Captain Jack's Woman

by Stephanie Laurens

  Desire drumming heavy in his veins, Jack released her breast. His lips returned to hers while his fingers sought her waistband.

  Relief flooded Kit. Jack seemed content to nibble tantalizingly at her lips, allowing her mind to struggle free of the drugging effect of his kisses. She tried to ignore the peculiar hot ache deep within her, called to life by his passion, quietly building even though his own ardor seemed to have abated. Thank goodness he’d stopped! Her sense of right and wrong was hopelessly compromised.

  What had Amy said? The kiss had come first—Jack had certainly cleared that hurdle. She’d willingly prop up the tree for the rest of the night if he’d only continue kissing her as before, deep, hot, and searing. What happened next? Her breasts—Amy had been right about that, too. Jack’s hands on her breasts had been a purely sensual experience; she now understood that hitherto inexplicable female tendency to allow men to fondle their breasts. Kit shuddered at the memory of Jack’s mouth on her nipple. Desperate to remember the next stage in Amy’s scheme of loving, she pushed aside the recollection. What came next?

  Whatever it was, Kit doubted she should wait to see if Jack would attempt it. Even her wilder self agreed it was time to take her newfound knowledge and run. In between savoring the heady taste of her teacher, warm, male, and aroused, she fought to regain some degree of control, some power to act. Jack had already gone too far, but at least he’d ceased his scandalously bold caresses. He’d drawn her into deep waters; it was time to retreat to safer shores.

  With an effort, Kit gathered her wits and drew her lips from Jack’s light, lingering kiss. He let her go without complaint, his head immediately dipping to her breast, tracing a path of fire to one burgeoning nipple.

  Kit shook her head; words of firm denial formed on her lips.

  They exploded in a long-drawn, half-sighed “Ja-ack!” of protest as she felt his palm flatten possessively over her naked stomach.

  Kit’s eyes flew wide. While she’d been gathering her wits, he’d been opening her breeches! Jack suckled on one nipple, and her fingers clenched in his hair, holding his head to her breast as her hips tilted into his shockingly intimate touch.

  And then things got worse.

  His long fingers slipped into the silky curls between her thighs.

  Kit moaned and struggled to find the strength to break free of the conflagration of her senses. He was igniting it, and she couldn’t stop the flames. She didn’t even want to anymore.

  But she had to make him stop.

  His fingers parted her soft flesh and pressed gently.

  Kit forgot about stopping. Pleasure streaked through her, sharp and tangible. His fingers set up a deliberate circular motion, first one way, then the other. His lips pulled hard on her nipple and a bolt of white-hot desire shot from her breast to the point where his fingers pulsed flame through her flesh.

  His name was on her lips, a soft sigh he didn’t mistake. Kit felt the low rumble of his satisfaction. Then his lips returned to hers. It never entered her head to deny him—she welcomed him, lips parting to receive him. She felt his weight as he pressed against her, the hard muscles of his chest comforting her aching breasts.

  The material of her breeches strained across her hips as his hand pressed between her thighs. Mindlessly, she parted them further, wordlessly inviting the intimate contact. When one long finger slid slowly into her, she shuddered. Amy’s words blossomed in her brain. Hot and wet. Kit knew then. She was hot and wet. Hot and wet for Jack.

  Her every sense was centered on his finger, on his slow, inexorable invasion. Kit felt molten, her nerves liquefied. Heat beat in steady pulses through her. She tried to break free of his kiss, to draw breath, but he wouldn’t allow it. Instead, his tongue set up a slow, repetitive dance of thrust and retreat. Inside her, his finger picked up the rhythm.

  Beyond thought, beyond any sense of shame, Kit responded to the building beat, her body twisting and lifting in his intimate embrace, opening to his deepening caress.

  Having made certain of his victory, Jack turned his mind to its accomplishment. And hit a snag. Several snags.

