Despite such adjustments, the end of their first week of married life arrived without major drama. Settled in an armchair before the fire in the library, Kit yawned and gave in to one of her favorite fascinations, studying the way her husband’s brown hair glinted gold in lamplight. He was seated at the huge desk placed across one corner of the room, going through a ledger. Their interactions had fallen into a routine, a fact for which she was grateful. After so many years essentially alone, she found it reassuring to know when Jack would be with her and when her mind would be free to deal with the more mundane of Lady Hendon’s duties. To her surprise, she was fast coming to the conclusion that married life would suit her after all.
Her days tended to start at dawn, although she’d not yet managed to leave her bed before nine. Her previous habit of riding before breakfast had died a death, thanks to Jack’s amorous inclinations. He still rode early, though how he managed it was beyond her. After the shortest of recuperative naps, he’d be up and about while she lay sprawled under her green satin coverlet, her limbs weighted with delicious languor, utterly incapable of moving, let alone thinking. After bathing, dressing, and breakfasting, usually alone, she would check with Mrs. Miles and issue her orders for the day. The time before luncheon was easily filled with trips to the stillroom, the laundry, the kitchen or the gardens. Jack usually joined her for luncheon, after which, on all but one day, he made himself available to escort her on a ride. She’d accepted his offers with alacrity, thankful not to have to forgo her daily round with Delia.
On the afternoon he’d been detained at Hunstanton, she’d swallowed her pride and asked for the mare he’d chosen as Delia’s substitute to be saddled. Escorted by a senior groom, she’d set out for Gresham Manor.
As newlyweds, their first weeks would be theirs, to settle into married life without distraction. But after that, the bridevisits would start. And the dinners. Kit knew what to expect; the prospect held no terrors for her, but she did wonder how her socially ept but reluctant husband would cope.
Her visit with Amy had been relaxing but had highlighted the truth of Jack’s warning that her status as Lady Hendon was a far cry from the importance of one Miss Cranmer. The idea of taking precedence over Lady Gresham required some adjustment. Her ladyship commented favorably on the correctness of her escort. Kit bit her tongue. Amy was dying to hear her private news, but Lady Gresham, also curious, did not leave them alone. Kit departed the Manor with the definite impression that she’d disappointed her friends by remaining essentially herself, rather than being visibly transformed in some miraculous way by her husband’s legendary skills.
She’d ridden back to Castle Hendon chuckling all the way, much to the confusion of her groom.
The fire crackled and hissed as a drop of rain found its way down the chimney. Kit stifled another yawn. Of all the times in their day, the evenings were the most peaceful. Until they went upstairs to her bedroom. But even there, the atmosphere had calmed. The tenor of their lovemaking had changed; knowing there was nothing to keep them from spending however many hours they wished on the road to paradise, Jack seemed content to keep progress as slow as she wished, spinning out their time in that bliss-filled world. His touch was exquisite, his timing faultless. Each night there were new doors to open, new avenues to explore. Each led to the same peak, beyond which lay a selfless void of indescribable sensation. Her delight in learning the pathways of pleasure was unfeigned; he was a patient teacher.
Kit sighed and smiled at his bent head.
She was eagerly awaiting her next lesson.
A boom of thunder shook Kit awake. She curled tight and clutched the covers over her ears, but still the reverberations echoed through her bones. Then she remembered she was a married woman and reached for her husband. Her groping hand met empty air. There was nobody in the bed beside her.
Kit sat up and stared, first at the rumpled sheets, then about the empty room. Lightning lit the chamber, a bright beam shafting through a chink in the curtains. Kit flinched. Where was Jack when she needed him?
The following thunderclap propelled her to her feet. She snatched up the scandalous silk negligee Jack had insisted she wear so he could enjoy divesting her of it, and wrapped its gossamer folds about her, cinching the tie tight. With a determined frown, Kit made for a door beyond which she’d yet to explore-the one that led to Jack’s rooms. Whatever his reasons for going to his own bed on this of all nights, she intended making it perfectly plain that during thunderstorms, his place was by her side.
