“What?” asked George. “Was that the rider again? Why aren’t we giving chase?”
“We are.” Jack set Champion back down the road, waiting until George and Matthew caught up before shifting to a canter. “But we mustn’t get too close and warn him. I’ve been wondering what gave us away. I’d wager that black is a mare. Not having been introduced to Champion here, like any other well-bred female, she gets skittish whenever he gets close.”
“Can Champion lead us to them?”
“I’ve no idea.” Jack patted the silky grey neck. “But we can’t risk getting too close until the rider dismounts.”
Kit reached the quarries as the last pony was unloaded. Noah and the others greeted her with relief.
“Thought as how somethin’ might have come upon you, lad.”
Feeling thoroughly alive, her blood stirred by her long gallop, Kit swung her leg over Delia’s neck and slid to the ground. “I’m sure we were followed, but I didn’t catch sight of anyone. I went a very long way around, just in case.” She looped Delia’s reins to a wooden strut at the edge of the clearing, well away from the men, who had an almost superstitious fear of the black horse. “What’s the stuff like?” She headed for the tunnel entrance.
Noah waved to a packet opened on a rock. “First-class stuff, it looks.”
Kit bent over the lace, resting both palms on the rock to protect against the impulse to draw off her gloves and finger the delicate tracery, a far too feminine gesture. “This is better than that other stuff you ran. What’s the price?”
The other men sat in the cave entrance, chewing baccy and talking quietly, while she and Noah reviewed their plans.
What warned her, she never knew. The hairs on her nape lifted. The next instant, she whirled, her rapier singing from its sheath, sweeping in an arc before the three men silently approaching.
What happened next made her blink. The foremost man—tall, well built, and hatless was her first impression—took one step back and her rapier clashed against solid steel. Kit’s eyes grew round. She swallowed a knot of cold fear at the sight of her elegant blade countered by a longer, infinitely more wicked-looking sword. The two men following the first drew back, leaving a wide area to the fighters.
Heavens! She was involved in a sword fight!
Resolutely, Kit quelled the impulse to drop her rapier and flee. Drawing a deep breath, she forced her mind to function. If this man was a smuggler, he’d have no knowledge of the finer points of swordsmanship. She, on the other hand, had been trained by an Italian master, a close friend of Spencer’s. She hadn’t practiced for years but, as her opponent drifted left, she instinctively drifted right, the blades hissing softly.
He made the first move, a tentative prod Kit easily pushed aside. She followed immediately with a classic counter, and was dismayed to meet the prescribed defense, perfectly executed. Two more similar exchanges sent her heart to her boots. The man could fight and fight well. The strength she sensed behind the long sword was frightening.
In growing panic, she glanced at her opponent’s face. The moon shone over her shoulder, leaving her own face in shadow. Even in the weak light, she saw the frown on the handsome face watching her. A second later, the effect of that face hit her. Kit blinked and dragged her mind and her gaze back to her blade, poised against that other. But her disobedient eyes flicked upward again, drawn by that face. She sucked in a painful breath.God, he is beautiful. Sculpted features, aquiline planes below high cheekbones, lips long and firm above a stubbornly square chin. His hair was fairish, streaked silver in the moonlight. Despite her every effort, Kit’s senses refused to bend to her will, irresponsibly continuing their dangerous detachment, roaming over the outline of the large body facing hers.
An odd sensation bloomed in Kit’s midsection, a warm weakness that sapped what little strength she had. She wondered whether it was fear of impending death. At the thought, from deep inside, she heard a laugh, a warm, rich, seductive laugh. What are you waiting for? You’ve been fantasizing about meeting a man who could do to you what George does to Amy—here he is. All you have to do is put down your rapier and step forward.
Kit’s guard wavered—she came to herself with a sickening start. In that instant, her opponent launched an attack. Her blade had nowhere near enough strength to counter the sword effectively. By dint of sheer luck and fancy footwork, she survived the first rush, her heart pounding horribly, a metallic taste in her mouth. She knew she’d never survive the second.
