Jack rode in silence, his eyes probing the shadows ahead, his mind firmly fixed on the woman by his side. Why should she get her inexpressibles in a twist over him smuggling spies? Did she even know they were spies? The road appeared ahead, and he turned Champion onto the beaten surface.
Edging Delia up alongside Champion, Kit glanced at Jack’s stern profile. It wasn’t encouraging. Far from dampening her determination, the observation strengthened her resolution. Matthew was Jack’s servant, George a too-close friend; neither had shown the slightest ability to influence Jack. Clearly, it was time someone forced him to consider his conscience. She didn’t expect him to like the fact she intended to be that someone, but male arrogance was no excuse. She’d tell him what she thought regardless of what he felt.
They turned south and walked their mounts up the winding path to the top of the rise. Kit watched as Jack peered down, automatically ensuring that they hadn’t been followed. The path below remained clear. She saw Jack grimace before he turned Champion’s head for the cottage. Setting Delia in Champion’s wake, she fell to organizing her arguments.
Jack dismounted before the stable and led Champion in. Kit did likewise, taking Delia to the neighboring stall. Having decided on her route of attack, she went straight to the point. “You do know the men you bring in and take out are spies, don’t you?”
Jack’s answer was to thump his saddle down on top of the partition between the stalls. Kit stared into the gloom. So he was going to be difficult. “You’ve been in the army, haven’t you? You must know what sort of information’s going out with your ‘human cargoes.’”
When silence prevailed, Kit dropped her saddle on the partition and leaned on it to add: “You must have known men who died over there. How can you help the enemy kill more of our soldiers?”
In the dark, Jack closed his eyes against the memories her words unleashed. Known men who’d died? He’d had an entire troop die about him, blown to hell by cannon and grapeshot. He’d only escaped because a charger harnessed to one of the guns he’d been trying to reposition had fallen on him. And because Matthew, against all odds, had found him amidst the bloody carnage of the retreat.
Champion shifted, nudging him back to the present. Unclenching his fingers, he grabbed a handful of straw and fell to brushing the glossy grey coat. He had to keep moving, to keep doing, letting her words, however undeserved, wash over him. If he reacted, the truth would tumble out, and, God knew, the game they were playing was too dangerous for that.
When Kit realized she wasn’t going to get any verbal reaction, she plowed on, determined to make Jack see the error of his ways. “Just because you survived with a whole skin doesn’t mean you can forget about it.”
Jack paused and considered telling her just how little he’d forgotten. Instead, he forced himself to continue mutely grooming Champion.
Kit glared in his direction, uncertain whether he could see her or not. She grasped some straw and started to brush Delia. “Smuggling’s one thing. It might be against the law, but it’s only dishonest. It’s more than dishonest to make money from selling military information. From selling other men’s lives. It’s treason!”
Jack’s brows rose. She should be in politics. He’d finished rubbing Champion down. He dropped the straw and headed for the door. As he crossed the front of the cottage, he heard a muffled oath from the stable. As he went through the doorway, he heard Kit’s footsteps following. Jack headed straight for the keg on the sideboard.
Kit followed him into the room, slamming the door behind her. “Well, whatever…” Her voice died as she blinked into the black void left once the door had shut. She heard a muttered curse, then a boot hit a chair leg. An instant later, a match scraped, then soft light flared. Jack adjusted the wick, until the lamp threw just enough light to see by. Then he grabbed his glass, half-filled with brandy, and dropped into the chair on the other side of the table, his long legs stretched before him, his eyes broodingly watching her.
“Whatever,” Kit reiterated firmly, trying to ignore all that lounging masculinity, “you can’t continue to run your ‘human cargoes.’ They may pay well, but you’re running too great a risk.” She glared at the figure across the table, as inanimate as the chair he occupied. In the low light, she could barely make out his features, much less his expression. “What sort of leader knowingly exposes his men to such dangers?”
Jack shifted as her words pricked him. He prided himself on taking care of those in his command.
