Captain Jack's Woman

by Stephanie Laurens

  Jack’s lips twitched. He shook his head. “Lie back, close your eyes, and start at the beginning.”

  Kit drew an unsteady breath and did as she was told. His voice had dropped to a husky growl. She commenced her story with her grandmother’s death and her removal from Cranmer Hall. She felt Jack shift and come up on one elbow beside her. As she reached London, she felt a tug loosen the first of the silk bows that held her nightgown closed.

  Her narrative faltered. Her lids flickered.

  “Keep your eyes shut. Go on.”

  Another unsteady breath was necessary before she could. Slowly, her story unfolded, kept moving by Jack’s rumbling prompts. Equally slowly, her nightgown was opened all the way down to her feet. She’d got to refusing her first suitor when she felt the bow on each shoulder give way. A second later, the two halves of her nightgown were lifted from her.

  Kit’s voice suspended. She was lying naked beside her husband.

  “What happened then?”

  “Ah…” It was an effort to collect her wits but, falteringly, she took up her tale. Jack’s fingertips touched her, tracing patterns over her skin. His lips followed the trails they’d laid, but his body, his limbs, never touched her. It was like being made love to by a ghost. Soon, her nipples were hard crests atop her swollen breasts. Her stomach was as tight as a drum. Her skin was a mass of sensitized nerves, flickering in anticipation of his next touch.

  Kit had no idea how coherent she was, but Jack seemed to follow her tale. His voice, deep and vibrating with passion, urged her on whenever she failed. But when his lips touched her navel and his fingers grazed her thighs, she gave up.

  Resisting the temptation to open her eyes, she replied to his “And?’ with a simple, “Jack, I can’t think, lying here like this.”

  “Turn over then.”

  She was halfway over before her mind focused. She hesitated, and would have turned back to ask why, but two large hands fastened about her hips and helped her onto her stomach. Resigned, Kit settled her cheek into her pillow, feeling the sensuous slide of silk and satin beneath her, the coolness soothing her aching breasts and that other ache buried in the soft fullness of her belly. Air played over the heated contours of her back. Jack still lay beside her, not touching her at all.

  Assuming that after her protest he’d remain that way, Kit took up her story. She made it to Belville’s offer before Jack’s palm made contact with her bottom. Moving in slow, sensuous circles, barely touching, his hand stroked her body to instant life.

  “Jack!” Kit’s eyes flew open. She tried to turn, but Jack leaned over her, his chest angled across her back.

  “What happened next?” His lips were at her nape.

  In a garbled rush, Kit babbled the tale of her eavesdropping, barely aware of what she said. Jack’s hand continued its gentle stroking, extending his area of attentions to the sensitive backs of her thighs. As she recounted her ultimate refusal of Belville’s offer, she felt Jack’s other hand slip beneath her to close possessively about one breast. Kit moaned softly. The hand on her bottom paused, poised on the fullest point in the curve. The fingers about her breast squeezed gently. Kit felt her body tense; her thighs parted slightly. Jack’s hand slipped between, nudging them farther apart. Kit’s tension wound tighter. A long finger slid effortlessly into her.

  “Oooh!” A delicious shudder wracked her as the soft, long-drawn moan left her lips. The finger probed deeply. Kit bit her lip to stifle the moans of surrender that welled in her throat. A second finger joined the first and she gasped.

  “Tell me again—what does Belville do?”

  What was left of Kit’s mind reeled. She told him, as quickly as she could, as completely as she could, her mind centered on his fingers, sliding easily in and out of her body, delving deep one minute, twirling about the next. She got to the end an instant before her vocal cords seized. “Jack!” His name was all she could manage in her need, her voice low and weak.

  He heard her. His fingers left her. To her surprise, Kit felt her hips being lifted and a pillow stuffed under her stomach. Jack’s weight pressed against her, then she felt the pressure build between her thighs.

  He came into her with a rush. Her mind disintegrated. She gasped, with shock. He held still for a few moments, allowing her to grow accustomed to this latest variation, to get used to the sensation of fullness and the deep penetration he’d achieved. Then he started to move.

