Captain Jack’s Woman / A Gentleman's Honor

by Stephanie Laurens

  “I mean there’s no sense in my keeping a lookout from that position. I may as well stay on the beach and watch the boats come in.”

  Jack stared at her. The idea of her scurrying around among the boats, being shoved aside by the first fisherman into whose path she stumbled, was one he refused to contemplate. A shout told him the signal had come. Soon, the boats would be beaching. He eyed the slight figure before him and shook his head. “I haven’t time to argue about it now. I’ve got to see to the boats.”

  “Fine. I’ll come, too.” Kit looped Delia’s reins about a straggling bush clinging to the cliff and turned to follow Jack.

  “Get up to that cliff top immediately!”

  The blast almost lifted her from her feet. Kit stepped back, eyes widening in alarm. Jack towered over her, one arm lifted, one finger jabbing at the western cliff. Transfixed, she stared at him. And saw him set his teeth.

  “For Christ’s sake, get moving!”

  Shaken to her boots, furious to the point of incoherence, Kit wrenched Delia’s reins from the bush and swung up to the saddle. She glared down at Jack, still standing before her, fists on hips, barring the way to the beach, then hauled on the reins and sent Delia up the cliff path.

  On the western cliff top, Kit dismounted. She left Delia to graze the coarse grasses a few yards back from the edge. Seething, she threw herself down on a large flat boulder and, picking up a small rock, hurled it down onto the sands. She wished she could hit Jack with it. He was clearly visible, down by the beaching boats. A slingshot might just make it.

  With a disgusted snort, Kit sank her elbows into her thighs and dumped her chin in her hands. God-could he shout. Spencer bellowed when in a rage, but the noise had never affected her. She’d always considered it a sure sign her grandfather had all but lost the thread of his argument and would soon succumb to hers. But when Jack had bellowed his orders, he’d expected to be obeyed. Instantly. Every vestige of defiant courage she possessed had curled up its toes and died. The idea of her doing anything to overcome such an invincible force had seemed patently ridiculous.

  Thoroughly disgusted with her craven retreat, Kit glumly watched the gang unload the boats.

  When the last barrel was clear of the surf and the pack ponies were all but fully laden, Kit stood and dusted down her breeches. Whatever happened, however much Jack bellowed, this was the last, the very last time she’d keep watch from the wrong position for the Hunstanton Gang.

  “Well? What is it?” Jack dumped the keg he’d brought back from the run on the table and swung to face Kit. George had ridden straight home from the beach and, after one glance at Kit’s rigid figure, Jack had sent Matthew directly on to the Castle. On the beach, he’d hoped that her knuckling under to his orders meant she’d forget her grievance over being a redundant lookout. He should have known better.

  Kit ignored his abrupt demand and closed the door. With cool deliberation, she walked forward into the glow of the lamp Jack set alight. Pulling her hat from her curls, she dropped it on the table, then, in perfect silence, unwound her muffler.

  Straightening from lighting the lamp, Jack pressed his hands to the table and remained standing. He felt much more capable of intimidating Kit when upright. Assuming, of course, that she, too, was upright. If she didn’t hurry up and get to her point, he wouldn’t give much for her chances of remaining so. Jack set his teeth and waited.

  When her muffler had joined her hat, Kit turned to face Jack. “I suggest that in future you rethink your lookout policy. If you order me to a position in what is obviously the wrong direction, I’ll move to a more sensible place.”

  Jack’s jaw hardened. “You’ll do as you’re told.”

  Kit lifted a condescending brow.

  Jack lost a little of his calm. “Dammit-if you’re on lookout and the Revenue appear, how the hell can I be certain you won’t do something stupid?”

  Kit’s eyes blazed. “I wouldn’t just run away.”

  “I know that! If I thought you would run away, I’d have no qualms about putting you on the Hunstanton side.”

  “You admit you’ve been deliberately putting me on the wrong side?”

  “Christ!” Jack raked a hand through his hair. “Look-you can’t unload the boats, so you may as well be our lookout. As it happens-”

  “At the moment you don’t actually need a lookout.” Kit’s tone dripped with emphasis. “Because, as you well know, the Hunstanton Revenue men have been ordered to patrol the beaches south of Hunstanton.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”

  Kit lifted one shoulder. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Who told you?”