So much for my dream come true, she sneered at her inner self. The man’s about to skewer me, no thanks to you.
But the clash she feared never came. Her opponent took a decisive step back, just one, but it was enough to get him out of her reach. His sword was slowly lowered until it pointed at the ground.
Glancing up at that distracting face, Kit saw his frown deepen.
Jack’s mind was reeling, overloaded by conflicting and confusing information. Champion had led them unerringly in the wake of the black mare. As soon as they saw the jumble of jagged rocks on the horizon, they’d recognized their destination. Respect for the smaller gang grew—the quarries were a perfect hideaway, made to order. They’d left their horses at the edge of the quarries, to ensure that Champion’s presence did not give them away.
They’d come into the clearing openly but quietly. He’d immediately seen the slim figure in black poring over something on the opposite side. His feet had taken him in that direction. That was when his problems started.
Even before the lad whirled to face him, sword in hand, he’d been conscious of a quickening of his pulse, an increase in his heartbeat, a tightening of expectation which had nothing to do with the dangers of the night. Being presented with a rapier, wrong end first, only compounded the confusion. His reaction had been instinctive. It was not common practice for men to wear swords, but neither he nor George had yet adjusted to walking abroad without theirs on their hips. His hand had grasped his hilt the instant he’d heard the hiss of steel leaving a scabbard.
The poor light put him at a disadvantage from the first. The young lad was an outline, nothing more. Straining into the gloom, he’d moved cautiously, testing his opponent, despite the likelihood he could walk over the lad without difficulty. His opening move had been tentative. The lad’s response had been another revelation—who’d have expected Italian ripostes from a smuggler? But the following moves left him wondering what was wrong with the lad. The arm wielding the rapier had no strength in it.
He’d peered hard at the boy then, and the impulse to shake his head grew. Something was damnably wrong somewhere. Despite not being able to see the lad’s eyes, he could feel the boy’s gaze and knew he was staring. At him. It was the effect of that stare that totally threw him. Never before had his body reacted so definitely, certainly never in response to a stare from a male.
The lad’s point had wavered, and he’d pressed forward, without any real aim, more a matter of keeping up pretenses while he decided what to do. The lack of response made his mind up for him. He didn’t know enough about the gang, and about this strange boy, to make forcing a submission wise. The lad was no fool; he’d know a fight between them could have only one end; they both knew that now. He stepped back and lowered his sword.
The boy’s head came up.
A moment passed, pregnant with expectation. Then the rapier lowered. Inwardly, Jack sighed with relief.
“Who are you?” Fear had tightened Kit’s throat; her voice came out gravelly and, if anything, even deeper than usual. Her eyes remained fixed on the man before her. His head turned slightly, as if to catch some half-heard sound, yet she’d spoken clearly. His unnerving frown didn’t waver.
Jack heard the question but couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. His senses registered not the fear, but the underlying quality in the husky voice. He’d heard voices like that before; they didn’t belong to striplings. Yet what his senses kept telling him, his rational mind knew to be impossible. It had to
be some peculiar effect of the moonlight. “I’m Captain Jack, leader of the Hunstanton Gang. We want to talk, nothing more.”
The lad stood perfectly still, shrouded in shadow, his face invisible. “We’re listening.”
Moving slowly, deliberately, Jack sheathed his sword. The tension eased, but he noted that the stripling kept his rapier in his hand. His lips quirked. The lad had his wits about him—if their situations had been reversed, he’d have done the same.
Kit felt much safer when the long sword settled back into its scabbard and felt no compulsion whatever to sheathe hers. The man was more than dangerous, particularly when his features eased, as they’d just done. The slight smile, if it was even that, drew her eyes to his lips. What would they feel like against hers? Would they make her feel…Kit dragged her errant thoughts from the brink of certain confusion. Then another thought struck, out of the blue. What would she feel if he smiled?
But he was talking. Kit struggled to concentrate on his words, rather than letting her mind slide aimlessly into the rich, velvety-deep tones.
