Captain Jack’s Woman / A Gentleman's Honor

by Stephanie Laurens

  Once Jack and Nolan were well launched on their dealings, Kit looked up. The serving girl had retreated to the bar but her gaze was still fixed, in a drooling fashion, on her. Under her breath, Kit swore.

  “Twenty kegs of the best brandy and ten more of port, if you can handle it.” Nolan paused to swill from his tankard. Kit wondered how he could; the stuff tasted vile.

  “We can handle it. The usual conditions?”

  “Aye.” Nolan eyed Jack warily, as if unable to believe he wasn’t going to push the Gang’s cut higher. “When do you want it?”

  Jack considered, then said: “Tomorrow. The moon’ll be new-not too much light but enough to see by. The delivery conditions the same?”

  Nolan nodded. “Cash on delivery. The ship’s the Mollie Ann. She’ll stand off Brancaster Head after dark tomorrow.”

  “Right.” Pushing his tankard aside, Jack stood. “It’s time we left.”

  Nolan merely nodded and retreated into his beer.

  Hurriedly standing, Kit found herself bundled in front of Jack. Matthew led the way and George brought up the rear. Their exit was so rapid that none of the other customers had time to blink. Outside, she, Jack, and George waited in the road while Matthew fetched their horses. Even in the gloom, Kit sensed the meaningful look Jack and George exchanged over her head. Then they were mounted and off, across the fields to the cottage.

  There, they all sat around the table. Jack poured brandy, raising a brow in Kit’s direction. She shook her head. The few sips of ale she’d taken had been more than enough. Jack delivered his plans in crisp tones that left Kit wondering what he’d been before. A soldier, certainly, but his attitude of authority suggested he hadn’t been a trooper. The idea made her grin.

  “How many boats can your men muster?”

  Jack’s question shook her into life. “Manned by two?” she asked. When he nodded, she replied: “Four. Do you want them all?”

  “Four would double our number,” put in George.

  “And double the speed we could bring the barrels in.” Jack looked at Kit. “We’ll have all four. Get them to pull inshore just west of the Head-there’s a little bay they’ll likely know, perfect for the purpose.” Turning to Matthew and George, he discussed the deposition of the rest of the men. Kit listened with half an ear, glancing up only briefly when George left.

  Matthew followed. “G’night, lad.”

  Kit returned the words with a nod and a smile, hidden by her muffler. As soon as the door shut behind him, she tugged the folds free. “Phew! I hope the nights don’t get too warm.”

  Replacing the brandy bottle on the sideboard, Jack turned to stare at her. In a month, long before the balmy nights of August, she wouldn’t have need of her muffler. In a month, she wouldn’t be masquerading as a smuggler. In a month, she’d be masquerading as his mistress. The thought brought a frown to his face. He’d still be masquerading, too, for he couldn’t tell her who he was until his mission was complete. With an inward sigh, Jack focused on the present. “I take it you were edified by the company at the Blackbird?”

  Kit lounged in her chair. “The company I could do without,” she admitted. “But everything passed off smoothly. Next time, they’ll recognize me’, and I’ll be less of an attraction.”

  Jack’s exasperated look spoke volumes. “Next time,” he repeated, drawing a chair to the other side of the table and straddling it. “I assume you’re aware that the only reason you came off safely was because George and Matthew and I were there, rather too large to overlook?”

  Kit opened her eyes wide. “I hadn’t anticipated going there alone.”

  “Christ, no!” Jack ran his fingers through his hair, the golden strands catching and reflecting the lamplight. “This idea of yours is madness. I should never have agreed to it. But let me educate you on one point at least. If you’d made the slightest slip back there, unwittingly led one of the men to believe…” Jack struggled to find the right words for his purpose. One glance at Kit’s open face, her eyes clearly visible now that she’d removed her hat and muffler, made it clear she wasn’t entirely au fait with the way things were in dens of iniquity. “Led them to believe it’d be worthwhile to make a push for you,” he continued, determined to bring her to a sense of her danger, “then we’d have had a riot on our hands. What would you have done then?”