  Kit eyed Jack warily. “Spencer. He had it from the owner of the Rose and Anchor in Lynn.”

  The muscles in Jack’s shoulders eased. She didn’t have any contact within the Revenue Office. He’d been away so long, he’d forgotten how things got about in the country. “I see.”

  “I take it that means I won’t have to stay stuck on a cliff twiddling my thumbs next time?” Kit’s look dared him to disagree.

  He ignored it. “What the hell else can you do?”

  “I can help unload the lace,” Kit stated, chin high.

  “Fine,” said Jack. “And what happens the first time someone hands you a keg instead? Here, take this to the sideboard.” Without warning, he lifted the keg he’d brought in and handed it to her.

  Automatically, Kit put out her hands to take it. Jack let go.

  Jack could carry the keg under one arm. He didn’t have any idea how much Kit could carry, but he didn’t expect her to sink under the weight.

  Kit’s knees buckled. Her arms slipped about the keg as she struggled to balance the weight against her own and failed. She went down, bottom first, and the keg rolled back to flatten her. The instant before it did serious damage, Jack lifted it from her.

  In awful silence, Kit lay flat on the floor and glared at Jack. Then she got her breath back. Her bound breasts, swelling in righteous indignation, fought against the constraining bands; her eyes spat purple flame. “You bastard! What kind of a stupid thing was that to do?”

  Carefully, Jack set the keg back on the table. He glanced once at Kit, sprawled at his feet, then rapidly away, biting his lips against the laughter that threatened. She looked fit to kill. “Here, let me…” Reaching down, he grasped both her hands. Gently, he hauled her to her feet. He didn’t dare meet her gaze; it was sharp enough to slice strips off him. Doubtless, her tongue soon would.

  Back on her feet, Kit was agonizingly aware that a certain portion of her anatomy was very bruised. “Dammit-that hurt!”

  The accusation was softened by the way her lips trembled. She frowned, and Jack felt a patent fool. He’d been trying to protect her and instead, he’d nearly squashed her to death.

  “Sorry.” He was halfway into an apologetic smile, designed to charm her from her anger, when he remembered what would happen if he did. She’d smile back. He could just imagine it-a small, hurt little smile. He’d be felled. “But I’m afraid that’s precisely what will happen if you play the lady smuggler with me.” Realizing how close to danger he stood, Jack stalked back around the table.

  Kit’s spine stiffened. Her fingers curled in fury. Her wilder self came to life. Remember your alternative to smuggling thrills?

  Kit smiled at Jack and noted his defensive blink. Her smile deepened. She put her hands behind her waist and turned slightly, grimacing artistically. “How right you are,” she purred. “I don’t suppose you have anything here for bruises?” She let her hands press down and over the ripe curves of her bottom.

  Despite years of training in the art of dissembling, Jack couldn’t tear his eyes from her hands. His body made the switch from semiarousal, his usual state in Kit’s presence, to aching hardness before her hands reached the tops of her thighs. His brain registered the implication in her husky tone and scrambled what few wits he had remaining. Only his instinct for self-preservatio
n kept him rooted to the floor with the table, a last bastion, between them.

  It was the silence that finally penetrated Jack’s daze. He glanced up and caught a gleam suspiciously like satisfaction in the violet eyes watching him.

  “Er…no. Nothing for bruises.” He had to get her out of here.

  “But you must have something,” Kit said, her lids veiling her eyes. Her glance fell on the keg. Her smile grew. “As I recall, there’s a rub made with brandy.” She looked up to see Jack’s face drain of expression.

  A brandy rub? Jack’s mind went into a spin. The image her words conjured up, of him applying a brandy rub to her bruised flesh, his hand stroking the warm contours he’d just watched her trace, left him rigid with the effort to remain where he was. Only the thought that she was deliberately baiting him kept him still. Slowly, he shook his head. “Wouldn’t help.”

  Kit pouted. “Are you sure?” Her hands gently kneaded her bottom. “I’m really rather sore.”

