Kit jumped back, a curse on her lips. A large hand closed about hers, deftly removing the reins. Jack was no more than a dense shadow at her shoulder. Unnerved, her wits frazzled by his touch, Kit waited in silence while he stabled Delia in the dark.
Were there others about? She peered into the gloom.
“There’s no one else here.” Jack returned to her side. “Come inside.”
Kit had to hurry to keep up with Jack’s long strides. He reached the door and entered before her, heading straight for the table to take the chair on the far side. Irritated by such cavalier treatment, Kit bit her tongue. She closed the door carefully, then turned to survey him, pausing to take stock before sauntering across the floor to the chair facing his.
He was scowling again, but she wasn’t about to try for one of his smiles tonight. Pulling off her hat, she unwound her muffler, then sat.
“What’s your decision?” Jack asked the question as soon as her bottom made contact with the chair seat. He’d been steeling himself for this meeting for more than twenty-four hours; it was galling to find the time had been wasted. The instant she’d appeared on his horizon, the only thing he could think of was getting her back onto his bed. And what he’d do next. He wanted this meeting concluded, and her safely on her way, with all possible haste.
From her expression, he knew his frown didn’t meet with her approval. Right now, she didn’t meet with his. She was the cause of all his present afflictions. Aside from the physical ramifications of her presence, he was having to cope with untold guilt over his deliberate support of her hoax.
He hadn’t told Matthew or George. And now he was uncomfortably aware of Spencer, previously a shadowy figure he’d had no difficulty ignoring, transformed by their meeting into a flesh-and-blood man, presumably with real affection for his wayward granddaughter, even if she was illegitimate. Impossible to tell him, of course. What could he say? “A word in your ear, old man-your bastard granddaughter is masquerading as a smuggler”?
Dragging his gaze from Kit’s lamplight-sheened curls, Jack stared into her violet eyes, alike yet quite different from Spencer’s.
Kit’s response to Jack’s abrupt question had been to pull off her riding gloves, with infinite slowness, before glancing up to meet his gaze. “My men have agreed.” She’d met her little band earlier that evening. “We’ll join you as of now, provided you let us know what the cargoes are beforehand.” It was her condition; the fishermen had been only too glad to accept Jack’s offer.
Impassivity overtook Jack’s scowl. Why the hell did she want to know that? His mind ranged over the possibilities but could find none that fit. “No.” He kept the answer short and waited for her reaction.
“No?” she echoed. Then she shrugged. “All right. But I thought you wanted us to join you.” She started to draw her gloves back on.
Jack abandoned impassivity. “What you ask is impossible. How can I run a gang if I have to check with you before I accept a cargo? There can be only one leader, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m it.”
Kit leaned one elbow on the table and cupped her chin in that hand, keeping her eyes on his face. It was a very strong face, with its powerful brow line and high cheekbones. “You should be able to understand that I feel responsible for my little band. How can I tell if you’re doing right by them if I don’t know what cargoes you’re accepting or declining?”
Jack’s exasperation grew. She’d hit on the one argument he couldn’t, in all honesty, counter. If she’d been a man, he’d have applauded such a reason-it was the right attitude for a leader, of however small a troop. But Kit wasn’t a man, a fact he was in no danger of forgetting.
Artfully, Kit continued. “I can see it might prove difficult to keep an agent waiting for confirmation. But if I was with you when you arranged the cargoes, there’d be no time lost.”
Jack shook his head. “No. It’s too dangerous. It’s one thing to fool semicivilized fishermen; our contacts are not of that ilk. They’re too likely to penetrate your “disguise-God only knows what they’ll make of it.”
Kit received the assessment coolly, drawing her gloves through her fingers. “But you deal mostly with Nolan, don’t you?”
Jack nodded. Nolan was his primary source of cargoes although there were three other agents in the area.
“I’ve already met Nolan without mishap, so I doubt there’s any real danger there. He’ll accept me as Young Kit. Seeing me with you will confirm we’ve joined forces, so he won’t go trying to contact my men behind your back. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it-a monopoly on this coast?”
Jack made no comment. There wasn’t any he could make; she was dead on target with her reasoning, damn her.
Kit smiled. “So. Where and when do you make contact?”
Jack’s expression turned grim. He’d been maneuvered into a corner and he didn’t like it one bit. Their meeting place had been expressly chosen to be as unilluminated as possible, to ensure Nolan and his brethren had little chance of recognizing him, or George or Matthew. He was most at risk-he’d learned long ago that effectively disguising the streaks in his hair was impossible-so they’d found a venue where the light was always bad and keeping their hats on raised no eyebrows. But taking Kit to a hedge tavern frequented by local cutthroats and thieves was inconceivable.
“It’s out of the question.” Jack sat up and leaned both elbows on the table, the better to impress Kit with the madness of her suggestion.
“Why?” Kit fixed him with a determined stare.
“Because it would be the height of lunacy to take a woman, however well disguised, into a den of thieves.” Jack’s growl was barely restrained.
“Quite,” Kit affirmed. “So no one will imagine Young Kit to be anything other than a lad.”
“Christ!” Jack ran long fingers through his hair. “I wouldn’t give a
For a minute, Kit stared at him, incomprehension stamped on her fine features. Then she blushed delicately. Determined not to lower her head, she let her gaze slide to a consideration of the brandy bottle. “But you’ll be there. There’s no reason why any of them should…”
“Proposition you?” Jack kept his voice hard and matter-of-fact. If there was any possibility of scaring her off, he’d take it. “Allow me to inform you, my dear, that even I don’t frequent such places alone. George and Matthew always accompany me.”
Kit perked up. “So much the better. If there’s four of us, and the three of you are large, then the danger will be minimal.” She cocked an eyebrow at Jack, waiting for his next argument.
Her attitude, of patiently awaiting his next quibble in the calm certainty that she’d top it, brought a wry and entirely spontaneous grin to Jack’s lips. Damn it-she was so cock-sure she could pull the thing off, he’d half a mind to let her try. She wouldn’t find the Blackbird at all to her liking; maybe, after her first trip there, she’d be content to let him manage their contacts on his own.
His thoughts reached Kit. She smiled, only to be treated immediately to a scowl.
Hell and the devil! He was going mad. Jack fought the impulse to groan and bury his head in his hands. The effort of ignoring his besotted senses, and the pressure in his loins, was sapping his will. If only she was angry or frightened or flustered, he could cope. Instead, she was calm and in control, perfectly prepared to sit smiling at him, trading logic until he capitulated. He could render her witless easily enough, but only by unleashing something he was no longer sure he could reharness.
“All right.” His jaw set uncompromisingly. “You can come with us next Wednesday night provided you do exactly as I say. Only I know your little secret. I suggest we keep it that way.”
Content with having gained her immediate goal, Kit nodded. She was perfectly prepared to do as Jack said, as long as she could learn, firsthand, of the cargoes on offer. If there was any “human cargo,” she’d have time to sound the alarm without risking her little troop, and, if possible, without endangering Captain Jack or his men, either.
Pleased, she reached for her hat. “Where do we meet?”
Engaged in an inventory of all the dangers attendant on taking Kit to the Blackbird, Jack shot her a decidedly malevolent glare. “Here. At eleven.”
Kit grinned, then hid her face with her muffler. Her mood was buoyant; she wished she dared tease him from his grouchy attitude, but her instinct for self-preservation hadn’t completely deserted her.
Jack slouched in his chair. This wasn’t how this meeting was supposed to have gone, but at least she was