  Kit frowned. “Hid behind a table,” she eventually conceded. “I’m no good with my fists.”

  The answer overturned Jack’s deliberate seriousness. The idea of her delicate hands bunched into fists was silly enough; the notion of them doing any damage was laughable. His lips twisted in a reluctant grin.

  Kit smiled sweetly. Immediately, all traces of mirth fled Jack’s face, replaced by the scowl she was starting to believe was habitual. Dammit-he could smile, she knew he could. Charmingly.

  Go on! Make him smile.

  Shut up,Kit told her inner devil. I can’t afford a tussle with him-if he touches me, I can’t think and then where will I be?

  Flat on your back, with any luck, came the unrepentant answer.

  All I want is a smile, Kit told herself, repressing the inclination to scowl back. “You worry too much,” she said. “Things will work out; it’s only for a month.”

  Jack watched as she wound her muffler loosely into place and jammed her hat Over her curls. He knew he should put his foot down and end her little charade, or at least restrict it to those areas he believed inevitable. He knew it, but couldn’t work out how to do it. He argued and she returned a glib answer, then smiled, scattering his wits completely, leaving only an urgent longing in their place. He’d never worked with a woman before; socially, they were a push-over but professionally-he obviously didn’t have the knack.

  The scrape of her chair as she stood brought Jack’s gaze back to Kit’s face. “Until tomorrow, then.” She smiled and felt a distinct pang of irritation when Jack glared back. Deliberately, she sauntered to the door, allowing her hips full license in their sway. She paused at the last to raise a hand in salute; his scowl was now definitely black. Her teeth gleamed. “Good night, Jack.”

  As she closed the door behind her, Kit wondered if the low growl she heard was from the distant surf or a somewhat closer source.

  The run was her first taste of Jack’s planning in action. All went smoothly. She was the main lookout, stationed on the cliff above and to the east of the bay into which they ran the goods. In answer to her protest that surely any danger would come from the west, Jack had pulled rank and all but ordered her to the headland. She had a fine view of the beach. Her men were there. They dropped the cargo, then, together with the others in boats, pulled out into the Roads and headed straight home. The land-bound smugglers transferred the barrels to pack ponies, and the cavalcade headed inland. This time, Jack chose to hide the cargo in the ruins of an old church.

  Overgrown with ivy, the ruins were all but impossible to discover unless you knew they were there. The old crypt, dark and dry, provided a perfect spot for their cache.

  “Who owns this land?” Kit turned to Jack, sitting on his stallion beside her. They’d pulled back into the trees to keep watch over the gang as they worked, unloading the barrels and carting them down the steps to the crypt.

  “It used to belong to the Smeatons.”

  Jack’s tone suggested it no longer did. “And now?” Kit asked.

  She knew the answer before he said, “Lord Hendon.”

  “Do you have a fetish of sorts, to constantly operate under the new High Commissioner’s very nostrils?” Delia sidled to avoid the grey’s head. Kit swore, and reined the mare in. “I wish you’d make your horse behave.”

  Jack obediently leaned forward and pulled Champion’s ears. “Hear that, old fellow?” he whispered sotto voce. “Your advances are falling short of the mark. But don’t worry. Females are contrary creatures at the best of times. Believe me-I know.”

  Kit ignored the invitation to take exception to his statement, quite sure there’d be
a trap concealed amongst his words. In their few exchanges since the previous night, she’d detected a definite edge to Jack’s remarks; she assumed it sprang from a corresponding sharpening of his temper. “You were about to tell me why you use Lord Hendon’s lands.”

  Jack’s lips twisted in a smile Kit couldn’t see. He hadn’t been about to do any such thing but hers was a persistent curiosity, one he should perhaps allay. She was also a persistent distraction, a persistent itch he couldn’t yet scratch. But soon, he vowed, soon he’d attend to her as she deserved. The vision of her bottom, swaying in deliberate provocation as she’d walked to the door of the cottage, wasn’t a sight he was likely to forget. “Sometimes, the safest place to hide is as close to your pursuer as possible.”

