Captain Jack's Woman

by Stephanie Laurens

  Consciousness trickled into Kit’s mind in dribs and drabs, a flash of memory, a tingle in her fingertips. Then her eyelids fluttered, and she was awake. And confused. She kept her eyes shut and tried to think. The memory of the wild chase on the beach, and Captain Jack riding her down—it must have been his body that had hit her—crystallized in her brain. That was all she could recall. Warily, she let her senses search out her surroundings, stiffening with apprehension at the incoming information. She was lying on a bed.

  From under her lashes, Kit surveyed what she could see of the room—rough walls and an old oak wardrobe. Beyond confirming the fact she was in someone’s bedroom, in someone’s bed, they told her little.

  But you can guess who that someone is, can’t you? And now you’re in his bed.

  Don’t be silly, Kit lectured her wilder self.I’m still dressed, aren’t I? On the thought, the looseness of her bands registered. Kit sat up with a gasp.

  The bands immediately slipped lower, freeing her breasts. Her head swam. With a weak, “Oh,” Kit fell back on her elbows, closing her eyes against the pain in the back of her head. When she opened them, she saw Captain Jack watching her from across the room. He was lounging in a chair on the other side of a table, a look of aggravation on his handsome face.

  For the life of him, Jack couldn’t tear his gaze from the proof of Kit’s womanhood, thrust provocatively against the fine cotton of her shirt. The front was pulled taut by her reclining position, revealing the rich swells beneath tipped by the tight buds of her nipples. When she just lay there and stared at him, Jack felt his temper stir. Hell and the devil! Was she doing it on purpose?

  Kit raised a hand to her head, stifling a groan. “What happened?”

  The shirt eased, and Jack could breathe again. “You hit your head on a rock buried in the sand.”

  Kit sat up and gingerly felt her skull. She’d forgotten how velvety deep his voice was. Her fingers found a sizable lump on the back of her head. She winced and shot a frowning glance at her nemesis. “You could have killed me with that foolish stunt.”

  The accusation brought Jack upright, the legs of his chair crashing onto the floor. “Foolish stunt?” he echoed in disbelief. “What the hell do you call a woman masquerading as a boy and leading a gang of smugglers? Sensible?” Real anger at the risks she’d courted rose up. “What the hell do you think would have happened after your first slip? Do you swim well with rocks tied to your feet?”

  Kit winced. “Don’t bellow.” She dropped her head into her hands. She didn’t feel all that well. Coping with Captain Jack at any time would have proved problematical, but right now, feeling as woozy as she did, this was shaping up to be a disastrous encounter. And he was already annoyed, though what he had to be annoyed about she couldn’t imagine. She was the one with the lump on her head. “Where are we?”

  “Where we won’t be interrupted. I want some answers to one or two questions—understandable in the circumstances, don’t you think? We can start with the obvious—what’s your name?”

  “Kit.” Kit grinned into her hands. Let him make what he liked of that.

  “Catherine, Christine, or what?”

  Kit frowned. “You don’t need to know.”

  “True. Where do you live?”

  Kit reserved her answer to that one. Her head ached. A quick reconnoiter yielded the information that they were in a small cottage, alone. The fact that the door led directly outside was reassuring.

  Frowning, Jack stared at the glossy curls crowning Kit’s bent head. In the lamplight, they glowed a rich coppery red. In sunlight, he suspected they’d be redder and brighter still. The color tugged at his memory, an elusive recognition that refused to materialize. When she pulled her knees up, the better to support her hands which in turn were supporting her head, Jack grimaced. He supposed he should give her some brandy, but he didn’t really want to get closer. The table was a protective barricade and he was loath to leave its shelter. At least he was wearing his “poor country squire” togs; the loosely fitting breeches gave him some protection. In his military togs, or, heaven forbid, his town rig, she’d know immediately just how much she was affecting him. It was bad enough that he knew.

  Her head was still down. With an exasperated sigh, Jack reached for the bottle. Rising, he fetched a clean glass and half filled it with the best French brandy to be found in England. Glass in hand, he approached the bed.

  She’d glanced up at the sound of his chair on the boards. Now, she raised her head, to look first at the glass, then into his face.

