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 rudder 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.
Jack kept his distance. He’d brought Kit along, unwilling to risk leaving her beyond his reach. Forcing his gaze from the slim figure with the old tricorne jammed over her curls, he focused on their destination, a black shape on the horizon, growing larger with every crest they passed. Via Matthew, he’d already started rumors of Young Kit’s difficulties in continuing as part of the Gang. The stories revolved about Kit’s grandfather, unidentified, kicking up a fuss at his grandson’s frequent nocturnal absences.
Young Kit’s retirement could not come soon enough. Jack gritted his teeth as memories of their last evening at the Blackbird replayed in his mind. Kit had sat beside him in her usual place. But instead of keeping her distance as she’d done in the past, she’d shuffled closer, far closer than had been detectable from the other side of the table. The insistent pressure of her thigh against his had been bad enough. He’d nearly choked when he’d felt her hand on his thigh, tapered fingers stroking down the long muscle.
Luckily, she’d stopped when the agent appeared, else he’d never have had the wits to negotiate. In fact, he doubted he’d have had the strength to resist paying her back in her own coin which, given the predilection of females for forgetting where they were and what they were doing at such times, would probably have landed them in an unholy and potentially fatal mess.
After that, he’d kept Matthew with him, a fact that had his henchman puzzled. But he’d rather face a puzzled Matthew than a female determined to bring him low in typical female fashion. She might call him a coward—as she had last night when Matthew had dutifully followed them into the cottage after the meeting at the barn—but she didn’t know what type of explosive she was playing with. She’d find out soon enough. Salacious imaginings of exactly how he’d exact his retribution filled his sleepless nights.
The yacht overtook three slower, square-rigged luggers, the rest of the Hunstanton Gang’s fleet, then slewed sharply to come alongside the hull of the Dutch brigantine. Matthew stood in the prow, a coiled rope in his hands. The other two crewmen brought down the sails. As the waves drifted the hulls closer, Matthew threw the rope to waiting hands. Within minutes, they were secured against the Dutchman’s side.
Jack turned to the helmsman. “Lash the wheel and let the boy watch it.” The man obeyed; Jack turned to see Kit already on her way midships. He grinned. Bales of cloth were not packets of lace.
They unloaded the cargo smoothly, lowering the bales on sets of ropes over the brig’s side, directly into the hold of the yacht.
Her hands on the fixed wheel, Kit watched, her heart leaping when one bale swung crazily toward her, threatening to slip free of its lashings. Jack jumped onto the cabin roof directly between the wheel and the hold and steadied the large roll, reaching high with both hands and leaning his entire weight into it to counter its swing. Relief swept Kit when the bale settled; it was lowered without further drama.
The Dutch ship had been carrying a full load; at the end, each of the four smugglers’ boats was fully laden, even carrying bales on deck, lashed to the railings. The entire process was accomplished in total silence. Sound traveled too well on water.
The men worked steadily, stowing the bales. Kit’s mind drifted to the comment Jack had made the night before, when she’d been late for the meeting in the barn. She’d slipped unobtrusively around the door, but Jack had seen her instantly. He’d smiled and asked if she’d had trouble with her grandfather. She’d had no idea what he’d meant but had scowled and nodded, and then been astounded by the laughing understanding that had colored many of the men’s faces. Later, she’d learned enough to guess that Jack had started paving her way out of the Gang. Clearly, he’d meant what he’d said about one month being more than long enough.
She’d gone on being Young Kit under duress; now, she was reluctant to part with her alias, her passport to excitement.
And you haven’t had him at your feet yet, have you?
Kit eyed Jack’s broad shoulders, presently directly in front of her, and fantasized about the muscles beneath his rough shirt. Before she broke with him, she was determined to convert at least some of her fantasies to reality. Thus far, the only response her tricks had brought was a general stiffening of his muscles, a clenching of his jaw. She was determined to get more than that.
A low whistle signaled that they were done. Ropes were released; the smaller boats poled off from the brig’s hull, drifting until they were out of the larger ship’s wind shadow before hoisting their sails.
Relieved of her watch by the wheel, which had been every bit as useless as her lookout duty but infinitely more exciting, Kit strolled down the deck, heading for the bow. She’d cleared the cabin housing when the yacht passed the brig’s prow and the wind caught its sails. The yacht leapt forward.
Kit screamed and just managed to stifle the sound. She was flung against the bale lashed to the railing. Her desperately groping fingers tangled in the lashings. Drawing a deep breath, she hauled herself upright.
Immediately she’d regained her feet, she heard an almighty crack, like a tree branch snapping.
“Kit! Duck!”