  Kit thought about that. “So he overlooks you while searching farther afield?”

  Jack nodded. The men came out of the crypt; the last barrels had been stowed. Jack urged Champion forward.

  Within minutes, the gang was scattering, ponies led off, other men disappearing on foot. Soon, the only souls left were Kit, Jack, Matthew, and George. They waited a few minutes, to make sure all the men were safely away. Then George nodded to Jack. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  George rode into the trees. At Jack’s signal, Matthew drew away, to wait for him just beyond the clearing.

  Kit looked up; it was time for her to depart. She smiled, not knowing how weary she looked. “My men and I’ll come up for the meeting on Monday. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Jack nodded, wishing he could escort her home. He hadn’t thought of her riding alone through the dark before; he’d never watched her leave the cottage. To let her head into the night, tired and solitary, seemed an act of outright callousness. He considered insisting on escorting her, but rejected the idea. She’d refuse and argue, and he’d probably lose. And he didn’t wish to remind her of his very real interest in her just at present. Ignoring her while she believed he was uninterested was hard enough. Ignoring her once she knew he was hooked would be impossible if her actions of last night were any guide. Like any other woman, she’d be incapable of leaving him alone, teasing him for attentions he was too wise to bestow-at least, not yet.

  Half-asleep and dreaming, Kit found she was staring at the pale oval of Jack’s face. She shook herself awake. “I’ll be going then. Good night.”

  Jack bit his tongue. Rigid, he watched her leave the clearing, heading south on a ride of close to six miles through the dark.

  Stifling a curse, he turned Champion to the east and found Matthew. Wordlessly, they set off, Champion leading Matthew’s black over fields and meadows, somnolent under dark skies. They’d covered nearly a mile when Jack abruptly drew rein, startling Matthew who’d been asleep in his saddle.

  “Dammit! You go on ahead. I’ll be in later.” Jack wheeled Champion and set his heels to the grey’s sleek sides, leaving a bemused Matthew in his wake. When he reached the ruined church, Jack turned the grey’s head south and loosened the reins. He was sure Champion would follow his Arab mare no matter which way Kit had gone.

  Chapter 12

  After that first run, Kit had been sure she’d face no real problem in being Young Kit for the requisite month. Unfortunately, affairs did not run so smoothly. Her pride was her problem: it rose to the fore on two different counts, both stemming directly from Jack’s irritating behavior.

  In the third week of their association, she sought solitude in the gazebo to thrash out how to counteract Jack’s stubborn refusal to deal reasonably with her. She was always the lookout-that she could understand-but for all his apparent experience, Jack persisted in placing her to the east of the ran area, away from Hunstanton. Yet if the Revenue were to mount a sortie, surely they’d be coming from Hunstanton?

  Plonking herself down on the gazebo’s wooden seat, Kit stared at the roses. Any attempt to question Jack’s peculiar orders met with a highly discouraging scowl, topped by a growl if she pushed him. A snarl would no doubt be next, but she’d never had the nerve to test him. She had the distinct impression she was being bundled aside, out of harm’s way. Kit narrowed her eyes. It was almost as if Jack knew there’d be no interference from the Revenue but sent her in the opposite direction just in case.

  Damn it! It had been at his insistence she’d continued her charade; being given token tasks was not what she’d expected. Enough! She’d have it out with him this evening. There was to be another run, on the promontory between Holme and Brancaster. Since they’d joined forces, the traffic had been constant-two runs a week, always on different beaches, mostly for Nolan, once for another agent. Spirits and lace had been the staple fare, high-quality merchandise that brought good returns to the smugglers.

  With a rustle of skirts, Kit stood. Descending from the gazebo, she wended her way between the rose beds, indifferent to the perfect blooms nodding on every side. Lack of meaningful participation in the gang’s affairs was one of her points of contention. Her personal interaction with Jack, or rather, lack of personal interaction with Jack, was the other.