  Memory returned with a thump. Jack stopped and blinked. Then he looked again and suspicion was confirmed. “Kit,” he repeated. “Kit Cranmer?” He allowed one brow to rise in mocking question. Her eyes staring up at him, liquid amethyst, were all the answer he needed.

  Kit swallowed, barely aware of his words. Heavens—it was worse than she’d thought! He was perfectly gorgeous—mind-numbingly, toe-curlingly gorgeous—with his wild mane of hair, wind-tousled brown streaked with gold. His brow was wide, his nose patrician and autocratic, his chin decidedly square. But it was his eyes that held her; set deep under slanted brows, they gleamed silver-grey in the lamplight. And his lips—long and rather thin, firm and mobile. How would they feel…

  Kit clamped off the thought. Parched, she reached for the proffered glass. Her fingers brushed his. Ignoring the peculiar thrill that twisted through her, and suppressing the panic that swam in its wake, Kit sipped the brandy, very aware of the man beside her. He’d stopped by the side of the bed, towering over her. Entranced by his face, she’d spared no more than a glance for the rest of him. How did he measure up? She leaned back on her elbows the better to bring him into view.

  Her shirt drew taut.

  Beside the bed, Jack stiffened. Kit shifted to stare up at him. She saw his jaw clench, saw the planes of his face harden. Then she noticed his gaze was not on her face. She followed its direction, and saw what was holding him transfixed. Smoothly, she sat up, taking another sip of brandy, telling herself it was just the same as when London rakes had sized her up. There was no need to blush or act like a missish schoolgirl. Another sip of brandy steadied her. She hadn’t answered his question. Perhaps it would be wise to do so. Trying to hide her paternity was hopeless; the Cranmer coloring was known the length and breadth of Norfolk.

  “Now you know who I am, who are you?” she said.

  Jack shook his head to clear his befogged senses. Christ! It’d been too long. His mission was in grave danger. With some vague idea of safety, he walked to where a chair stood against the wall and, swinging it about, sat astride, resting his arms on its back, facing her. He ignored her question; at least she hadn’t recognized him.

  “I doubt that you’re Spencer’s.” He watched her closely but could detect no reaction. Not the current Lord Cranmer’s child, then. “He had three sons, but if memory serves, the elder two don’t have the family coloring. Only the youngest had that. Christopher Cranmer, the wildest of the bunch.” Jack’s memory lurched again. His lips twisted wryly. “Also known as Kit Cranmer, as I recall.” A lifting of the corners of Kit’s lips suggested he’d hit the target. “So you’re Christopher Cranmer’s daughter.”

  Kit allowed her brows to rise. Then she shrugged and nodded. Who was he, to have such detailed recollections of her family? At the very least, he was a local, yet she’d never seen him before yesterday. From under her lashes, she glanced at the broad shoulders and wide biceps, bulging as he leaned forward on his forearms. There was no padding in the simple jacket—those bulges were all perfectly real. Powerful thighs stretched his plain breeches. Seated as he was, she couldn’t see much beyond that, but anyone who rode as he did had to be strong. The lamplight didn’t illuminate his face, but she supposed him in his thirties. There was no chance she would have forgotten such a specimen.

  “Who was your mother?”

  The question, uttered in an amiable but commanding tone, jerked Kit’s mind back from whence it ha
d wandered. For a full minute, she stared uncomprehendingly. Then the implication of Jack’s question struck her. Her eyes kindled; she drew breath to wither him. Belatedly, her wilder self tumbled out of its daze and scrambled to clamp the lid on her temper.

  Hang on a minute—stop, cease, desist, stow it, you fool! You need an identity, remember? He’s just handed you one. So what if he thinks you’re illegitimate? Better that than the truth—which he wouldn’t believe anyway.

  Kit’s eyes glazed. She blushed and looked down.

  The odd expressions that passed over Kit’s face in rapid succession left Jack bewildered. But the blush he understood immediately. “Sorry,” he said. “An unnecessarily prying question.”

  Kit looked up, amazed. He was apologizing?

  “Where do you live?” Jack remembered her mare. The stubborn pride of the present Lord Cranmer was as well-known as his family’s coloring. Jack hazarded a guess. “With your grandfather?”

