men started leaving, some on foot, some riding, guiding ponies on leading reins.
At the last, three horsemen drew away from the barn. The moon smiled; Kit caught the gleam of Captain Jack’s hair. The trio divided, one heading east. Captain Jack and the third man went west. Kit followed them.
She kept Delia on the verge, the drum of hooves of her quarries’ horses making it easy to follow them. Luckily, they weren’t riding fast, else she’d have had difficulty keeping up without taking to the telltale road herself.
They traveled the road for no more than a mile before turning south along a narrow track. Kit paused at the turn. The sound of heavy hooves at a walk reassured her. She pressed on, careful to hold Delia back.
Jack and Matthew set their mounts up the steep curve that took the track over the lip of the meadowland. At the highest point, just before the track curved into the trees edging the first Hendon field, Jack glanced down onto the stretch of track below. It was a habit instituted long since to ensure none of the Hunstanton Gang followed them to their lair.
The track was a pool of even, uninteresting shadow. Jack was turning away when a slight movement, caught from the corner of one eye, brought every faculty alert. He froze, gaze used to the night trained on the track below. A shadow darker than the rest detached itself from the cover of the trees and crept along the verge.
Matthew, warned by the sudden silence, had reined in too, and stared downward. He leaned closer to whisper in Jack’s ear. “Young Kit?”
Jack nodded. A slow, positively devilish smile twisted his long lips. “Go on to the cottage,” he whispered. “I’m going to invite our young friend for a drink.”
Matthew nodded, urging his horse to a walk, heading south along the narrow track.
Jack nudged Champion off the path and into the deeper shadows by a coppice. Young Kit’s excess of curiosity was perfectly timed; he hadn’t been looking forward to another night like the last, tossing and turning while grappling with his ridiculous obsession with the stripling. What better way to cure his senses of their idiotic misconception than to invite the lad in for a brandy? Once revealed in full light for the youth he was, Young Kit would doubtless get out from under his skin.
Approaching the upward sweep of the trail, Kit heard the steady clop of hooves above cease. She reined in, listening intently, then cautiously edged forward. When she saw where the track led, she stopped and held her breath. Then the hoofbeats restarted, heading onward. With a sigh of relief, she counted to twenty again before sending Delia up the track.
She crested the rise to find the track, innocent and empty, leading on across the meadowland. Ahead, a coppice bordered the trail, darker shadows pooling on the track like giant ink puddles. She paused, listening, but the hoofbeats continued on, the riders invisible through the trees ahead.
All was well. Kit put her heels to Delia’s sleek sides. The mare sidled. Kit frowned and urged the mare forward. Delia balked.
The sensation of being watched enveloped Kit. Her stomach tightened; her eyes flared wide. She glanced to the left. Fields opened out, one adjoining the next, a clear escape. Without further thought, she set Delia at the hedge. As eager as she to get away, the mare cleared the hedge and went straight to a gallop.
In the trees bordering the track, Jack swore volubly. Be damned if he’d let the lad lose him again! He set his heels to Champion’s sides; the grey surged in pursuit.
Champion answered the call with alacrity, only too ready to give chase. Jack held him back, content to keep the bobbing black bottom of Young Kit in clear view, waiting until the Arab started to tire before allowing the grey stallion’s strength to show.
The thud of hooves behind her told Kit her observer had come into the open. She glanced behind and her worst fears were confirmed. Damn the man! She hadn’t seen anything worthwhile, and he must know he couldn’t catch her.
By the time the end of the fields hove in sight, Kit had revised her opinion of Captain Jack’s equestrian judgment. The grey he had under him seemed tireless and Delia, already ridden far that night, was wilting. In desperation, Kit swung Delia’s head for the shore. Riding through sand would hopefully slow the heavier grey more than the mare.
She hadn’t counted on the descent. Delia checked at the cliff’s edge and took the steep path in a nervous prance. The grey, ridden aggressively, came over the top in a leap and half slithered through the soft soil to land on the flat in a flurry of sand, mere seconds behind her.