  Kit soon caught the rhythm, riding his downward thrusts before twisting her hips upward to capture and hold him, before he drew back again. He rode her long, he rode her hard, each deep, controlled stroke sending her closer to ecstasy; she writhed beneath him, wordlessly begging for more. When the final all-consuming wave of passion caught them and flung them clear, exhausted, wrung out, and deliriously sated, Jack collapsed on top of her. His lips caressed her earlobe, before, chuckling, he lifted away and dropped to the bed beside her once more.

  “Kitten, if you were any wilder, I’d have to tie you up.”

  Moonlight patterned the floor of Kit’s bedroom when Jack woke from his sated slumber. He lay still, savoring the deep contentment of the moment, the warmth of the silken limbs entwined with his. Kit’s breath was a butterfly’s kiss on his collarbone. He resisted the temptation to tighten his arms about her.

  The long-case clock in the corridor struck eleven.

  Jack stifled a sigh and carefully disengaged from Kit’s embrace. He slipped from her warm bed and found his robe on the floor. Shrugging into it, he paused, looking down on his sleeping wife. Then, a smile on his lips, he turned toward his room.

  The instant the doohr to Jack’s room shut behind him, Kit opened her eyes. She blinked rapidly, then sat up, shivering when the cold found her naked shoulders. She dragged the coverlet to her chin and listened.

  The heavy tock of the clock was the only sound to reach her straining ears.

  Quickly, she slipped from the bed and made for her wardrobe. She’d need to hurry if she was to have any hope of following her husband to his rendezvous.

  Chapter 27

  The soft shush of the waves on Brancaster beach filled Jack’s ears. Leaning against a rock, he looked across the moonlit sands. In the lee of the cliff, Champion snorted, unhappy at being tied next to Matthew’s gelding. The rest of the Gang had yet to arrive; the boats weren’t due for another hour.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Jack settled down to wait. The memory of the silken limbs he’d left so reluctantly warmed him. She was a passionate woman, his kitten. She’d succeeded in dramatically altering his view of marriage. Before she’d burst into his life, the urge to settle down and manage his inheritance had been driven more by duty than desire. Now, there was nothing he wanted more than to devote his energies to being the lord of Castle Hendon, to watching his children grow, and to taking delight in his wife. He’d no doubt she’d keep him amused—in the bedroom and out of it. Once this mission was finished, he’d be free to follow his own road. Now, thanks to his wild woman, he knew where that road was headed.

  His thoughts of Kit reminded him of Lord Belville. He wasn’t sure why she’d mentioned him. He’d never met the man; the only piece of her information that had interested him had been Belville’s connection with Whitehall. As for the rest, Kit was his now, and that was that.

  A cloud of salt spray, whipped by the freshening wind, drifted past. Jack frowned. Could Belville be part of the network that he, George, and countless other careful hands had been slowly unraveling? It was possible.

  After months of careful, cautious work, they were nearing the end of their trail. Originally, his mission had been merely to block the routes by which spies were smuggled out of Norfolk. But his success in becoming the leader of the Hunstanton Gang, and then monopolizing the trade in “human cargo,” had made Whitehall more ambitious.

  Despite having closed the spy-smuggling routes operating out of Sussex and Kent, the government had failed to identify at least one of the principal sources. Whic
h meant there were still traitors sending information out of London. But the plans for Wellington’s summer maneuvers were too vital to risk their falling into French hands. So Jack, George, and a select group of others had been summoned from their military postings and asked to sell out of the services to take up civilian appointments under the control of Lord Whitley, the Home Office Undersecretary responsible for internal security.

  When the first of the incoming spies the Hunstanton Gang had passed on had reached London and led them to the next connection, the government had moved cautiously. While one group of officers tracked the London courier back to his source, presumably buried somewhere in the British military establishment, the government had decided to turn the route Jack now controlled to their own ends. Sir Anthony Blake, alias Antoine Balzac, had been the spy they’d “smuggled” to France the night Kit had been shot. Instead of the real plans for Wellington’s coming campaign, he’d carried information put together by a conglomerate of officers who’d seen active service only a short time before. The information had been accurate enough to pass the scrutiny of the French receivers. The government had already seen evidence that the false trails were being followed, translated into field movements that would help rather than hinder the duke’s forces.