  Slowly, Kit nodded. Her mind was racing. If she was her father’s illegimate daughter, nothing would be more likely. Her father had been Spencer’s favorite. Her grandfather would naturally assume responsiblity for any bastards his son had left behind. But she had to tread warily—Captain Jack knew far too much about the local families to allow her to invent freely. Luckily, he obviously didn’t know Spencer’s legitimate granddaughter had returned from London.

  “I live at the Hall.” One of her cousin Geoffrey’s maxims on lying replayed in her head. Stick to the truth as far as possible.“I grew up there, but when my grandmother died they sent me away.” If Jack was a local, he’d wonder why he’d never seen her about.

  “Away?” Jack look interested.

  Kit took another sip of brandy, grateful for the warmth unfurling in her belly. It seemed to be easing her head. “I was sent to London to live with the curate from Holme when he moved to Chiswick.” Kit grabbed at the memory of the young curate—the image fitted perfectly. “I didn’t really like the capital. When the curate was promoted, I came back.” Kit prayed Jack didn’t know the curate from Holme personally; she’d no idea if he’d been promoted or not.

  Neither did Jack. Kit’s tale made sense, even accounting for her cultured speech and sophisticated gestures. If she’d been brought up at Cranmer under her grandmother’s eye, then spent time in London, even with a boring curate, she’d be every bit as confident and at ease with him as she was proving to be. No simple country miss, this one. Her story was believable. Her attitude suggested she knew as much. Jack’s eyes narrowed. “So you live at the Hall and Spencer openly acknowledges you?”

  Now that, my fine gentleman, is a trick question. Kit waved airily. “Oh, I’ve always lived quietly. I was trained to look after the house, so that’s what I do.” She smiled at her inquisitor, knowing she’d passed the test. Not even Spencer would raise a bastard granddaughter on a par with the trueborn.

  Grimly, Jack acknowledged that smile. She was certainly quick, but he could do without her smiles. They infused her face with a radiance painters had wasted lifetimes trying to capture. Whoever her mother had been, she must have been uncommonly beautiful to give rise to a daughter to rival Aphrodite.

  “So by day, Spencer’s housekeeper; by night, Young Kit, leader of a smuggling gang. How long have you been in the trade?”

  “Only a few weeks.” Kit wished he’d stop scowling at her. He’d smiled at her once at the quarries. She’d a mind to witness the phenomenon in the stronger lamplight, but Jack didn’t seem at all likely to oblige. She smiled at him. He scowled back.

  “How the devil have you survived? You cover your face, there’s padding in your coat—but what happens if one of the men touches you?”

  “They don’t—they haven’t.” Kit hoped her blush didn’t show. “They just think I’m a well-born stripling, not built on their scale.”

  Jack snorted, his gaze never leaving her face. Then his eyes narrowed. “Where did you learn to swagger—and all the rest of it? It’s not that easy to pass as a male. You’ve not trod the boards, have you?”

  Kit met his gaze—and chose her words with care. She could hardly lay claim to her cousins, much less their influence. “I’ve had opportunity aplenty to study men and how they move.” She smiled condescendingly. “I’m more than passing familiar with the male of the species.”

  Jack’s brows rose; after a moment, he asked: “How long did you intend playing the smuggler?”

  Kit shrugged. “Who knows? And now that you’ve found me out, we’ll never learn, will we?” Her smile turned brittle. Young Kit’s short career was at an end—the excitement and thrills were no longer to be hers.

  Jack’s brows rose higher. “You plan to retire?”

  Kit stared at him. “Aren’t you…” She blinked. “Do you mean you won’t give me away?”

  Jack’s scowl returned. “Not won’t—can’t.” He’d never thought of himself as conservative—Jonathon was his conservative side and at the moment he was definitely Jack—but the thought of Kit trooping about in breeches before a horde of seamen, laying herself open to discovery and God only knew what consequences, awoke in him feelings of sheer protectiveness. Outwardly, he frowned. Inwardly, he seethed and swore. He’d known she’d be trouble; now, he knew what sort.

  He stifled a groan. Kit was looking at him, uncertainty plainly writ in her fine features. He drew a deep breath. “Until your men are safely accepted as part of the Hunstanton Gang, Young Kit will have to continue a smuggler.”