  His behavior during her first visit to the cottage she’d understood. What had her confused was all that had, or hadn’t, come since. He’d blown hot for her initially, but ever since that night he’d appeared uninterested, as if he’d found her unattractive on second glance. For one who’d had the rakes of London at her feet, Jack’s failure to succumb was galling.

  Kit dropped the petals she’d pulled from a fading white rose and headed for the house. All the other personable males who’d hovered on her horizon had done so without her exerting any effort to attract their notice. Jack’s notice, short-lived though it had been, had stirred her interest in a way none of the others had. She wanted more. But Jack, damn his silver eyes, seemed distinctly disinclined to supply it. He now acted as if she was a lad in truth-as if he couldn’t be bothered responding to her as a woman.

  Climbing the steps to the terrace, Kit realized her teeth were clenched. Forcibly relaxing her jaw, she made a vow. Before she quit the Hunstanton Gang, she’d have Captain Jack at her feet. A rash resolution, perhaps, but the thought sent a thrill of delicious daring through her.

  Her lips quirked upward. This was what she craved-what she needed. A challenge. If Jack insisted on removing all chance of other thrills, surely it was only right he provide her with suitable compensation?

  Entering the morning room, Kit sank onto the chaise and considered the possibilities. She’d need to be on guard to ensure Jack didn’t take things farther than mere dalliance. His behavior on that first night in his cottage had been ample proof that he could and would take matters far farther than she would countenance. He was not of common stock. No fisherman had such an air-of command, of authority, and, frequently, of sheer arrogance. His diction, his knowledge of swordplay, his stallion-all bore witness that his origins were considerably higher than the village. And, of course, he was gorgeous beyond belief. Nevertheless, a liaison, however brief, between Lord Cranmer’s granddaughter and Captain Jack, leader of the Hunstanton Gang, did not fall within the bounds of the possible.

  But he thinks you’re illegitimate, remember?

  “But I’m not illegitimate, am I?” Kit pointed out to her wilder self. “I couldn’t possibly forget what I owe the family name.”

  Why? The family was ready enough to sacrifice you for their own ends.

  “Only my uncles and aunts-not Spencer or my cousins.”

  Sure it’s not just an old-fashioned dose of maidenly nerves? How will you learn if Amy’s right if you don’t give it a try? And if you’re ever going to take the plunge-he’s the one. Why not admit you go weak at the knees at the thought of all that lovely male muscle and those silver devil’s eyes?

  “Oh, shut up!” Kit reached for her embroidery. Prying her needle free, she poked it through the design. Drawing the thread through, she set her lips. She was bored. Excitement was what she needed. Tonight, she’d make sure she got some.

  The roar of the surf as it pounded the sand
filled Kit’s ears. She stood in the lee of the cliff, holding Delia’s reins, watching the Hunstanton Gang gather. The men huddled in small groups, their gruff voices barely audible above the surf. None approached her. They all viewed Young Kit as a delicate youth, a young nob, best left to Captain Jack to deal with.

  Kit looked up and saw Jack approaching, mounted on his grey stallion and flanked by George and Matthew. Her confidence in Jack’s ability to organize and command was complete. She’d heard tales, some decidedly grisly, of the Hunstanton Gang’s activities before Jack had taken over. In the past three weeks, she’d seen no evidence of such excesses. Jack didn’t even exert himself to impress his will-the men obeyed him instinctively, as if recognizing a born leader.

  Kit peered out at the waves, black tipped with pearl in the weak moonlight. She could see no sign of the boats.

  Jack drew rein some yards away and the men gathered about to receive their orders. Then they were off down the beach to wait, huddled on the sand like rocks just above the waterline. Dismounting, Jack set Matthew and George to watch for the signal from the ship that would tell them the boats were on their way in, then trudged through the sand toward Kit.

  He stopped in front of her. “Up there should give you a good view.”

  To Kit’s surprise, he indicated the cliff above the western end of the beach. Then she remembered they were out on the headland-if the Revenue came from anywhere it would have to be from the east; beyond the western point was sea. Her time had come. “No!” She had to shout over the din of the waves.

  It took Jack a moment to realize what she was saying. He scowled. “What do you mean, ‘No’?”