  That sort of return was worth a great deal of risk. The number of lives saved would be enormous. So they’d decided to chance a final hand, a last throw of the dice.

  Anthony was to carry another packet of information into France, but this time, he would bargain for information in return—information on who the London traitor was. On his last visit, he’d made contact with a French liaison officer who had a great liking for cognac. The man knew the details of the entire English operation. Anthony was sure he could extract at least a clue.

  The government now needed that clue. The courier they’d been following in London had been killed in a tavern brawl. The unexpected setback had been disheartening, but all concerned were now even more determined to identify the traitors still remaining. Even if he learned no names, if Anthony could discover how many traitors were left within the military establishment, tonight’s mission would be worth the risk.

  Hoofbeats, muffled by the sand, approached. Jack recognized George’s chestnut. At sight of the figure on the second horse, Jack grinned and straightened. When the horses pulled up beside him, he caught the newcomer’s bridle. “Ho, Tony! Ready for another bout of la vie fran-çaise?”

  Sir Anthony Blake grinned and dismounted. Another of Lord Whitley’s select crew, he was the scion of an ancient English house, but half-French. He’d learned French at his mother’s knee and had absorbed the full range of French mannerisms and characteristic Gallic gestures. In addition, he was slim and elegant with black hair and black eyes. He looked French. His ability to pass as French had yielded considerable benefits to His Majesty’s government over the many years of war with France. Anthony’s black eyes gleamed. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Any developments?”

  Jack waited until George and Anthony tethered their mounts and rejoined him before answering Anthony’s question. “Nothing’s happened to change your direction. But I’ve just learned that a gentleman connected with Whitehall has been seen in these parts. Do you know anything of a Lord Belville?”

  Anthony frowned. His estates were in Devon; London was no more his cup of tea than Jack’s or George’s. “If I’m thinking of the right man, he’s a nasty bit of work. Got a position somewhere in the long corridors on the strength of his pater’s influence. Unsavory reputation socially, but nothing in it that would interest us.”

  Jack grimaced. “That’s much as I’d imagined. Still, if he’s poking his nose about without good reason, I’ll follow it up.”

  The three of them fell to discussing the details of Antoine’s trip.

  “I’ll play it safe and take the usual route back unless there’s good reason to do otherwise.”

  Jack nodded. “Here comes our little troop.” The members of the Hunstanton Gang were gathering. “God only knows how they’ll react when they learn they’ve been doing their bit for Mother England.” With a wry grin, Jack moved forward to take command.

  Above him, hidden by a spiky tussock close by the cliff’s edge, Kit frowned. Who was the third man?

  She’d had a time following her husband, the short strides of her obedient little mare no match for either Champion or Matthew’s black. The need to wait until they were clear of the stables before entering to saddle her mount had meant she’d left the Castle well behind them. But, courtesy of the moon and the elevation of her husband’s home, she’d seen enough to realize they were making for the cottage. She’d drawn into the trees surrounding it only minutes before Jack had reemerged in his Captain Jack costume. She’d thanked her stars she hadn’t been riding Delia then. Champion had no interest in the chestnut mare; he’d obeyed Jack’s instruction without hesitation. She’d dropped behind again on the ride to the coast, and had had to cast about to find their position on the sands. She’d been surprised to find no one else there.

  Then George and his companion had arrived. There was something about the way the unknown man held himself, the way he conversed with Jack and George, that disallowed any idea he was a new recruit for the Gang.

  Kit saw Joe split from the knot of men around Jack and head toward the cliffs. Jack’s lookout. There was a small knoll a few feet from the cliff, about fifty yards from where she was crouching. Once on it, Joe would be able to see her clearly. As Joe started up the cliff path, Kit scrambled along the edge until she found a deeply shadowed crevice. There were tussocks growing from the walls every few feet. The area at the bottom looked sandy. With a last glance to where her mare was concealed in a stand of trees, Kit went over the edge.