She reacted more to Jack’s tone than his words, but duck she did. The boom went sailing past, level with where her head had been split seconds before. Kit stared at the long pole swinging outward over the waves, a rope dangling behind it. She grabbed the rope.
Instantly, she realized her mistake. The sudden tug on her arms wa
s horrendous, and then she was being hauled in the wake of the boom, the wind filling the sail and causing the heavily laden yacht to list to starboard.
Kit’s eyes widened in fright. She looked over the railings at the black waves and remembered she couldn’t swim.
Her belly hit the bale. The next gust of wind would lift her from her feet, half over the rail. She was no expert seaman, but if she let go of the rope, the yacht looked set to capsize.
Hard hands locked about hers on the rope and hauled back. Kit added her weight to Jack’s and the boom swung back. But the wind retaliated, filling the sail once more. The jerk on the rope pulled Kit hard against the bale, her arms outstretched over the railing. Jack slammed into her back.
Kit forgot the boom, the wind, the sail; forgot the waves and the fact that she couldn’t swim; forgot everything but the awesome sensation of a very hard male body pressed forcibly against hers. She was jammed between the bale and Jack. She could feel the muscles in his chest shift against her as he struggled to haul in the boom. She could feel the muscles of his stomach brace into hard ridges as he used his weight to maintain their balance. She could feel the solid weight of his thighs pressed hard against her bruised bottom. On either side of her slender legs, she could feel the long columns of his legs like steel supports anchoring them to the deck, defying the wind’s shrieking fury. She could also feel the hard shaft of desire that nudged into the small of her back. The discovery held her riveted.
Uninterested, was he? Found her unattractive, did he? What sort of game was he playing?
“For God’s sake, woman! Lean back!”
Jack’s furious whisper recalled Kit to the urgency of the situation. She dutifully added her weight to his as he drew in the boom.
Behind her, Jack was facing a conundrum unlike any he’d ever experienced. Having Kit trapped against him was pure hell. He’d give anything to be able to push her aside but didn’t dare; he needed her additional weight to balance the wind in the sail. And he couldn’t relax the tension on the rope long enough to wrap it about the rail.
The yacht raced before the wind, tearing through the waves. The helmsman tacked so they were driven by the wind-filled sail and were no longer in danger of capsizing.
Matthew appeared at Jack’s shoulder, and shouted over the wind: “If you can hold it like that, we’ll be all right.”
Jack nodded and turned his head, intending to have Matthew replace Kit on the rope, but Matthew had already deserted him. He glared in disbelief at his henchman’s retreating back.
Quite where the idea sprang from, Kit wasn’t sure, but it suddenly occurred to her that Jack was every bit as trapped as she was. And, that being so, this was a perfect opportunity to further her aims in reasonable safety. She was screened from the other men by Jack’s bulk. He had his hands full of rope, and he could hardly do much when the beach was only five minutes away. With a view to determining the possibilities, Kit pressed back against him.
A sharply indrawn breath just above her left ear was the result.
Her action had given her a little more room to maneuver. She wriggled her bottom, slowly, and felt a ripple of tension pass through the muscles in his thighs. The shaft rising between them was like iron, a solid but living force. Moving slowly, keeping her weight braced against the rope, Kit rubbed her body, from shoulders to hips and beyond, side to side against the man behind her.
Jack bit back an oath. He clamped his teeth over his lower lip to stifle a groan of frustration. Damn the woman! What devil possessed her wild senses to make her choose this precise moment to give him a demonstration of her potential? He could feel every undulation of her slender form, every purring stroke. She moved like a cat, sinuously against him.
The wind tugged again, and they were jammed together once more. Jack closed his eyes and forced his mind to concentrate on keeping his grip on the rope. His grip on his mind was dissolving.
Slamming into the bale knocked the breath out of Kit. She waited, but Jack made no move to pull back. His breath wafted the curls above her left ear.
Jack was content to remain where they were. He’d no intention of giving her the leeway to continue her little game. He considered whispering a few carefully worded threats but couldn’t think of anything appropriate. He’d a nasty suspicion his voice would betray him if he tried to speak at all. He set his jaw and endured, cataloging every little move she made into his ledger of account against the time, almost a week distant, when payment would fall due. He’d every intention of making sure she paid. In full. With interest.
The sight of the beach was more welcome than the cliffs of Dover had ever been. Jack saw the helmsman wave. “Let go of the rope. Slowly.”
Kit did as she was told, wary of the wind-whipped sail. Jack held on until he was sure her hands were free, then he let go as well. The boom swung away, but the wheel was also swung; the yacht slewed and slowed as the wind emptied from the sail. The boom swung inboard.
Jack was watching it. He ducked, taking Kit to the deck with him. She sprawled full-length beside him.