  Three seconds of rational thought were sufficient to make clear the enormity of his problems. The ground about them was uneven and strewn with flints—an impossible proposition, even if they had a blanket, which they didn’t. He didn’t know what sort of tree they were under, but its bark was thick, rough, and sharp. If he took her against it, it would shred her soft skin. But the truly insurmountable difficulty he faced was her breeches. Tight-fitting inexpressibles, they clung to her skin as if she’d been poured into them. He was well accustomed to getting himself out of such attire—they peeled off his form readily enough. They didn’t peel off Kit at all. He’d opened the flap to caress her. Now he needed far greater access, but try as he might, no amount of tugging seemed to shift them from her curvaceous hips.

  Jack moaned deep in his throat and slanted his mouth over Kit’s, deepening the kiss in an effort to deny the truth. Dammit! She was so hot—hot and ready for him. His finger slid effortlessly along her heated channel, slick with the evidence of her arousal. The urge to scorch himself in that slippery heat was overwhelming.

  He was too well acquainted with the female body to miss her increasing tension. He didn’t have time to stop and get her to assist; he couldn’t afford to let her cool. He’d pushed her well along the route to fulfillment—impossible to draw back now.

  Frustrated beyond measure, pulled by an urgency outside his control, Jack released his manhood. It sprang free, erect, engorged. He withdrew his hand from between Kit’s thighs, ignoring her helpless moan. With a yank, he gained as much leeway as her tight breeches would allow. It wasn’t enough.

  With an anguished groan, Jack slipped his throbbing staff into the furnace between her silken thighs. If that was to be the only piece of heaven offered him that night, he was in too great a need to scorn it.

  Kit groaned into his mouth. She had no doubt what the pressure that had replaced his hand was. But she didn’t care. No—she did care—she wanted it there. Even more—she wanted him inside her. He drew back and thrust into the soft hollow between her thighs. In their curious, fully upright position, he could not penetrate her, yet she felt the swollen head of his staff nudge her soft center. Instinctively, she clamped tight about his hard smoothness, dragging her lips free to draw a shuddering breath.

  Jack’s head was bowed, his temple pressed to her curls, his breathing harsh in her ear. Kit felt him withdraw. She moaned her disapproval and tilted her hips, trying to draw him back. To her relief, he returned, his hips thrusting, the rigid column of his manhood parting her slick, swollen flesh and nudging deeper, the sudden friction sending shafts of pure delight coursing through her. With his next thrust, a furnace opened deep. Kit’s hands clenched in Jack’s hair; her body strained against his.

  Then it happened.

  Ripples of tension gripped her, surrounding and compressing her heat until it exploded, sending molten waves of sensation surging along every vein. Indescribable excitement gripped her, and her soul burned, consuming her overloaded senses. Caught on the crest of their passion, abandoned to feeling, she clung to Jack, his name soundless on her lips.

  The flames fell and spread their heat through her flesh. Kit tilted her hips, instinctively seeking his fulfillment as part of hers.

  Equally instinctively, Jack took the extra inch she offered him to penetrate more deeply into her slick heat. He gasped as the scalding softness of her swollen flesh engulfed him. Yet the ultimate caress of her body remained beyond his reach. His muscles quivered as frustration fleetingly impinged on rampant desire. His chest labored as he struggled for control. The hot honey of her passion poured over him; the faint, pulsing ripples of her release caressed him. Jack forgot about control. He withdrew and thrust again, over and over. The wave of his release hit him, crashing him into pleasured oblivion.

  He’d missed seeing her eyes when she’d climaxed.

  Jack’s first t
hought on recovering from his exertions seemed perfectly rational. Next time, he’d make sure he satisfied his curiosity. Right now, he was too pleased with himself to allow any quibbles to dim his mood. Despite the limitations, the experience had been one to remember.

  He glanced down at Kit. The aftershocks of her remarkable climax had died, but she was still dazed. Aware of the etiquette demanded of such intimate moments, even in such extraordinary circumstances, Jack carefully withdrew from the soft hollow between her thighs.

  Kit’s consciousness made contact with reality as Jack settled her coat lapels in place. She stiffened, her eyes blinking wide. Had she dreamed it?

  One glance at Jack’s face dispelled that faint hope. His lips looked as if they couldn’t stop smiling. Smugly. Kit felt faint. Her clothes were back in place, fastened, all except her bands, which he’d left about her waist.

