passing. “Young Kit?” When Jack nodded, he replied: “Lookout.”

Matthew moved on and so missed the devilish grin that broke across Jack’s face.

Was he supposed to understand she’d rather do lookout duty than stay in his vicinity? Jack felt laughter bubble up. Like hell! He’d felt her heat, even in those few minutes on the deck. She was as hot for him as he was for her, his little kitten. And soon, very soon, he was going to have her purring and arching like she’d never done before.

With an effort, Jack forced his mind back to the mundane but difficult task of unloading bales.

Kit waited only until she saw the first men leave. Then she pressed her heels to Delia’s sleek sides and headed home, her face still several shades too pink. She couldn’t stop dwelling on those few minutes on the deck. And on the promise in Jack’s final words.

Gone was any idea that he wasn’t attracted to her. Instead, her most pressing concern should doubtless be whether it wouldn’t be wise never to see him again.

To Kit’s consternation, her mind flatly refused to consider such an option.

At least now you know a little of what Amy meant.

Oh, God, Kit thought, that’s all I need. I can’t possibly

be in love with Jack. He’s a smuggler.

Memories of how she’d felt on the deck crowded her mind. Even now, the skin on her bottom felt feverish as she recalled the play of his hand. Her bruises throbbed. Her memory rolled relentlessly on, to the delicious thrill she’d experienced when his fingers had probed the soft flesh between her thighs. Kit blushed. As her memory replayed his words, her heart accelerated. What if he really meant it?

She considered the implications and swallowed.

What did he actually mean? Was he really intending to…?

Kit’s thighs tightened, and Delia’s stride lengthened alarmingly.

A mile behind Kit, Jack swung up into Champion’s saddle. The last of the men had left, the cargo cleared. He turned to Matthew. “I’m going for a ride. I’ll be in later.”

With that, he set Champion up the cliff track, onto Delia’s trail. Jack was very tired of his nocturnal rides, but he couldn’t have slept, even uneasily as he did, without knowing Kit was safely home. At least he only had less than a week to go before Young Kit left the Hunstanton Gang. When they met at night after that, if she left him at all, it would be at a safer hour—one much closer to dawn.

Afternoon sunlight turned the streaks in Jack’s hair to brightest gold as he sat, lounging elegantly, in the carved chair behind his desk. Huge and heavy, the desk was located before the library windows, its classic lines complementing the uncluttered bookshelves lining the walls.

Bright blue fractured light fell from Jack’s signet ring onto the pristine blotter as his long fingers toyed idly with an ivory letter opener. His attire proclaimed him the gentleman but as always held a hint of the military. No one, seeing him, would find it difficult to credit that this was Lord Hendon, of Castle Hendon, the High Commissioner for North Norfolk.

A distant frown inhabited the High Commissioner’s expressive eyes; his grey gaze was abstracted.

Before the desk, George wandered the room, glancing at the numerous sporting and military publications left lying on the side tables before stopping before the marble mantelpiece. A large gilt-framed mirror reflected the comforting image of a country squire’s son, soberly dressed, with rather less of the striking elegance that characterized Jack, a more easygoing nature discernable in George’s frank brown eyes and gentle smile.

George tweaked a gilt-edged note from the mirror frame. “I see you’ve got an invitation to the Marchmonts’ masquerade. Are you going?”

Jack lifted his head and took a moment to grasp the question. Then he grimaced. “Pretty damned difficult to refuse. I suppose I’ll have to put in an appearance.” His tone accurately reflected his lack of enthusiasm. He wasn’t the least interested in doing the pretty socially—smiling and chatting, careful not to overstep the mark with any of the marriageable misses, partnering them in the dances. It was all a dead bore. And, at present, his mind was engrossed with far more important concerns.

He wasn’t at all sure he hadn’t overstepped the mark with Kit. She hadn’t come to the meeting last night, the first meeting she had missed. He’d turned the event to good account by referring to her grandfather’s influence. But, deep down, he suspected it was his influence that was to blame. Why she would take exception to his caresses, explicit though they’d been, he couldn’t imagine.

She was a mature woman and, although she clearly liked to play games as many women did, her actions, her movements, the strength and wildness of her response, all testified to her knowledge of how such games inevitably ended. After her actions on the yacht, and at the Blackbird, it was difficult to doubt her willingness to pursue that inevitable ending with him. But he couldn’t think of any other reason why she’d have stayed away last night.

The idea that she was a tease who didn’t pay up he discounted; no woman who was as hot as Kit would draw back from the culminating scene. And even if she was that sort, he’d no intention of letting her shortchange him.

“What are you going to wear?”

George’s question dragged Jack’s mind from his preoccupation. “Wear?” He frowned. “I must have a domino lying about somewhere.”

“You haven’t read this, have you?” George dropped the invitation onto the desk. “It clearly states a proper costume is mandatory. No dominos allowed.”