Jack shifted as her words pricked him. He prided himself on taking care of those in his command.
Kit sensed her advantage and pounced. “Smuggling’s a transportable offense; treason’s a hanging matter. You’re deliberately leading these men, who don’t know enough to understand the risks, to court death.” When no response came, she lost her temper. “Dammit! They’ve got families dependent on them! If they’re taken and hanged, who’s going to look after them?”
Jack’s chair crashed to the floor, overturned as he surged to his feet. Kit’s nerves jangled. She took an instinctive step back.
“What the hell would you know of taking care of anyone? Taking responsibility for anything? You’re a woman, dammit!”
The outburst hauled Jack to his senses. Of course she was a woman. Of course she knew nothing of leading and the consequent worries. He should know better than to let a woman’s words get under his skin. He frowned and took another sip of his brandy, holding her silent with a glower. What he couldn’t fathom, what he should pay more attention to understanding, was why she was so opposed to him running spies. In his experience, women of her ilk cared little for such abstract matters. Whoever heard of a lowborn mistress lecturing her aristocratic lover on the morality of political intrigue?
With an effort, Kit shook free of Jack’s intimidating stare and glared back. Setting her hands on her hips, she opened her mouth to put him right on the role of women.
Jack got in first, one long finger stabbing the air for emphasis. “You’re a woman. You’re not the leader of a gang of smugglers—you played at being a lad in charge of a small group, but that’s all.” His empty glass hit the table. He placed both hands beside it and leaned forward. “If I hadn’t come along and relieved you of command, you’d have sunk without trace long since. You know nothing—nothing—of leading men.”
Kit’s eyes sparked violet daggers; her lips parted on words of rebuttal.
Jack was in no mood to give her a chance. “And if you’ve any notion on lecturing me on the matter, I suggest you keep your ill-advised opinions to yourself!”
Fury surged through Kit’s veins, cindering her innate caution. Her eyes narrowed. “I see.” She stu
died the large form, bent intimidatingly over the table, the very table where she’d lain, sprawled in wanton abandon, five nights before, with him, erect, engorged, between her wide-spread thighs.
Kit blinked and shook aside the unhelpful memory. She rushed into speech. “In that case, I’ll have to take…” Some sixth sense made her pause. She looked into the grey eyes watching her. Caution caught her tongue.
“Have to take…?”
Jack’s soft prompt rang alarm bells in Kit’s brain. Desperation came to her rescue. She put up her chin, cloaking her sudden uncertainty in truculence. “Take what steps I can to see that you don’t get caught.” Racked by nerves, she resettled her muffler. It was time for her to leave.
A cold calm descended on Jack, leaving little room for emotion. He saw straight through her obfuscation. “You mean to warn the authorities of our activities.”
The statement brought Kit’s head up so fast, she’d no time to wipe the truth from her eyes. The moment hung suspended between them, her silence confirming his conjecture more completely than any confession.
Realizing the trap she’d fallen into, Kit blushed. Denial was pointless, so she took the other tack. “If you continue to run spies, you leave me little choice.”
“Whom do you plan to convince? Spencer?” Jack moved, smoothly, to come around the table.
Her mind on his words, Kit shrugged, raising her brows noncommittally. “Perhaps. Maybe I’ll look up Lord Hendon—it’s his responsibility, after all.”
She swung to face Jack. And found him on the same side of the table and advancing slowly. Her heart leapt to her throat. She recalled the time on the Marchmont Hall terrace when she’d underestimated his speed. Cautiously, she backed away.
Her eyes rose to meet his. She read his intent in the darkened grey that had swallowed all trace of silver. “What do you think you’re doing?” Irritation colored her tone. How like him to decide to play physical just now.
Despite his years of training, Jack couldn’t stop himself from admiring the threat she posed. Satisfied he could reach the door before she could, he stopped with two yards between them and met her aggravated amethyst gaze. “I’m afraid, sweetheart, that you can’t expect to leave just yet. Not after this little talk of ours.” Jack couldn’t keep a smile from twisting his lips as his mind assembled the rest of his plan. “You must see that I can’t have you scurrying off to Lord Hendon.” Heaven help him if she did!
Warily, Kit eyed the distance between them and decided it was enough. Despite his words, there was no overt threat in his tone or his stance. “And how were you planning to stop me? Wouldn’t it be easier to just stop running spies?”
Jack’s gilded head shook a decided negative. “As far as I can see,’ he said, “the best thing I can do is keep you here.”
“I won’t stay, and you know you sleep soundly.”
Jack raised a brow but didn’t attempt to deny it. “You’ll stay if I tie your hands to the headboard.” When Kit’s eyes widened, he added: “Remember the last time I had you with your hands tied? This time, I’ll have you flat on your back in the middle of my bed.”
Desire flickered hungrily in Kit’s belly. She ignored it, blinking to dispel the images conjured up by his words, by his deepening tones. “There’ll be a fuss if I disappear. They’ll search the county.”
“Perhaps. But I can assure you they won’t search here.”
His glib certainty struck Kit between the eyes. A conglomeration of disjointed facts fell into place. She stared at Jack. “You’re in league with Lord Hendon.”
Her tone of amazed discovery halted Jack; her words sent a thrill of expectation through him. She was so close to the truth. Would she guess the rest? If she did, what would she think?