Captain Jack’s Woman / A Gentleman's Honor

requisite month. Unfortunately, affairs did not run so smoothly. Her pride was her problem: it rose to the fore on two different counts, both stemming directly from Jack’s irritating behavior.

In the third week of their association, she sought solitude in the gazebo to thrash out how to counteract Jack’s stubborn refusal to deal reasonably with her. She was always the lookout-that she could understand-but for all his apparent experience, Jack persisted in placing her to the east of the ran area, away from Hunstanton. Yet if the Revenue were to mount a sortie, surely they’d be coming from Hunstanton?

Plonking herself down on the gazebo’s wooden seat, Kit stared at the roses. Any attempt to question Jack’s peculiar orders met with a highly discouraging scowl, topped by a growl if she pushed him. A snarl would no doubt be next, but she’d never had the nerve to test him. She had the distinct impression she was being bundled aside, out of harm’s way. Kit narrowed her eyes. It was almost as if Jack knew there’d be no interference from the Revenue but sent her in the opposite direction just in case.

Damn it! It had been at his insistence she’d continued her charade; being given token tasks was not what she’d expected. Enough! She’d have it out with him this evening. There was to be another run, on the promontory between Holme and Brancaster. Since they’d joined forces, the traffic had been constant-two runs a week, always on different beaches, mostly for Nolan, once for another agent. Spirits and lace had been the staple fare, high-quality merchandise that brought good returns to the smugglers.

With a rustle of skirts, Kit stood. Descending from the gazebo, she wended her way between the rose beds, indifferent to the perfect blooms nodding on every side. Lack of meaningful participation in the gang’s affairs was one of her points of contention. Her personal interaction with Jack, or rather, lack of personal interaction with Jack, was the other.

His behavior during her first visit to the cottage she’d understood. What had her confused was all that had, or hadn’t, come since. He’d blown hot for her initially, but ever since that night he’d appeared uninterested, as if he’d found her unattractive on second glance. For one who’d had the rakes of London at her feet, Jack’s failure to succumb was galling.

Kit dropped the petals she’d pulled from a fading white rose and headed for the house. All the other personable males who’d hovered on her horizon had done so without her exerting any effort to attract their notice. Jack’s notice, short-lived though it had been, had stirred her interest in a way none of the others had. She wanted more. But Jack, damn his silver eyes, seemed distinctly disinclined to supply it. He now acted as if she was a lad in truth- as if he couldn’t be bothered responding to her as a woman.

Climbing the steps to the terrace, Kit realized her teeth were clenched. Forcibly relaxing her jaw, she made a vow. Before she quit the Hunstanton Gang, she’d have Captain Jack at her feet. A rash resolution, perhaps, but the thought sent a thrill of delicious daring through her.

Her lips quirked upward. This was what she craved-what she needed. A challenge. If Jack insisted on removing all chance of other thrills, surely it was only right he provide her with suitable compensation?

Entering the morning room, Kit sank onto the chaise and considered the possibilities. She’d need to be on guard to ensure Jack didn’t take things farther than mere dalliance. His behavior on that first night in his cottage had been ample proof that he could and would take matters far farther than she would countenance. He was not of common stock. No fisherman had such an air-of command, of authority, and, frequently, of sheer arrogance. His diction, his knowledge of swordplay, his stallion-all bore witness that his origins were considerably higher than the village. And, of course, he was gorgeous beyond belief. Nevertheless, a liaison, however brief, between Lord Cranmer’s granddaughter and Captain Jack, leader of the Hunstanton Gang, did not fall within the bounds of the possible.

But he thinks you’re illegitimate, remember?

“But I’m not illegitimate, am I?” Kit pointed out to her wilder self. “I couldn’t possibly forget what I owe the family name.”

Why? The family was ready enough to sacrifice you for their own ends.

“Only my uncles and aunts-not Spencer or my cousins.”