  She tried to ignore the dampness between her thighs.

  Luckily, Jack took charge—without being asked, naturally. He settled her on Delia and then they were heading westward once more, at a walk.

  The walls of Cranmer Hall were taking shape on the horizon before Kit came to grips with what had happened. She and Jack had been intimate. The thought sent her mind into a dizzying panic, only slightly ameliorated by the startling conclusion that, despite all, she was still a virgin. He hadn’t breached her, of that she was certain. Years before, her grandmother had instructed her in the bald facts of wifely duty; Kit had felt no pain or discomfort—not the slightest. Neither had she felt any awkwardness or shyness in letting Jack caress her as he had, shockingly intimate though that had been, nor of letting him push that thing of his between her thighs—not at the time. Now, she was positively sunk in guilt, wallowing in the outraged modesty she hadn’t felt while in his arms, kissed into complaisance. How could she have let it happen?

  Easily, came the languid reply. And you’d do it again, and more, if he wanted you.

  Kit smothered her groan and leaned her head back against Jack’s shoulder, too exhausted to deny her wilder self’s outrageous assertion. At least the comfort of her riding position had improved. Jack had untied her hands—afterward, damn him. There’d been moments under that tree when she’d have killed to have her hands free. Now they rested, crossed, on the pommel while Jack managed the reins. Her body fit snugly into his, the curve of her back settled into his midriff, his thighs on either side of hers, supporting her. The pressure in his loins had disappeared; she’d apparently been successful in taking care of that. There was nothing in their contact to cause alarm. She could fall asleep, if she wished.

  Delia plodded on.

  “Which way to the stables?”

  Jack’s quiet whisper brought Kit blinking awake. Familiar landmarks rose out of the dark. They were in a dip just behind the Hall. For a moment, she leaned against Jack’s chest, savoring the hard warmth, wishing irrationally that his arms would come around and hold her. At the thought, panic pushed her upright. “I take Delia in through the paddock. I have to jump the fence.”

  The figure behind her was still, then said, “All right. I’ll leave you here.”

  One hard hand closed on her waist. Kit stiffened, but Jack just needed her as balance as he swung down from the saddle. He handed her the reins. “Wait while I adjust the stirrups.”

  Shortening the straps so the stirrups sat once more in the groove they’d worn in the thick leather, Jack forced his mind to function—not an easy task in its present, slightly intoxicated state. If he was any judge of such experiences, what had happened beneath the tree should whet the appetite of a woman who was currently forced to a proscribed existence.

  Yet there was something in Kit’s response that warned him not to take her for granted. Her silence could simply be due to tiredness; her climax had been particularly strong. But there was more to it than that. Perhaps she was piqued he’d found her so easy to tame? Safely hidden by the dark, Jack grinned fleetingly. He had a premonition that she might be reluctant to yield more than she had already, not without a further concession from him. And at present he couldn’t offer her anything, not even his name.

  Whatever, two nights from now she would spend some time in his bed. And he’d stake his hard-won reputation that afterward, she wouldn’t walk away from him with her pert nose in the air.

  Jack straightened and pulled his wig from the saddle pocket. He stepped back. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Old Barn.”

  Excuses jostled on Kit’s tongue, but she swallowed them. Four weeks she’d agreed to—four weeks he’d get. With a curt nod, she wheeled Delia and put her over the fence.

  Cantering up the steep paddock to the stable, Kit resisted the temptation to look back. He’d be standing where she’d left him, hands on hips, watching her. She’d turn up tomorrow, and if they were doing a cargo, the night after that. But from then on, she’d give Captain Jack a wide berth. Distance was imperative. She knew the dangers now; there could be no excuse.

  When the dark cavern of the stable had swallowed Kit, Jack turned and headed north. The moon sailed free of its fettering clouds and lit his way. Miles ahead, Castle Hendon awaited its master, his bed fitted with silk sheets, cool and unwarmed. Jack’s lips quirked. He had an ambition to see Kit writhing in ecstasy on that bed, her curls a flaming aureole about her head, those other curls he’d touched but hadn’t seen, burning him. He’d counted the nights ever since he’d first touched her and known his senses weren’t playing him false. Now, she was damn near an obsession.

