The resigned overtones in each man’s voice brought Kit’s head up. She stared at Jack. “Didn’t you want him dead?”
To his exasperation, Jack couldn’t come up with a convincing affirmative fast enough to allay her suspicions. Instead, her shocked gaze compelled him to stick to something like the truth. “It would have been more help if we could have got him alive, but,” he hurried on, “in the circumstances, Matthew, George, and I are perfectly happy to be alive. Don’t think we’re complaining.”
Jack couldn’t tell what she was feeling; her eyes reflected a turmoil far deeper than his own. To his relief, George came to his aid.
“Matthew says a body put in here will be taken out to sea.”
Jack nodded. A disappearance would be easier all around. Bodies had to be explained, and explaining Belville’s would not help their mission.
“Joe—we have to find Joe!”
Kit’s voice jerked both her listeners to a sense of their duty.
“No!” came from both of them.
“I’ll take you home,” Jack continued. “George will deal with Joe.”
But Kit drew back as far as he’d let her, shaking her head vehemently. “But he might not…No. We have to look now!”
Both men registered the note of hysteria in her voice. They exchanged troubled glances over her head.
“Come on!” Kit was tugging at Jack’s arm. “He might be dying while you argue!”
Neither Jack nor George held much hope for Joe but neither felt confident of convincing Kit of the fact he was almost certainly dead already. With a sigh, Jack released her but retained a firm hold on her hand. Together, the three of them mounted to the cliff and approached the hillock.
A pathetic bundle in worn clothes was all that remained of Joe. The sand about was stained with the blood that had poured from the gaping wound in his neck. Kit stared. Then, with a convulsive sob, she buried her face in Jack’s shirt.
George checked but there was no vestige of life left in the huddled form.
Kit struggled to draw breath. For weeks, she’d been Jack’s lookout, playing smuggler without a care in the world. It had all been a game. But Joe’s death was no game. If she’d still been with Jack, she would have died. Instead, Joe had gone. Any possibility of feeling remorse for killing Belville disappeared, run to ground along with Joe’s blood. She’d avenged Joe, and for that she was glad.
The sudden rush of emotions weakened her to the point where Jack’s arms were the only thing holding her upright. He sensed her draining strength and swore.
To Jack, the sight of his murdered lookout was a scene from a nightmare. Of course, in his worst nightmare, the huddled figure was Kit. The fact that it was Joe who had died muted the shock, but it was still very real. Badly shaken, he swung Kit into his arms, drawing comfort from the warmth in her slim frame.
George looked up. “Matthew and I will sort this out. For the Lord’s sake, get her home. And don’t leave her alone.”
Jack needed no further urging. He carried his silent wife down to the horses and set her on Champion. He swung up behind her and settled her against him. “Where’s your horse?”
Kit told him as they negotiated the climb to the cliff. Jack rode to the trees and tied the mare to Champion’s saddle before setting a direct course for the Castle. His one aim was to get a brandy into Kit and then get her to bed. She was already shivering. He’d no experience of deep shock in women, but he fully expected her to get worse.
As they traversed the moonlit fields, Kit struggled to find her mental feet. She’d killed a man. No matter how she viewed that fact, she was unable to feel anything like guilt. In the same position, she’d do it again. He’d been about to kill Jack, and that was all that had mattered. As Castle Hendon loomed on the horizon, she accepted reality. Jack was hers—like any female of any species, she’d kill in a loved one’s defense.
“We’ll have to do something for Joe’s family.”
The sudden comment brought Jack out of his daze.
“Don’t worry. I’ll deal with it.”
“Yes, but…” Kit went on, unaware she was babbling all but incoherently.
Jack soothed her with reassurances. Eventually, she quieted, as if her outburst had drained her remaining strength. She sagged against him, comfortingly alive. Jack concentrated on guiding Champion through the darkening fields. His mind was full of conflicting emotions. The moon was setting; it was full dark by the time he clattered into his stables.
He shouted for Martins. The man came at a run, tucking his nightshirt into his breeches. Jack dismounted, then lifted Kit down, ignoring Martins’s shocked stare. His wife’s breeches were the most minor of the concerns pressing for his attention. He left Martins to deal with the horses and carried Kit to the house. He let them in through a side door. A single candle waited on the table just inside. Jack ignored it. He carried Kit straight to her room.
Once there, he stripped her of her clothes, ignoring her protests, handling her gently, like a child. He grabbed a towel and rubbed her briskly, over every square inch, until she glowed. Kit grumbled and tried to stop him, then gave up and lay still, slowly relaxing under his hands. He left her for a moment, stretched naked on her bed, her coverlet thrown over her. When he returned from his room, he was also naked and carried two glasses of brandy.