A quick glance showed Jack that the helmsman was concentrating on his yacht while the other men, including Matthew, were busy securing the boom. The moment was too tempting to pass up.
Kit had seen the boom returning but had not been expecting Jack’s hands to close so abruptly on her shoulders. The deck was hard and uncomfortable, but it was doubtless better than a broken head. She saw the men struggling to tie the wretched boom back into position and placed her hands palm down on the deck. She braced herself to rise. Instead, she froze as a large hand splayed across her bottom.
Kit stopped breathing. The hand pressed gently, moving in a slow, circular motion, then its orientation shifted. Damp heat spread over her rear. Two long fingers slipped between her thighs.
With an audible gasp, Kit shot to her knees, but that only pressed her bottom more fully into that caressing hand, leaving her more open to those intimately probing fingers.
Too shocked to think, she leaned back on her haunches. The long fingers pressed deep. Kit leapt to her feet, her face flaming.
From behind came a mocking, very male laugh. “Later, sweetheart.”
Two hard hands set her aside, and Jack moved past to check the boom.
Kit escaped Jack’s dangerous presence as soon as she possibly could. Furious, nervous, and shaken, she bided her time until the difficult unloading operation began. Then she sought out Matthew. “I’ll go up on the cliff and keep watch.”
Matthew nodded. Unaided, Kit slipped over the side of the yacht, gently bobbing on the shallow swell, and waded to shore.
On board the yacht, Jack saw her in the surf. He swore and stepped to the rails, hands on hips. “Where the hell’s he going?”
Matthew was passing. “Young Kit?” When Jack nodded, he replied: “Lookout.”
Matthew moved on and so missed the devilish grin that broke across Jack’s face.
Was he supposed to understand she’d rather do lookout duty than stay in his vicinity? Jack felt laughter bubble up. Like hell! He’d felt her heat, even in those few minutes on the deck. She was as hot for him as he was for her, his little kitten. And soon, very soon, he was going to have her purring and arching like she’d never done before.
With an effort, Jack forced his mind back to the mundane but difficult task of unloading bales.
Kit waited only until she saw the first men leave. Then she pressed her heels to Delia’s sleek sides and headed home, her face still several shades too pink. She couldn’t stop dwelling on those few minutes on the deck. And on the promise in Jack’s final words.
Gone was any idea that he wasn’t attracted to her. Instead, her most pressing concern should doubtless be whether it wouldn’t be wise never to see him again.
To Kit’s consternation, her mind flatly refused to consider such an option.
At least now you know a little of what Amy meant.
Oh, God, Kit thought, that’s all I need. I can’t possibly
be in love with Jack. He’s a smuggler.
Memories of how she’d felt on the deck crowded her mind. Even now, the skin on her bottom felt feverish as she recalled the play of his hand. Her bruises throbbed. Her memory rolled relentlessly on, to the delicious thrill she’d experienced when his fingers had probed the soft flesh between her thighs. Kit blushed. As her memory replayed his words, her heart accelerated. What if he really meant it?
She considered the implications and swallowed.
What did he actually mean? Was he really intending to…?
Kit’s thighs tightened, and Delia’s stride lengthened alarmingly.
A mile behind Kit, Jack swung up into Champion’s saddle. The last of the men had left, the cargo cleared. He turned to Matthew. “I’m going for a ride. I’ll be in later.”
With that, he set Champion up the cliff track, onto Delia’s trail. Jack was very tired of his nocturnal rides, but he couldn’t have slept, even uneasily as he did, without knowing Kit was safely home. At least he only had less than a week to go before Young Kit left the Hunstanton Gang. When they met at night after that, if she left him at all, it would be at a safer hour—one much closer to dawn.
Afternoon sunlight turned the streaks in Jack’s hair to brightest gold as he sat, lounging elegantly, in the carved chair behind his desk. Huge and heavy, the desk was located before the library windows, its classic lines complementing the uncluttered bookshelves lining the walls.
Bright blue fractured light fell from Jack’s signet ring onto the pristine blotter as his long fingers toyed idly with an ivory letter opener. His attire proclaimed him the gentleman but as always held a hint of the military. No one, seeing him, would find it difficult to credit that this was Lord Hendon, of Castle Hendon, the High Commissioner for North Norfolk.
A distant frown inhabited the High Commissioner’s expressive eyes; his grey gaze was abstracted.
Before the desk, George wandered the room, glancing at the numerous sporting and military publications left lying on the side tables before stopping before the marble mantelpiece. A large gilt-framed mirror reflected the comforting image of a country squire’s son, soberly dressed, with rather less of the striking elegance that characterized Jack, a more easygoing nature discernable in George’s frank brown eyes and gentle smile.
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