  Forcibly, Jack clamped an iron hold over every muscle in his body. His fists bunched; he felt as if he had lockjaw as he forced out the words: “In that case, you’d better get on your way before you stiffen up.”

  Kit’s eyes narrowed, then she shrugged and half turned to pick up her muffler and hat. “So I can help with the boats from now on?” She started winding the muffler about her face.

  Further argument was beyond Jack, but he’d be damned if he’d let her best him like this. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” His voice sounded strained.

  Kit pulled on her hat and swung about to discuss the matter further, only to find Jack moving past her on his way to the door.

  “We’ll see what cargo Nolan has lined up for us. After all, you’ve only got a week more to go.” Jack paused with his hand on the door latch and looked back, praying she’d leave.

  Kit moved toward him, a considering light in her eyes, a knowing smile on her lips. “I thought you wanted two months?”

  She was getting far too close. Jack drew a ragged breath and pulled open the door. “You agreed to one month, and that’ll serve our purpose. No need for more.” No need for further torture.

  Kit paused beside him, tilting her head to look up at him from beneath the brim of her hat. “You’re sure one month will be long enough?”

  “Quite sure.” Jack’s voice had gained in strength. Encouraged, he grasped her elbow and helped her over the threshold, risking the contact in the interests of greater safety. “We’ll meet here at eleven as usual. Good night.”

  Kit’s eyes widened at his helping hand but she accepted her departure with good grace, pausing in the patch of light thrown through the open door to smile at him. “Until tomorrow, then,” she purred.

  Jack shut the door.

  When the sound of the mare’s hooves reached him, he heaved a huge sigh and slumped back against the door. He glanced at his hands, still fisted, and slowly straightened his long fingers.

  A week to go. Christ-he’d be a nervous wreck by the end of it!

  Pushing away from the door, he headed for the brandy keg. Before he reached it, the image of his torment, riding alone through the night, surfaced. Jack dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling and vented his displeasure in a frustrated groan. Then he went out to saddle Champion.

  Chapter 13

  “Well, Kathryn dear, you’re our local expert. If it’s to be a real masquerade, with no one knowing who anyone is, how shall we manage it?”

  Lady Marchmont sipped her tea and looked inquiringly at Kit.

  Acquainted with her ladyship of old, Kit hadn’t imagined she’d forget her notion of a ball. It was patently clear to all in Lady Marchmont’s drawing room-Lady Dersingham as well as Lady Gresham with Amy in tow-that the ball was to serve a dual purpose, winkling the elusive Lord Hendon from his castle, and introducing Kit to him. Having expected as much, Kit had given the matter due thought. A masquerade provided a number of advantages.

  “For a start, we’ll have to make it plain the ball is a real masquerade-not just dominos over ball gowns.” Kit frowned over her teacup. “Do you think there’s enough time for people to get costumes together?”

  “Time aplenty.” Lady Dersingham waved one white hand dismissively. “There aren’t that many of us, when all’s said and done. Shouldn’t be any problem. What do you think, Aurelia?”

  Lady Gresham nodded. “If the invitations go out this afternoon, everyone will have a week to arrange their disguises.” She smiled. “I must say, I’m looking forward to seeing what our friends come as. So revealing, to see what people fancy themselves as.”

  Sitting quietly on the chaise beside Kit, Amy shot her a glance.

  Lady Marchmont reached for another scone. “We haven’t had such promising entertainment in years. Such a good idea, Kathryn.”

  Kit smiled and sipped her tea.

  “If you can’t recognize anyone, how are you going to be sure none but the guests you’ve invited attend?” asked Lady Dersingham. “Remember the trouble the Colvilles had, when Bertrand’s university chums came along uninvited? Dulcie was in tears, poor dear. They quite ruined the whole evening with their rowdiness and, of course, it took ages to discover who they were and evict them.”

  Neither Lady Marchmont nor Lady Gresham had any idea. The company looked to Kit.

  She had her answer ready. “The invitations should have instructions about some sign the guests must present, so you can be certain only those you invited come but no guest identifies themselves beyond giving the right sign.”

  “What sort of sign?” asked Lady Marchmont.

