leaving. He watched her assume her disguise and decided against going to the stable to help her with her horse. She could saddle her own damned mare if she was so keen on playing the lad. He acknowledged her flippant bow with something close to a snarl, which didn’t affect her in the least. She seemed impervious to his bad temper- thrilled, no doubt, to have got her way. The door shut behind her, and he was alone.
Jack stretched but didn’t relax until the sound of the mare’s hooves died. He wasn’t looking forward to Wednesday-the potential horrors were mind-numbing. To cap it all, he’d have to watch over her without letting on it was a
Chapter 11
Kit’s initiation into the dim world of the Blackbird Tavern was every bit as harrowing as Jack had anticipated. Sidelong, he studied the top of her hat, all he could see of her head as she sat at the rough trestle beside him, her nose buried in a tankard of ale. He hoped she wasn’t drinking the stuff; it was home brewed and potent. He had no idea if she was wise to the danger. The fact that he wasn’t sure of her past experience only further complicated his role as her protector. And Young Kit certainly needed a protector, even if the blasted woman didn’t know it.
She’d seemed oblivious of the stir her appearance at his elbow had caused. Garbed in severe black, her slim form drew considering glances. Luckily, the Blackbird’s patrons were not given to overt gestures. He and George had made straight for their usual table, taking Kit with them. He’d wedged her between the wall and his own solid bulk. The curiosity of the motley crew who’d taken shelter within the Blackbird’s dingy walls on this drizzily June night washed over them, Young Kit its focus.
“Where the hell’s Nolan?” George growled. Sitting opposite Kit, he nervously eyed the section of the room within his orbit.
Jack grimaced. “He’ll be here soon enough.” He’d warned both George and Matthew of Kit’s heritage but continued to keep her sex a secret. Her coloring was so obvious it was impossible not to comment; to them, she was Christopher Cranmer’s bastard son who lived at the Hall under Spencer’s wing. Over “the stripling’s” wish to join them in negotiations over cargoes, George’s tendency to watch over youngsters had been of unexpected help.
He’d agreed Kit should accompany them. “If the place serves to put the lad off smuggling, so much the better,” he’d said. “At least in our company he’ll see a bit more of life in greater safety than might otherwise be afforded him.”
It was a view that had not occurred to Jack-he wasn’t sure he agreed with it. Certainly, George had not foreseen the interest Young Kit would provoke. Like him, both George and Matthew were edgy, nerves at full stretch. The only one of their company apparently unaffected by the tension in the room was its cause.
His gaze slid to her once more. She’d lifted her head from the tankard, but her gaze remained on the mug, cradled in both hands. To any observer, she gave every appearance of unconcerned innocence, idly toying with her drink, completely ignorant of the charged atmosphere. Then he noticed how tightly her gloved fingers were curled about the handle of the tankard.
Jack smiled into his beer. Not so ignorant. With any luck, she’d be scared witless.
Kit was certainly not unaware of the cloying interest of the other men in the room. The reason for it she found distasteful in the extreme, but she could hardly claim she hadn’t been forewarned. For all she knew, Jack was relying on her disgust to make her balk at similar excursions in the future. But as long as the men in the room stared and did nothing, she couldn’t see any real reason for fear. She’d been stared at aplenty, and far more overtly, during her Seasons in London. And Jack was only an inch or so away, on the crude bench beside her, an overwhelmingly large body that radiated warmth and security, reassuring with its aura of commanding strength governed by steely reflexes.
A stir by the door heralded an arrival. Jack looked over Matthew’s shoulders. “It’s Nolan.”
The agent went to the bar and ordered a tankard, then, after scanning the room, made his way without haste to their table. He drew up a rough stool and perched at Jack’s left, his eyes going to Kit. She’d raised her head at his approach and returned his stare unblinkingly.
Nolan’s eyes narrowed. “You two in league?” He asked the question of Jack.
“A merger. To our mutual benefit.”
Jack smiled, and Kit was very glad he didn’t smile at her like that. The thought brought a shiver, which she sternly repressed.
“What does that mean?” Nolan didn’t sound pleased.
“What it means, my friend, is that if you want to run a cargo into North Norfolk, you deal with me and me alone.” Jack’s deep voice was steady and completely devoid of emotion. In the hush, it held a menacing quality.
Nolan stared, then switched his gaze to Kit. “This true?”
“Yes.” Kit kept it at that.
Nolan snorted and turned to Jack. “Well, leastways that means I won’t have to deal with young upstarts who skim a man’s profit to the bone.” He turned to receive his tankard from a well-endowed serving wench, and so missed the inquiring glance Jack threw at Kit. She ignored it, letting her gaze slide from his, only to fall victim to the serving wench’s fervent stare. Abruptly, she transferred her attention to her tankard and kept it there.
Once Jack and Nolan were well launched on their dealings, Kit looked up. The serving girl had retreated to the bar but her gaze was still fixed, in a drooling fashion, on her. Under her breath, Kit swore.
“Twenty kegs of the best brandy and ten more of port, if you can handle it.” Nolan paused to swill from his tankard. Kit wondered how he could; the stuff tasted vile.
“We can handle it. The usual conditions?”
“Aye.” Nolan eyed Jack warily, as if unable to believe he wasn’t going to push the Gang’s cut higher. “When do you want it?”
Jack considered, then said: “Tomorrow. The moon’ll be new-not too much light but enough to see by. The delivery conditions the same?”
Nolan nodded. “Cash on delivery. The ship’s the
“Right.” Pushing his tankard aside, Jack stood. “It’s time we left.”
Nolan merely nodded and retreated into his beer.
Hurriedly standing, Kit found herself bundled in front of Jack. Matthew led the way and George brought up the rear. Their exit was so rapid that none of the other customers had time to blink. Outside, she, Jack, and George waited in the road while Matthew fetched their horses. Even in the gloom, Kit sensed the meaningful look Jack and George exchanged over her head. Then they were mounted and off, across the fields to the cottage.
There, they all sat around the table. Jack poured brandy, raising a brow in Kit’s direction. She shook her head. The few sips of ale she’d taken had been more than enough. Jack delivered his plans in crisp tones that left Kit wondering what he’d been before. A soldier, certainly, but his attitude of authority suggested he hadn’t been a trooper. The idea made her grin.
“How many boats can your men muster?”
Jack’s question shook her into life. “Manned by two?” she asked. When he nodded, she replied: “Four. Do you want them all?”
“Four would double our number,” put in George.
“And double the speed we could bring the barrels in.” Jack looked at Kit. “We’ll have all four. Get them to pull inshore just west of the Head-there’s a little bay they’ll likely know, perfect for the purpose.” Turning to Matthew and George, he discussed the deposition of the rest of the men. Kit listened with half an ear, glancing up only briefly when George left.
Matthew followed. “G’night, lad.”
Kit returned the words with a nod and a smile, hidden by her muffler. As soon as the door shut behind him, she tugged the folds free. “Phew! I hope the nights don’t get too warm.”
Replacing the brandy bottle on the sideboard, Jack turned to stare at her. In a month, long before the balmy