Kit clapped her heels to Delia’s sleek flanks; the mare shot forward, half-panicked by the advent of the stallion so close.
To Kit’s dismay, the tide was in and just turning, leaving only a narrow strip of dry sand skirting the base of the cliffs. She couldn’t risk getting too close to the rocks and boulders strewn at the cliff foot. There was nowhere else to ride but on the hard sand, dampened and compacted by the retreating waves. And on such solid ground, the grey gained steadily.
Crouched low over Delia’s neck, the black mane whipping her cheeks, Kit prayed for a miracle. But the sound of the grey’s heavy hooves drew inexorably nearer. She started considering her excuses. What reason could she give for having followed him that would account for her bolting?
There was no viable answer to that one. Kit wished she’d had the nerve to stand her ground rather than fly when confronted with her nemesis. She glanced forward, contemplating hauling on the reins and capitulating, when, wonder of wonders, a spit of land loomed ahead. A tongue of the cliff, it cleaved the sands, running out into the surf, its sides decaying into the sea. If she could gain the rough-grassed dunes, she’d have a chance. Even tired as she was, climbing, Delia would be much faster than the heavy grey. As if to light her way, the moon sailed free of its cloudy veils and beamed down.
A length behind, Jack saw the spit. It was time to wind up the chase. The lad rode better than any trooper he’d ever seen. Once in the dunes, he’d be impossible to catch. Jack dropped his reins. Champion, sensing victory, lengthened his stride, obedient to the direction that sent him inland of the black mare, cutting off any sudden change of tack.
Kit was breathless. The wind dragged at her lungs. The dunes and safety were heartbeats away when, warned by some sixth sense, she glanced to her left. And saw a huge grey head almost level with her knee.
She only had time to gasp before two hundred odd pounds of highly trained male muscle knocked her from the saddle.
The instant he connected with Young Kit, Jack realized his error. He tried to twist in midair to cushion her fall but was only partially successful. Both he and his captive landed flat on their backs on the damp sand.
The breath was knocked out of him but he recovered immediately, sitting up and swinging around to lean over his prize, one leg automatically trapping hers to still her struggles. Only she didn’t struggle.
Jack frowned and waited for the eyes, just visible beneath the brim of her old tricorne, to open. They remained shut. The body stretched beside and half under his was preternaturally still.
Cursing, Jack pulled at the tricorne. It took two tugs to free it. The wealth of glossy curls framing the smooth, wide brow sent his imagination, already sensitized by her nearness, into overload.
Slowly, almost as if she might dissolve beneath his touch, Jack lifted a finger to the smooth skin covering one high cheekbone, tracing the upward curve. The satin texture sent a thrill from the tip of his finger to regions far distant. When she gave no sign of returning consciousness, he slid his fingers into the mass of silky hair, ignoring the burgeoning sensations skittering through him, to feel the back of her skull. A lump the size of a duck egg was growing through the curls. In the sand beneath her head, he located the rock responsible, thankfully buried deep enough to make it unlikely it had caused any irreparable hurt.
Retrieving his hands, Jack eased back to stare at his captive.
Young Kit was out cold.
Grimacing, he eyed the heavy muffler wound over her nose and chin, concealing most of her face. The conversion of Young Kit into female form was certain to wreak havoc with his plans, but he may as well leave consideration of such matters until later. Right now, he doubted he could raise a cogent thought, much less make a wise decision. Which was simply proof of how much of a problem she was destined to become.
He should get that muffler off-she’d recover faster if she could breathe unrestricted. Yet he felt reluctant to bare any more of her face-or any other part of her for that matter. What he’d already seen-the perfect expanse of forehead, gracefully arched brows over large eyes set on a slight slant and delicately framed by a feathering of brown, the rioting curls, glossy even in moonlight-all attested to the certainty that the rest of Young Kit would prove equally fatal to his equanimity.