  Kit heard but was barely listening. She knew she wasn’t an antidote; if she’d wanted it, she could have had men at her feet the entire time she’d been in London. Yet Captain Jack, whoever he was, wasn’t responding to her in the customary way. He was still scowling. Deliberately, she lay back on her elbows and surveyed him boldly. “Why?”

  The sudden stiffness that suffused his large frame was unnerving to say the least. Deliciously unnerving. Kit moved her shoulders slightly, settling her elbows more firmly, and felt her shirt shift over her nipples. She looked up to see how Jack was taking the display, ready to smile condescendingly at his confusion. Instead, she froze, transfixed by an overwhelming sense of danger.

  His eyes were silver, not grey, clear and sparkling, like polished steel. And they weren’t looking at her face. As she watched, a muscle flickered along his jaw. Suddenly, Kit understood. He wasn’t responding because he didn’t wish to, not because she wasn’t affecting him. Only his control stood between her and what he would do—would like to do. Abruptly, Kit rolled to the side, on one hip, ostensibly to take a sip of brandy.

  Shaken, Jack drew a deep breath, grimly wondering if the silly minx knew how close she’d come to being rolled in the bed she was lolling so provocatively upon. Another second, and he’d have given in to the urge to stand up, set the chair aside, and fall on her like the sex-starved hellion he was.

  Luckily, she’d drawn back. Later, he fully intended to pursue a more intimate relationship with her, but at the moment, business came first. What had she asked? He remembered. “I want to make one gang out of two. If I expose you, your men will be a laughingstock, which won’t help me in my aims. If you suddenly disappear, your men will think I’ve done away with you—scared you off at the very least. They’ll probably decide not to join us so there will still be two gangs operating along this coast.”

  Kit frowned and looked down into the amber fluid swirling in her glass. He was suggesting she remain a boy—her true sex known only to him and herself—for an indefinite time. She wasn’t sure she could keep up the pretense for a day. It was all very well to prance about in breeches when everyone watching thought you were male; she suspected it would be quite a different matter when one watcher, this particular watcher, knew the truth. Besides, she didn’t really want to play the boy with Jack. Determinedly, Kit shook her head. “If I explain it to them—”

  “They’ll think I’ve scared you off.”

  Kit glared and sat up. “Not if I tell them—”

 
; “Regardless of what you tell them.”

  The finality in his deep tones was not encouraging. But his scheme was the epitome of madness. “You said yourself it was a foolish thing to do. What if they, and the rest of your gang, discover the truth?”

  “They won’t. Not while I’m there to make sure of it.”

  His convinction sounded unshakable. How illogical, Kit thought, to be arguing for an outcome she didn’t really desire. Yet the more she considered his scheme, the more dangerous it seemed. Luckily, she had herself well in hand. He was offering just the sort of excitement that appealed to her wilder self. She narrowed her eyes and chose her words carefully. “How do I know you won’t give me away?”

  Jack’s eyes glittered. She was getting very close to the bone. What did she think he was—an overreactive schoolboy? Coolly, deliberately, he let his gaze wander, lingering on her breasts—not visible anymore, but he knew they were there—before drifting downward for a leisurely perusal of her long legs.

  Kit blushed. And pounced the instant before he did. “Like that!” It hadn’t been what she’d meant, but it would prove her point.

  Jack blinked, then flushed with annoyance. He scowled ferociously. “I won’t! What would I have to gain from giving you away?” His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “I can assure you I’ll behave exactly as if you were the lad they all think you are.” He didn’t consider it wise to tell her what it was more likely the men would think if they realized he was overly interested in Young Kit. “I can’t, of course, answer for your reactions.”

  Kit’s temper ignited. Of all the insufferable, conceited louts she’d ever faced, Jack took the cake. Presumably he knew he was gorgeous. Doubtless scores of women had told him so. Hell would freeze before he heard those words from her! Kit tilted her nose in the air. “What reactions?”

  Jack hooted with laughter. Abruptly, he stood and flung the chair aside. All thought of his mission, of sense and safety, fled at her challenge. No reactions to him? He advanced on the bed.