  “What about a sprig of laurel, in a buttonhole or in a lady’s corsage?”

  Lady Marchmont nodded. “Simple enough but not something anyone would guess. That should do it.”

  All agreed. Kit smiled. Amy raised a suspicious brow. Kit ignored it.

  The ladies spent the next hour compiling the guest list and dictating the invitations to Kit and Amy, who dutifully acted as scribes. With the bundle of sealed missives handed into the butler’s hands, the ladies took their leave.

  Lady Dersingham had taken Kit up in her carriage; Amy and her mother had come in theirs. While they waited on the steps for the carriages to be brought around, Amy glanced again at Kit. “What are you up to?”

  Her mother and Lady Marchmont were gossiping; Lady Dersingham had moved down the steps to examine a rosebush in an urn. Kit turned to Amy. “Why do you suppose I’m up to anything?”

  Her wide violet eyes failed to convince Amy of her innocence. “You’re planning some devilment,” Amy declared. “What?”

  Kit grinned mischievously. “I’ve a fancy to look Lord Hendon over, without giving him the same opportunity. Be damned if I let them present me to him, like a pigeon on a platter, a succulent morsel for his delectation.”

  Amy considered defending their ladyships, then decided to save her breath. “What do you plan to do?”

  Kit’s grin turned devilish. “Let’s just say that my costume will be one no one will anticipate.” She eyed Amy affectionately. “I wonder if you’ll recognize me?”

  “I’d recognize you anywhere, regardless of what you were wearing.”

  Kit chuckled. “We’ll find out how good your powers of observation are next Wednesday.”

  Amy got no chance to press Kit for details of her disguise. The carriages rounded the corner of Marchmont Hall, and she was forced to bid Kit farewell. “Come and visit tomorrow. I want to hear more of this plan of yours.”

  Kit nodded and waved, but her laughing eyes left Amy with the distinct impression that she did not intend to reveal more of her plans.

  Jack stood, feet planted well apart, resisting the tug of the surf surging about his knees. He glanced at Kit, slender beside him, and prayed she didn’t overbalance. Even in the shadowy night, soaked to the skin, her anatomy was sure to show its deficiencies.

  The yacht they’d been waiting to board came over the next wave and slewed as the helmsman threw the rudd
er over. Matthew, some way to their right, steadied the prow. Kit grasped the side of the boat with both gauntleted hands and hauled herself aboard. Or tried to.

  Anticipating her helplessness, Jack planted a large palm beneath her bottom and hefted her over the side. He heard her gasp as she landed on the deck in a sprawl of arms and legs. Then he remembered her bruised posterior. He grimaced and followed her. Serve her right if she felt a twitch or two. He was in constant agony with a pain she delighted in compounding.

  Kit scurried to get out of Jack’s way as he clambered into the yacht, glaring through the night at him once he’d arrived on her level. She’d love to give him a piece of her mind, but didn’t dare open her mouth. Just being where she was had stretched the tension between them to the breaking point; she was too wise to add fuel to the fire just at present.

  As far as she was concerned, tonight was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and she’d no intention of letting Jack spoil it. She’d gone with them to the Blackbird as usual on Wednesday, two nights ago. An agent had approached them with an unusual cargo-bales of Flemish cloth too unwieldy to be loaded into rowboats. To her surprise, Jack had accepted. The money on offer was certainly an incentive, but she couldn’t imagine where he’d get large enough boats to do the job.

  But he had-she knew better than to ask how.

  She’d come to the beach tonight prepared to do battle if he dared suggest she be lookout. Although he’d eyed her with misgiving, Jack had included her in the group to go in the boats. The relief she’d felt when she’d learned she was to accompany Jack and the taciturn Matthew on board the yacht, rather than going on one of the other boats with the other men, was something she’d never admit. Its dampening effect was counteracted by her excitement over the yacht being the fastest boat in the small fleet. She’d always dreamed about sailing, but Spencer had never allowed her to indulge that particular whim.

  Kit stood by the railings as the yacht cleaved through the swell. The ship they were to meet was a pinprick of light, gleaming occasionally well out in the Roads.