Sure it’s not just an old-fashioned dose of maidenly nerves? How will you learn if Amy’s right if you don’t give it a try? And if you’re ever going to take the plunge-he’s the one. Why not admit you go weak at the knees at the thought of all that lovely male muscle and those silver devil’s eyes?

“Oh, shut up!” Kit reached for her embroidery. Prying her needle free, she poked it through the design. Drawing the thread through, she set her lips. She was bored. Excitement was what she needed. Tonight, she’d make sure she got some.

The roar of the surf as it pounded the sand filled Kit’s ears. She stood in the lee of the cliff, holding Delia’s reins, watching the Hunstanton Gang gather. The men huddled in small groups, their gruff voices barely audible above the surf. None approached her. They all viewed Young Kit as a delicate youth, a young nob, best left to Captain Jack to deal with.

Kit looked up and saw Jack approaching, mounted on his grey stallion and flanked by George and Matthew. Her confidence in Jack’s ability to organize and command was complete. She’d heard tales, some decidedly grisly, of the Hunstanton Gang’s activities before Jack had taken over. In the past three weeks, she’d seen no evidence of such excesses. Jack didn’t even exert himself to impress his will-the men obeyed him instinctively, as if recognizing a born leader.

Kit peered out at the waves, black tipped with pearl in the weak moonlight. She could see no sign of the boats.

Jack drew rein some yards away and the men gathered about to receive their orders. Then they were off down the beach to wait, huddled on the sand like rocks just above the waterline. Dismounting, Jack set Matthew and George to watch for the signal from the ship that would tell them the boats were on their way in, then trudged through the sand toward Kit.

He stopped in front of her. “Up there should give you a good view.”

To Kit’s surprise, he indicated the cliff above the western end of the beach. Then she remembered they were out on the headland-if the Revenue came from anywhere it would have to be from the east; beyond the western point was sea. Her time had come. “No!” She had to shout over the din of the waves.

It took Jack a moment to realize what she was saying. He scowled. “What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“I mean there’s no sense in my keeping a lookout from that position. I may as well stay on the beach and watch the boats come in.”

Jack stared at her. The idea of her scurrying around among the boats, being shoved aside by the first fisherman into whose path she stumbled, was one he refused to contemplate. A shout told him the signal had come. Soon, the boats would be beaching. He eyed the slight figure before him and shook his head. “I haven’t time to argue about it now. I’ve got to see to the boats.”

“Fine. I’ll come, too.” Kit looped Delia’s reins about a straggling bush clinging to the cliff and turned to follow Jack.

“Get up to that cliff top immediately!”

The blast almost lifted her from her feet. Kit stepped back, eyes widening in alarm. Jack towered over her, one arm lifted, one finger jabbing at the western cliff. Transfixed, she stared at him. And saw him set his teeth.

“For Christ’s sake, get moving!”

Shaken to her boots, furious to the point of incoherence, Kit wrenched Delia’s reins from the bush and swung up to the saddle. She glared down at Jack, still standing before her, fists on hips, barring the way to the beach, then hauled on the reins and sent Delia up the cliff path.

On the western cliff top, Kit dismounted. She left Delia to graze the coarse grasses a few yards back from the edge. Seething, she threw herself down on a large flat boulder and, picking up a small rock, hurled it down onto the sands. She wished she could hit Jack with it. He was clearly visible, down by the beaching boats. A slingshot might just make it.

With a disgusted snort, Kit sank her elbows into her thighs and dumped her chin in her hands. God-could he shout. Spencer bellowed when in a rage, but the noise had never affected her. She’d always considered it a sure sign her grandfather had all but lost the thread of his argument and would soon succumb to hers. But when Jack had bellowed his orders, he’d expected to be obeyed. Instantly. Every vestige of defiant courage she possessed had curled up its toes and died. The idea of her doing anything to overcome such an invincible force had seemed patently ridiculous.

Thoroughly disgusted with her craven retreat, Kit glumly watched the gang unload the boats.