Captain Jack's Woman (Bastion Club 0.50)

To her relief, he swung her up in his arms and headed for the bed, presumably understanding that her legs were as incapacitated as her brain. Kit sighed contentedly when Jack laid her between the sheets. She curled into his arms, entirely at peace.

Beds she could cope with. Tables were something else again.

Chapter 19

It was a perfect summer night, the air soft and balmy. Kit stood beside Delia close by the cliff, waiting for Captain Jack. A sickle moon rode the purple skies, shedding just enough light to distinguish the huddled shapes a few yards away as men, rather than rocks. Their muffled conversation drifted past Kit’s ears.

Facing the waves, Kit registered their regular ebb and flow, a parody of her confusion. Jack had unleashed all manner of wild longings; they sent her surging forward to some unknown fate. A deep-seated acknowledgment of what was due her position, her loyalty to Spencer, drew her back. Wednesday night had been a disaster. Kit’s lips lifted in a self-deprecatory smile. A delicious disaster, but a disaster nonetheless. She’d intended to convince Jack of the folly of running “human cargoes.” Instead, she’d been convinced of the folly of self-delusion.

No one, not even Amy, had warned her of the fever in her flesh. Of the aching void that, now the way was open, seemed to have grown within her. Her mind longed to recapture that moment of completeness. Her body yearned for the flame to transform her fever to consuming passion. She’d sensed it even after that first night at the cottage—a restlessness, a need she’d tried to ignore and had done her best to stifle. Wednesday night had left her with no alternative but to admit her addiction to Jack’s loving.

Delia shifted, blowing low. Kit peered down the beach but could see nothing. She’d intended to bring up the subject of the spies once she’d recovered from Jack’s amorous welcome. But he’d never let her recover. He’d stirred her awake far too soon; rational conversation had not been his aim. The night had dissolved into an orgy of mutual satisfaction. She couldn’t deny she’d enjoyed it—her pleasure had been his command.

With a grimace, Kit shifted her stance. She might revel in Jack’s attentions, but she wasn’t about to let passion rule her life. Yet the niggling suspicion that Jack had intended Wednesday night, certainly the latter half of it, that he’d planned and executed their play like some campaign, had remained, a shadow in her mind. At dawn, he’d helped her dress, his touch deeply unsettling, then he’d saddled Delia. He’d told her of tonight’s run, making it unnecessary for her to attend the meeting last night in the Old Barn.

Naturally, she hadn’t gone, knowing that if she did show her face, she’d be admitting to him her addiction to his company. Instead, she’d gone early to bed. But not to sleep. Half the night had

passed in tossing and turning, the fever burning slow and steady and unfulfilled.

Had he purposely drugged her with passion?

The broad shoulders of her nemesis hove into view. Kit watched as he rode up on Champion, George and Matthew, as ever, in attendance. Jack’s silver-grey gaze swept her, the comprehensive glance followed by a fleeting smile. He dismounted, and the men milled about him.

Kit waited until the men moved to their positions, George and Matthew with them, before stepping forward. “Where do you want me tonight?”

Immediately, she bit her tongue. Jack had been glancing down the beach; at her words, his head swung about, an arrested expression on his face. For one fractured minute, she thought he’d answer with the words in his mind.

Jack was sorely tempted. The sound of her husky tones confidently voicing such a query sent a spasm of sheer desire through his veins. But he clamped a lid on that particular pot and set it aside to simmer. A slow, infinitely devilish smile twisted his lips. “I’ll think about it for the next hour or two. I’ll tell you my decision later—at the cottage.”

Kit wished she could say something to wipe the smug expression from his face.

“But for now,” Jack continued, suddenly brisk, “I need you on lookout. Wherever you like, since you won’t obey my orders.”

Kit tilted her chin. She turned and set her foot in her stirrup, pointedly getting on with her business.

The large hand that caressed her bottom shattered her complacency. After one leisurely circuit, it boosted her up to her saddle. Kit landed with a gasp. In daylight, her glare would have fried him. In moonlight, he stood, hands on hips, a patronizing expression on his face and gave her back arrogant stare for stare.

Sheer fury seared Kit’s veins. She clamped her lips shut and hauled on Delia’s reins. If she gave vent to her feelings here and now, her disguise would be blown past redemption.

Once on the cliff, she found a position overlooking Jack’s operations and dismounted. Too furious to sit still, she paced back and forth, twitching her gloves between her hands, her gaze on the beach, her temper on the boil.

Exclamations crowded her brain. How dare he? seemed far too mild. Besides, she knew how he dared—he knew damn well she wasn’t strong enough to withstand attack on that front, damn his silver eyes! If she didn’t need to know about the spies, she’d never come near him again. But she’d been through all the arguments, assessed all the alternatives. Until she had some facts, a run date for instance, there was no point in revealing her masquerade. If Spencer heard of it, he’d forbid her to continue, and then they’d never stop the spies.

Anger was not the only emotion coursing through her. Kit shivered with reaction. Damn the man—if she’d needed any confirmation he’d planned Wednesday night’s activities, that knowing caress had provided it. He’d purposely lit the fires of sensual pleasure in her flesh, so it would take just a caress to stir them to life. Kit ground her teeth and kicked a rock out of her way.

He was too damned sure of himself! He was too damned sure of her.

The run proceeded smoothly, as all Jack’s enterprises did. Kit watched, mulling over that fact. Jack’s cottage was on Lord Hendon’s land. And Lord Hendon had conveniently sent Sergeant Osborne to patrol the Sheringham beaches and Sergeant Tonkin to watch the shores of the Wash. A cynic might imagine there was a connection.

Kit snorted. The only real connection would be that Lord Hendon, like all the surrounding gentry, tolerated the smugglers. But not the spies. On that point, Jack had stepped beyond the line.

As the ponies headed for the cliff, Kit rose and caught Delia’s trailing reins. She mounted and urged the mare into the trees lining the first field. From there, she watched until the last of the pack train emerged from the cliff path. Then, before the grey stallion appeared, Kit turned Delia’s head for Cranmer Hall and dropped her hands.

She kept the mare to a steady gallop, the black hooves eating the miles. When the shadow of the Hall loomed out of the dark, Kit uttered a small whoop and sent Delia flying over the stable paddock fence.

Safe home. She’d escaped Jack’s trap, for one night at least. A fever might be the price she’d have to pay, but she’d pay gladly. Aside from anything else, it was safer this way.

Jack and his swaggering arrogance could spend the night alone.