Kit sensed her advantage and pounced. “Smuggling’s a transportable offense; treason’s a hanging matter. You’re deliberately leading these men, who don’t know enough to understand the risks, to court death.” When no response came, she lost her temper. “Dammit! They’ve got families dependent on them! If they’re taken and hanged, who’s going to look after them?”
Jack’s chair crashed to the floor, overturned as he surged to his feet. Kit’s nerves jangled. She took an instinctive step back.
“What the hell would you know of taking care of anyone? Taking responsibility for anything? You’re a
The outburst hauled Jack to his senses. Of course she was a woman. Of course she knew nothing of leading and the consequent worries. He should know better than to let a woman’s words get under his skin. He frowned and took another sip of his brandy, holding her silent with a glower. What he couldn’t fathom, what he should pay more attention to understanding, was why she was so opposed to him running spies. In his experience, women of her ilk cared little for such abstract matters. Whoever heard of a lowborn mistress lecturing her aristocratic lover on the morality of political intrigue?
With an effort, Kit shook free of Jack’s intimidating stare and glared back. Setting her hands on her hips, she opened her mouth to put him right on the role of women.
Jack got in first, one long finger stabbing the air for emphasis. “You’re a woman. You’re not the leader of a gang of smugglers-you played at being a lad in charge of a small group, but that’s all.” His empty glass hit the table. He placed both hands beside it and leaned forward. “If I hadn’t come along and relieved you of command, you’d have sunk without trace long since. You know nothing-
Kit’s eyes sparked violet daggers; her lips parted on words of rebuttal.
Jack was in no mood to give her a chance.
Fury surged through Kit’s veins, cindering her innate caution. Her eyes narrowed. “I see.” She studied the large form, bent intimidatingly over the table, the very table where she’d lain, sprawled in wanton abandon, five nights before, with him, erect, engorged, between her wide-spread thighs.
Kit blinked and shook aside the unhelpful memory. She rushed into speech. “In that case, I’ll have to take…” Some sixth sense made her pause. She looked into the grey eyes watching her. Caution caught her tongue.
“Have to take…?”
Jack’s soft prompt rang alarm bells in Kit’s brain. Desperation came to her rescue. She put up her chin, cloaking her sudden uncertainty in truculence. “Take what steps I can to see that you don’t get caught.” Racked by nerves, she resettled her muffler. It was time for her to leave.
A cold calm descended on Jack, leaving little room for emotion. He saw straight through her obfuscation. “You mean to warn the authorities of our activities.”
The statement brought Kit’s head up so fast, she’d no time to wipe the truth from her eyes. The moment hung suspended between them, her silence confirming his conjecture more completely than any confession.
Realizing the trap she’d fallen into, Kit blushed. Denial was pointless, so she took the other tack. “If you continue to run spies, you leave me little choice.”
“Whom do you plan to convince? Spencer?” Jack moved, smoothly, to come around the table.
Her mind on his words, Kit shrugged, raising her brows noncommittally. “Perhaps. Maybe I’ll look up Lord Hendon-it’s his responsibility, after all.”
She swung to face Jack. And found him on the same side of the table and advancing slowly. Her heart leapt to her throat. She recalled the time on the Marchmont Hall terrace when she’d underestimated his speed. Cautiously, she backed away.
Her eyes rose to meet his. She read his intent in the darkened grey that had swallowed all trace of silver. “What do you think you’re doing?” Irritation colored her tone. How like him to decide to play physical just now.
Despite his years of training, Jack couldn’t stop himself from admiring the threat she posed. Satisfied he could reach the door before she could, he stopped with two yards between them and met her aggravated amethyst gaze. “I’m afraid, sweetheart, that you can’t expect to leave just yet. Not after this little talk of ours.” Jack couldn’t keep a smile from twisting his lips as his mind assembled the rest of his plan. “You must see that I can’t have you scurrying off to Lord Hendon.” Heaven help him if she did!