  As his swinging stride ate the miles, his mind remained on the woman who’d captured his senses. She’d never be just another mistress—those who’d come before her had never intrigued him as she did. From her, he wanted much more than mere physical gratification, despite that every time he set eyes on her he was driven by a primal urge to bury himself in her heat. The need to possess her went much further than that.

  He wanted to bring her to climax again and again. He wanted her cries of satisfaction to ring in his ears. He needed to know she was close and safe at all times.

  Jack frowned. He’d never felt like that about a woman before.

  Chapter 16

  The slap of the waves against the fishing boat’s hull was drowned by the roar of the surf. Thigh deep in the tide, Jack flexed his shoulders, then reached for the barrel Noah held out. With the keg balanced on his shoulder, he waded to the shore, to where the ponies were being loaded.

  Jack waited for the men lashing the barrels to the ponies’ saddles to take the heavy keg, then turned to survey his enterprise.

  They had the routine down pat. Even as he looked, the men in the emptied boats bent to the oars and the six hulls slipped back out through the surf, off to find any fish they could before heading home. The last kegs were being lashed in place, then the parcels of lace, stacked against a rock nearby, would be balanced on top and secured.

  As the lace was brought up, Jack let his gaze rise to the cliff overlooking the beach. He’d stationed Kit on the eastern point, but had no idea where she actually was. Doubtless the stubborn woman had made good her threat and moved farther west. She’d attended the meeting in the Old Barn the previous night, slipping in late to stand in the shadows at the back. Immediately after he’d finished detailing tonight’s run, she’d vanished.

  He hadn’t been surprised. But he’d be damned if he let her escape him tonight.

  Two miles to the west, Kit halted Delia. She’d gone far enough. Time to turn back if she was to meet Jack at the cliff top as ordered. But still she sat, staring, unseeing, westward.

  Her stomach was tied in knots. Her nerves wouldn’t settle, fluttering like butterflies every time Jack’s image hove on her mental horizon. His ideas for tonight, as far as she’d allow herself to imagine them, were pure madness, but what she could do to avoid them was more than she could fathom.

  She would have to see him, that much was plain. Was there any chance she could talk her way free of his “later”? His words on the ride back
from the ill-fated masquerade made it clear he’d read her teasing as encouragement. Kit grimaced. She simply hadn’t realized how much she affected him. Whatever his reasons for reticence, she’d fallen into the trap.

  With a tight little sigh, she plotted her course. She would have to explain. As a gently reared woman, she couldn’t—simply could not—consider the alternative.

  Light drizzle started to fall, misting Delia’s breath. Kit’s fingers were tightening on the reins to draw the mare about when she heard a jingle.

  Followed by another.

  Her senses pricked. The hairs on her nape rose. She’d heard that sound before. The heavier clink of a stirrup confirmed her deductions. An instant later she saw them, a whole troop, advancing at a steady canter.

  Kit didn’t wait to see more. She took the first path she found down to the sands and let Delia’s reins fall. Her cheeks stung by the flying black mane, she clung to the mare’s neck as the sand sped beneath the black hooves.

  Automatically checking the ropes holding the precious cargo in place, Jack passed down the pony train. He’d made sure Kit wouldn’t disappear like a wraith the instant the last pony gained the cliff top by the simple expedient of ordering her to meet him at the head of the path up from the beach—in the presence of half a dozen men. She wasn’t a fool. She wouldn’t risk the instant suspicion that failure to comply with such explicit orders would generate.

  He was nearing the end of the pony train, and the men at its head were already mounting, when the reverberation of flying hooves on firm-packed sand brought him instantly alert.

  Out of the night, a black horse materialized. Kit. Riding hard. From the west.

  By the time she was slowing, so as not to spook the ponies, Jack was already running to the head of the train, where Matthew waited, mounted, Champion’s reins in his hand. The big stallion was shifting, excited by the precipitous arrival of the mare, his huge hooves stamping the sand. Jack threw himself into the saddle as Kit pulled up before him, Delia pawing the air.