“We’d like you to consider a merger.” Jack waited for some response; none came. His cohorts shifted, but the lad made no sign. “Equal footing, equal share in the proceeds.” Still nothing. “With our gangs working together, we’d tie up the coast from Lynn to Wells and farther. We could set our conditions, so we get a decent share of the profits, given the risks we take.”
That idea caused a stir. Jack was pleased with the result, given that only half his mind was concentrating on his arguments. The better half was centered on the lad. Now, with his mates looking pointedly to him, the boy shifted slightly. “What exactly’s in this for us?”
It was a sensible question, but Jack could have sworn the lad paid scant attention to his answer.
While ostensibly listening to Captain Jack extoll the obvious virtues of operating as part of a larger whole, Kit wondered what on earth she was to do. The merger would be in the best interests of her small band. Captain Jack had already demonstrated an uncommon degree of ability. And good sense. And he didn’t seem overly bloodthirsty. Noah and company would be as safe as they could be under his guidance. But for herself, every sense was screaming the fact that remaining anywhere near Captain Jack was tantamount to lunancy. He’d eat her for breakfast, or worse. Even in bad light, she wasn’t sure of her ability to fool him—he seemed suspicious already.
He’d come to the end of his straightforward explanation and was waiting for her reply. “What’s in a merger for you?” she asked.
Jack’s feelings for the stripling became even more confused as grudging respect and exasperation were added to the list. He hadn’t entered the clearing with any real plan; the idea of a merger had leapt ready-formed to his mind, more in response to a need to accommodate the lad than anything else. His explanation of the benefits to them had been easy enough, but what possible benefits were there to him? Other than the truth?
Jack looked directly at the slim figure, still wreathed in shadows before him. “While you’re operating independently, the agents can use you as competition to force us to accept whatever price they offer. Without competition, we’d be better off.” He stopped there, leaving the other way of reducing competition unvoiced. He was sure the lad would get the message.
Kit did, but she was not convinced she understood the full ramifications of a merger, nor that she ever would, not while Captain Jack stood before her. “I’ll need time to consider your offer.”
Jack smiled at the formal phrasing. He nodded. “Naturally. Shall we say twenty-four hours?”
His smile was every bit as unnerving as his frown. In fact, Kit decided, she preferred his frown. She only just managed to stop her bewildered nod. “Three days,” she countered. “I’ll need three days.” Kit glanced around at the faces of her men. “If the rest of you want to join them now…”
Noah shook his head. “No, lad. You rescued us, you took us on. Decision’s yours, I’m thinking.” A murmur of agreement came from the rest of the group.
Jack’s look of surprise was fleeting, wiped from his face by the lad’s next words.
Kit spoke to Noah. “I’ll be in touch.” Inside, she was feeling most peculiar. Decidedly fluttery and weak at the knees. She had to get out of this, and soon, before she did something too feminine to overlook. Steeling herself, she faced Captain Jack and inclined her head regally. “I’ll meet you here, seventy-two hours from now, and give you our answer.”
With that, Kit walked off toward Delia, praying their unexpected and unnerving guests would accept their dismissal.
Her unconscious arrogance left Jack reeling again. He recovered his equilibrium in time to see the slim figure swing up to the saddle of the black. The horse was pure Arab, not a doubt about it, and a mare as he’d supposed. Jack’s eyes narrowed. Surely there’d been too much swing in the lad’s swagger? When on a horse, it was difficult to judge, yet the boy’s legs seemed uncommonly long for his height and more tapered than they ought to be.
With no more than a nod for his men, the lad headed the mare out of the clearing. Jack stared at the black-garbed figure until it merged into the night, leaving him with a headache and, infinitely worse, no proof of the conviction of his senses.
Chapter 7
By the time they reached the cottage that night, Jack didn’t know what he thought of Young Kit. They’d learned the lad’s name from the smugglers, but it was clear the men knew little else of their leader. They were sensible, solid fishermen, forced into the trade. It seemed unlikely such men, many fathers themselves, rigidly conservative as only the ignorant could be, would give loyalty and unquestioning obedience to Young Kit if he was other than he pretended to be.
