nervous energy. Theoretically, he should have already taken steps to nullify the threat she posed. In reality, there seemed little he could do without further jeopardizing his mission. Forced to spend the hours until the run in idle isolation, he’d had time to consider his options. The only one with any real merit was kidnapping. He’d have to be careful not to be seen by any on the Cranmer estate, but he could keep her here, in safety and comfort, for a week or so, until the worst was past. If the mission dragged on, as it quite possibly would, he’d move her up to the Castle once the first hue and cry had died. There, safety and comfort, both hers and his, would be assured. She’d be his prisoner, but after the first inevitable fury, he didn’t think she’d mind. He’d ensure she was occupied.
The idea of having time to get to know Kit, of having the leisure to learn why she thought as she did, felt as she did, blossomed before him. Jack forgot his cards, mesmerized by a sudden glimpse into a future he’d never previously found attractive. Women, he’d always firmly believed, had but one real role in life-to pander to their man’s wishes. An aristocratic wife-his, for instance-would bear his children and manage his households, act as his hostess and support his position socially. Beyond that, she figured in his mind much as Matthew or Lovis did. His many mistresses had had but one sphere of responsibility-the bedroom-where they’d spent the majority of time flat on their backs, efficiently catering to his needs. The only communication he recalled having with them was by way of soft moans and groans and funny little gasps. He’d never been interested in what they’d thought. Not on any subject.
Absentmindedly gathering the cards, Jack refocused his abstracted gaze. The more he thought of it, the more benefits he saw in kidnapping Kit. After tonight, assuming they both survived the coming storm, he’d act.
Spencer, of course, would have to be told. He couldn’t steal away the old man’s granddaughter, whom he clearly cared for, and leave him to grieve unnecessarily. It would mean overturning one of his golden rules-he’d never, not even as a child, told people more than they’d needed to know, a habit that had stood him in good stead over the years. But he couldn’t have Spencer on his conscience any more than he could tolerate Kit continuing her dangerous crusade.
At the thought of her, his redheaded houri, a stern frown settled over his face. He hadn’t asked to feel about her as he did, but there was no point in denying it. She was more than the latest in a long line; he cared for her in ways he couldn’t remember caring for anyone else in his life. Once he had her safe, he’d drum into her red head just what the upshot of that was. She would have to mend her ways-no more dangerous escapades.
Would she be silly enough to try to turn some of the men against him? Jack shuddered. There was no value in torturing himself. Shutting out his imaginary horrors, he purposefully reshuffled the cards.
Ten minutes later, the peace of sunset was interrupted by the steady clop of hooves, approaching from the east. Jack raised his head to listen. Both the confident pace and the direction suggested George had come to their rendezvous early. A glimpse of sleek chestnut hide crossing the clearing brought a half smile to Jack’s face. He needed distraction.
George came through the door, his face set in disapproving lines.
Jack’s smile of welcome faded. His brows rose.
George halted before the table, his gaze steady on Jack’s grey eyes. Then he glanced at the keg on the sideboard. “Is there anything in that?”
With a grunt, Jack rose and fetched a glass. After a second’s hesitation, he took a glass for himself and half filled both. Was this the start of his storm?
George drew up a chair to the table and dropped into it.
Placing one glass before George, Jack eyed his serious face. He resumed his seat. “Well? You’d better tell me before Matthew gets here.”
George took a sip and glanced at the open door. He got up, shut it, then paced back to the table. He put his glass down, but remained standing. “I went to see Amy this afternoon.”
When George fell into a pensive daze and yielded nothing further, Jack couldn’t resist. “She wants to call off the wedding?”
George flushed and frowned. “Of course not! For God’s sake, be sensible. This is serious.”
Jack duly composed his features. George grimaced and continued: “When I was leaving, I got talking to Jeffries, Gresham’s head groom. The man’s a mine of information on horses.”
Jack’s stomach clenched, but his expression remained undisturbed.
George’s gaze leveled. “We were talking of bloodlines in the district. He mentioned a black Arab mare, finicky and highbred. According to Jeffries, she belongs to one of Amy’s friends.”
“Amy’s friend?” Jack blinked and the veils fell. He knew, then, what was coming. He should have guessed; there’d been enough inconsistencies in her performance. If he hadn’t been so besotted with her, doubtless he’d have unmasked her long ago. The idea that some part of him had known, but he hadn’t wanted to face the truth, he buried deep.
“Amy’s bosom-bow,” George confirmed, his voice heavy with disapproval. “Miss Kathryn Cranmer. Known as Kit to her intimates.” George slumped into his chair. “She’s Christopher Cranmer’s daughter, Spencer’s grandchild.” George studied Jack’s face. “His legitimate granddaughter.”
For that, of course, was the crowning glory of George’s revelations. As Miss Kathryn Cranmer, Kit was more than eligible for the vacant post of Lady Hendon. And after their recent activities, there was no possibility he’d let her slip through his net. He had her right where he wanted her-in more ways than one. After tonight’s run, he’d call on Spencer. Between them, they’d settle the future of one redheaded houri.
A smile of pleasant anticipation suffused Jack’s face.
George saw it and sighed heavily. “From that besotted look, I take it affairs between you and Kit have gone a lot farther than I’d feel happy about?”
Jack grinned beatifically.
“Christ!” George ran one hand through his dark hair. “Stop grinning. What the hell do you plan to do about it?”
Jack blinked. His grin faded. “Don’t be a fool. I’ll marry the damned woman, of course.”
George just stared, too astounded to say anything.
Jack swallowed his irritation that George should have entertained any other option. That George had thought
George blinked, then shrugged. “A week or so ago.”
Puzzled, Jack asked: “What gave her away?” He’d thought Kit’s disguise particularly good.
“You, mostly,” George absentmindedly replied.
“What do you mean-me?”
Jack’s aggressive tone recaptured George’s attention. Briefly, he grinned. “The way you behaved toward Kit led to only one conclusion. Which I’ll be bound the rest of the Gang jumped to. Matthew and I know you rather better. Which made us wonder about Kit.”
“Humph!” Jack took a swig of his brandy. Had any of the others guessed? Now she’d assumed the title of his future wife, he felt much more critical of Kit’s wildness. He wasn’t at all sure he approved of her having the nerve to do such outrageous things. It didn’t auger well for a peaceful married life.
Jack glanced up to find the shadows deepening. The run was scheduled for immediately after nightfall. He hoped Kit would turn up. Now that he understood what a prize she was, he wanted her safe in his keeping. Quite how he’d handle her return to Cranmer and the inevitable interview with Spencer he hadn’t yet decided. But he wanted her with him tonight.
He wanted to give her a piece of his mind, apologize, propose, and make love to her.
The order was beyond him; he’d leave that in the hands of the gods.
