Captain Jack's Woman (Bastion Club 0.50)

George glanced at Kit’s disgruntled expression. “If it’s any consolation, despite the fact Matthew and I have known him for most of his life, and shared most of it, too, we received not the smallest word of explanation for your inclusion in the Gang. He didn’t even tell us you were a woman.”

They rode on in silence, Kit considering George’s words. His confidence did, in fact, ease some of the frustration dragging at her heart. Clearly, her husband was an autocrat of long standing; if George was right, a hereditary one. Equally clearly, none of those close to him had made the slightest push to influence his high-handed ways. The determination to make him change his attitude, at least with respect to her, grew with every short stride her meek chestnut took.

The fork that led to Smeaton Hall appeared ahead. Kit drew rein. “You know the truth about the smuggling, don’t you?”

Pulling up beside her, George sighed. “Yes, but I can’t tell you. Jack’s my superior in this. I can’t speak without his approval.”

Kit nodded and held out her hand. “Thank you.”

George met her eyes, then squeezed her fingers encouragingly. “He’ll tell you in the end.”

Kit nodded. “I know. When it’s over.”

George could only grin. He bowed and they parted, understanding each other rather better than before.

Kit stared at the packages on the carriage seat opposite. Had she bought enough? She’d come to Lynn to get some cambric. After last night, she’d decided that cambric shirts would be much more sensible for Jack to wear around the estate. He’d spent all yesterday helping thin coppices. She hadn’t known but should have guessed he’d be the sort of landowner who got off his horse, took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and helped his men. She’d come upon him entirely unintentionally, when, just before changing for dinner, she’d gone into his room in search of the sash that went with her silk negligee. It had been missing ever since the storm, three nights before. A groan emanating from the room beyond had drawn her to the open door.

The room had been fitted out as a bathing chamber, with a huge copper tub in the center. Jack had just sunk into the steaming water. He was facing away from her and as he bent forward to rest his head on his knees, she saw his back. It was covered with scratches.

“What on earth have you been doing?”

She’d strode forward, entirely forgetting her sash, oblivious of Matthew standing to one side.

Water had hit the floor as Jack swiveled, then he’d grimaced and leaned back in the tub, settling his head on the raised edge. “Falling through brambles.” A wave of his hand had sent Matthew from the room, a fact of which she should have taken more notice.

She’d stood by the tub, hands on hips, and examined all of her husband that she could see. Jack opened his eyes and squinted up at her through the steam. “You’ll be pleased to know it’s only my back.”

At his grin, she’d humphed. “Lean forward and let me see.”

She’d had to nag but in the end, he’d let her examine his wounds. Some of the scratches were deep and had bled, but none qualified as serious.

“Seeing you’re here, you may as well minister to my injuries.” He’d held out the sponge.

She’d pulled a face and taken the bait.

She should, of course, have guessed which track his mind had taken. But it hadn’t occurred to her that the tub was big enough for them both. And she’d certainly never imagined it was possible to perform the contortions they had within its slippery confines.

Yet another novel experience her husband had introduced her to.

Kit shook aside the distracting memory. She counted the ells of material again and wished she’d brought Elmina. Still, Lynn wasn’t so far that she couldn’t come again if they needed more. Kit turned to the window, to call to Josh the coachman that they could leave, when her gaze alighted on a natty trilby, entirely out of place in provincial Lynn.

Intrigued, she drew closer to the glass to view the body beneath the hat. “Good Lord!” Kit stared, seeing a ghost.

It was Belville—Lord George Belville.

Kit blinked, then stared again. The four years since he’d been a suitor for her hand had not treated him kindly. He still possessed a large, strong-boned frame, but his face was more fleshy and his girth had increased dramatically. His skin bore the pasty complexion of one who spent too much time in the gaming room. Features Kit remembered as finely chiseled had been coarsened by drink and general decadence, until he was but a bloated caricature of the man she’d nearly agreed to wed.

A cold shiver touched Kit’s nape and spread over her shoulders. Keeping within the shadows of the carriage, she watched as her erstwhile suitor strolled across the square to the King’s Arms, Lynn’s most comfortable inn. Belville was addicted to town pursuits. What was he doing here?

At the door of the inn, Belville paused. He glanced about, studying all those his pale gaze could find. Then, slowly, he entered the inn and shut the door behind him.

Frowning, Kit sank back against the squabs. Then, shifting to the other side of the carriage, she called to Josh to take her home. For some reason, she was sure she didn’t want Belville to see her. He represented part of her history that was no longer relevant; she didn’t intend to let him cloud her present happiness.

As the carriage rumbled out onto the open road, Kit’s frown deepened. Belville was nothing but a government official—he couldn’t harm her. So why did she feel so threatened?

Kit was already in bed when Jack entered her room that night.

He paused in the doorway, studying her pensive face. What was she planning now? His gaze dwelled on the halo of curls, on the full lips and delicate features, before sweeping over the alluring figure outlined in ivory silk. She hadn’t seen him yet; her nipples were soft rose circles at the peaks of her full breasts. Her arms were bare, as ivory as her nightgown and equally silky. The simple sheath clung to her curves, highlighting the indentation that marked her tiny waist before flaring over her luscious hips. The triangle of red curls at the apex of her thighs was just visible through the sheer material. The long sweep of her sleek thighs led to dimpled knees, peeking from the folds of the gown. Below her well-turned calves, her tiny feet were tinted a delicate pink. Slowly, Jack let his gaze travel upward once more. His lower chest contracted; a f