Leaving Matthew to see to the horses, Jack strode into the cottage. George followed. Halting by the table, Jack unbuckled his sword belt and scabbard. Turning, he went to the wardrobe, opened it, and thrust the scabbard to the very back, then shut the door firmly. “That’s the end of that little conceit.” Hinging himself into a chair, Jack rested both elbows on the table and ran his hands over his face. “God! I might have killed the whelp.”
“Or he might have killed you.” George slumped into another chair. “He seemed to know what he was about.”
Jack waved dismissively. “He’s been taught well enough, but he’d no strength to him.”
George chuckled. “We can’t all be six-foot-two and strong enough to run up cathedral belltowers with a wench under each arm.”
Jack snorted at the reminder of one of his more outrageous exploits.
When he remained silent, George ventured, “What made you think of a merger? I thought we were just there to spy out the opposition.”
“The opposition proved devilishly well organized. If it hadn’t been for Champion, we wouldn’t have found them. There didn’t seem much point in walking away again. And I’ve no taste for killing wet-behind-the-ear whelps.”
A short silence descended. Jack’s gaze remained fixed in space. “Who do you think he is?”
“Young Kit?” George blinked sleepily. “One of our neighbors’ sons, I should think. Where else the horse?”
Jack nodded. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t know of any such whelp hereabouts. Morgan’s sons are too old—they’d be nearer thirty, surely? And Henry Fair-clough’s boys are too young. Kit must be about sixteen.”
George frowned. “I can’t recall anyone that fits, either. But perhaps he’s a nephew come to spend time on the family acres? Who knows?” He shrugged. “Could be anyone.”
“Can’t be just anyone. Young Kit knows this district like the back of his hand. Think of the chase he led us, the way he rode across those fields. He knew every fence, every tree. And according to Noah, Kit was the one who knew about the quarries.”
George yawned. “Well, we knew about the quarries, too. We just hadn’t thought of using them.”
Jack looked disgusted. “Lack of sleep has addled your wits. That’s precisely what I mean. We k
now the area because we grew up here. Kit’s grown up here, too. Which means he should be easy enough to track down.”
“And then what?” mumbled George, around another yawn.
“And then,” Jack replied, getting to his feet and hauling George to his, “we’ll have to decide what to do with the whelp. Because if he is someone’s son, the chances are he’ll recognize me, if not both of us.” Propelling George to the door, he added: “And we can’t trust Young Kit with that information.”
What with seeing the somnolent George on his way before riding home with Matthew and stabling Champion, it was close to dawn before Jack finally lay between cool sheets and stared at the shadow patterns on his ceiling.
Neither George nor Matthew had found anything especially odd about Young Kit. Questioned on the way home, Matthew’s estimation had mirrored George’s. Kit was the son of a neighboring landowner, sire unknown. There was, of course, the possibility that Kit was an illegitimate sprig of some local lordly tree. The horse might have been a gift, in light of the boy’s equestrian abilities, or alternatively, might be “borrowed” from his sire’s stables. Whatever, the horse provided the best clue to Young Kit’s identity.
Jack sighed deeply and closed his eyes. Kit’s identity was only one of his problems and certainly the easier to solve. His odd reaction to the boy was a worry. Why had it happened? It had been decades since any sight had affected him so dramatically. But, for whatever incomprehensible reason, the slim, black-garbed figure of Young Kit had acted as a powerful aphrodisiac, sending his body into a state of immediate readiness. He’d been as horny as Champion on the trail of the black mare!
With a snort, Jack turned and burrowed his stubbled cheek into the pillow. He tried to blot the entire business from his mind. When that didn’t work, he searched for some explanation, however insubstantial, for the episode. If he could find a reason, hopefully that would be the end of it. There was a strong possibility that it might prove necessary to include Young Kit in the Gang. The idea of having the young whelp continuously about, wreaking havoc with his manly reactions, was simply too hideous to contemplate.
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