  She dropped to the sand and wiped her hands on her breeches, then slid to the end of the shadows. Glancing left, she saw the run in full swing. Immediately before her were the horses, Champion and three others, tethered under the overhang of the cliff. Beyond them lay a section of dunes, heavily covered with clumps of sea grass. Kit slipped out and around the horses, patting Champion’s great nose on the way. She gained the dunes and worked her way cautiously forward, until she was mere yards from where Jack and George stood, their mysterious visitor between them.

  The run was a small one, leaving Jack and George with nothing to do but watch.

  Kit glanced back at the cliff. She couldn’t see Joe, but if he came to the cliff’s edge, he’d spot her immediately. Not that she was frightened of being discovered. Jack had drummed into his men’s heads that on no account were they to shoot or knife anybody. The most she had to fear was being locked in her room in Castle Hendon. And learning what Jack would do on finding her in breeches. Kit shook aside the distracting thought and focused on her husband and his associates. Unfortunately, they said nothing.

  When the last boat was being unloaded, Jack turned and nodded to Anthony. “Good luck.”

  Anthony ducked his head but gave no word in answer. He strode down the beach on the first stage of his journey into danger.

  Jack watched him go, watched the boat disappear into the surf to make contact with the ship standing offshore. Then he gave the final orders to clear the beach, sending the cargo on to the old crypt. Both he and George lingered on the sands, strangely tied to the fate of their friend. Matthew ambled the beach before them, patiently waiting.

  Behind them, Kit lay burrowed in the sand, thoroughly perplexed. Why “Good luck”? And why was she so sure Jack would have shaken the man’s hand, but had stopped himself from doing so? She’d sensed his intent quite clearly. Yet, from everything she’d been able to see, the man was French.

  She bit her lip, then shook her head. She simply could not believe Jack was smuggling spies. Damn the man—why couldn’t he relieve her of this miserable uncertainty? It was all his fault. Her peace of mind was in tatters purely because he had a constitutional objection to being understood!

  Suppressing a snort, Kit glanced back over
her shoulder.

  And froze.

  A few feet away, so close his grey shadow almost touched her, stood the hulking figure of a man. A scream of fright stuck in her throat. Her wide eyes took in a heavy frame and fleshy jowls. The man was staring at Jack and George, still watching the waves some fifteen feet ahead, presenting her with a haughty profile. He was oblivious of her, prone almost at his feet. Moonlight glinted on the long barrels of the pistols he carried.

  The man was Lord Belville.

  Kit couldn’t breathe.

  “We may as well go.”

  Jack’s voice cut through the frozen moment. It brought Belville to life. He stepped forward, passing Kit, still lying immobile, to drop the last few feet to the sand. Another step took him clear of the dunes to face Jack and George as they turned toward the horses, Matthew a few steps behind them.

  “Not so fast, gentlemen.”

  Jack pulled up, startled by the appearance of an armed stranger from dunes he had every right to expect were safe. Where the hell was his lookout?

  As if reading his mind, Belville’s lips twisted in an unpleasant smile. “I’m afraid your lookout met with a fatal accident.” He glanced at the fingers of his right hand, closed about a pistol butt. “Slitting a throat is silent, but such a messy business.”

  Kit felt her blood run cold. She saw the expression on Jack’s face harden. Oh, God! If she didn’t do something, he would be shot! Pressing her fingers to her lips, she struggled to think.

  Thankfully, Belville seemed inclined to conversation. “I must admit that when our courier died in that brawl, we originally believed it simply bad luck. However, when we had no further approaches from our French comrades, when, in fact, they suggested they no longer needed our services, we thought an investigation was in order.” Belville rolled the syllables from his tongue, his genial manner counteracted by the menace of the pistols in his hands. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “given the trouble you’ve put me to, you’d like to explain just who you are and who you’re working for? Before I put a bullet into each of you.”