As she’d suspected, the door led to the master bedroom. If her room was large, Jack’s was enormous. And equally empty. Kit stared into the shadowy corners, then sank onto the bed as realization struck.
In the upheavals of the past weeks, she’d completely forgotten that fact. After recovering from her wound, she’d tacitly accepted that becoming Lady Hendon meant no more smuggling. She was convinced Lord Hendon would see it that way. She’d put all thought of the Hunstanton Gang from her. But, apparently, Captain Jack intended to go his own road, regardless.
Oblivious of the storm raging outside, Kit sat on Jack’s bed and struggled to make sense of the facts in her hands. It was no use-they simply did not form a coherent whole. When the cold penetrated her thin gown, she crawled to the pillows and drew the coverlet about her. Lord Hendon had been appointed as High Commissioner specifically to stop the smuggling of spies. The same Lord Hendon, in his guise as Captain Jack, was actively engaged in smuggling spies. Despite his total disinterest in the subject, she’d gleaned sufficient snippets to confirm her vague notion that the same Lord Hendon had a war record-an exemplary war record. In fact, according to Matthew, he was a damned hero. So what the hell was he doing smuggling spies?
With a frustrated growl, Kit thumped the pillow and laid her head down. She was missing bits of this jigsaw. Jack, damn his hide, was playing some deep game.
Sleep tugged at her lids and she yawned. She could understand why he hadn’t told her before. But she wasn’t a smuggler anymore-she was his wife. Why shouldn’t he tell her now? With a little nod, Kit settled her chin deeper into the pillow and closed her eyes. She’d stay here until he did.
The bed curtains stirred in the current of air as the door opened and shut. Kit came awake with a start. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, she instantly espied her husband’s large form as he crossed the room to the washstand.
He hadn’t seen her in the shadows of the bed.
Kit watched as he stripped off his shirt, then grabbed a towel and dried his hair. She tuned her senses to the night sounds; the storm had eased; it was raining. As Jack passed the towel over his shoulders and chest, Kit realized he must be soaked. He sat on a chair and, with an effort, pulled off his boots. When he stood, bending to place the boots aside, she asked: “What was the cargo tonight? Brandy or lace?”
She saw every muscle in his large frame tense, then relax. Slowly, Jack straightened and looked directly at her. Kit held her breath. The silence was so deep she could hear the rain spattering the window panes.
“Brandy.”
Kit hugged her knees. “Nothing else?” she inquired innocently.
Jack didn’t answer. Her presence in his room at this particular moment had not been part of his plan. Just as it formed no part of his plan to satisfy her curiosity about Captain Jack’s nocturnal adventures. From Spencer, he had learned about her cousin Julian; he now understood her interest in stopping the spies. A praiseworthy ideal for the High Commissioner’s lady. But telling her anything at all was out of the question.
This was the woman who’d blithely accepted a position as leader of a smuggling gang, the same woman who on more than one occasion had disobeyed his explicit orders. Even hinting at the truth was too dangerous.
Intent on getting warm as quickly as possible, Jack peeled off his sodden breeches, leaving them in a heap on the floor. He toweled his legs and cast a considering glance at the bed. Now she was here…
Kit tried to ignore the tingle of anticipation that flickered along her nerves. “Jack, what’s-
She bit back a squeal as Jack landed on the bed beside her. He wrestled the covers away from her. The thin film of her negligee was summarily dispensed with before he rolled her beneath him. His lips found hers as her hands, and the rest of her, made contact with his naked body. After a blood-stirring duel of tongues, Kit drew back to gasp: “You dolt! You’re freezing! You’ll catch your death of cold.” His skin was iced, all except one part of him, which was already basking in the heat at the juncture of her thighs.
“Not if you warm me up.”
Kit gasped as she felt one large hand slip beneath her bottom, tilting her hips, opening her to his invasion. She felt his spine slowly flex. Hard as steel, smooth as silk, he entered her. Kit gasped again, her body arching in instinctive welcome.
His lips sought hers. They moved together, Kit following his lead, rising to his thrusts, stoking the flames higher
