“Matthew says a body put in here will be taken out to sea.”
Jack nodded. A disappearance would be easier all around. Bodies had to be explained, and explaining Belville’s would not help their mission.
“Joe-we have to find Joe!”
Kit’s voice jerked both her listeners to a sense of their duty.
“No!” came from both of them.
“I’ll take you home,” Jack continued. “George will deal with Joe.”
But Kit drew back as far as he’d let her, shaking her head vehemently. “But he might not…No. We have to look now!”
Both men registered the note of hysteria in her voice. They exchanged troubled glances over her head.
“Come on!” Kit was tugging at Jack’s arm. “He might be dying while you argue!”
Neither Jack nor George held much hope for Joe but neither felt confident of convincing Kit of the fact he was almost certainly dead already. With a sigh, Jack released her but retained a firm hold on her hand. Together, the three of them mounted to the cliff and approached the hillock.
A pathetic bundle in worn clothes was all that remained of Joe. The sand about was stained with the blood that had poured from the gaping wound in his neck. Kit stared. Then, with a convulsive sob, she buried her face in Jack’s shirt.
George checked but there was no vestige of life left in the huddled form.
Kit struggled to draw breath. For weeks, she’d been Jack’s lookout, playing smuggler without a care in the world. It had all been a game. But Joe’s death was no game. If she’d still been with Jack, she would have died. Instead, Joe had gone. Any possibility of feeling remorse for killing Belville disappeared, run to ground along with Joe’s blood. She’d avenged Joe, and for that she was glad.
The sudden rush of emotions weakened her to the point where Jack’s arms were the only thing holding her upright. He sensed her draining strength and swore.
To Jack, the sight of his murdered lookout was a scene from a nightmare. Of course, in his worst nightmare, the huddled figure was Kit. The fact that it was Joe who had died muted the shock, but it was still very real. Badly shaken, he swung Kit into his arms, drawing comfort from the warmth in her slim frame.
George looked up. “Matthew and I will sort this out. For the Lord’s sake, get her home. And don’t leave her alone.”
Jack needed no further urging. He carried his silent wife down to the horses and set her on Champion. He swung up behind her and settled her against him. “Where’s your horse?”
Kit told him as they negotiated the climb to the cliff. Jack rode to the trees and tied the mare to Champion’s saddle before setting a direct course for the Castle. His one aim was to get a brandy into Kit and then get her to bed. She was already shivering. He’d no experience of deep shock in women, but he fully expected her to get worse.
As they traversed the moonlit fields, Kit struggled to find her mental feet. She’d killed a man. No matter how she viewed that fact, she was unable to feel anything like guilt. In the same position, she’d do it again. He’d been about to kill Jack, and that was all that had mattered. As Castle Hendon loomed on the horizon, she accepted reality. Jack was hers-like any female of any species, she’d kill in a loved one’s defense.
“We’ll have to do something for Joe’s family.”
The sudden comment brought Jack out of his daze.
“Don’t worry. I’ll deal with it.”
“Yes, but…” Kit went on, unaware she was babbling all but incoherently.
Jack soothed her with reassurances. Eventually, she quieted, as if her outburst had drained her remaining strength. She sagged against him, comfortingly alive. Jack concentrated on guiding Champion through the darkening fields. His mind was full of conflicting emotions. The moon was setting; it was full dark by the time he clattered into his stables.
He shouted for Martins. The man came at a run, tucking his nightshirt into his breeches. Jack dismounted, then lifted Kit down, ignoring Martins’s shocked stare. His wife’s breeches were the most minor of the concerns pressing for his attention. He left Martins to deal with the horses and carried Kit to the house. He let them in through a side door. A single candle waited on the table just inside. Jack ignored it. He carried Kit straight to her room.
Once there, he stripped her of her clothes, ignoring her protests, handling her gently, like a child. He grabbed a towel and rubbed her briskly, over every square inch, until she glowed. Kit grumbled and tried to stop him, then gave up and lay still, slowly relaxing under his hands. He left her for a moment, stretched naked on her bed, her coverlet thrown over her. When he returned from his room, he was also naked and carried two glasses of brandy.
Jack slipped under the coverlet, feeling Kit’s satin skin warm against his. “Here. Drink this.”
He held the glass to her lips and persevered until, under protest, she’d drained it. He drained his own in one gulp and put both glasses on the table. Then he slipped down into the bed beside her, gathering her into his arms.
To his surprise, Kit turned to look up at him. She put up one hand to draw his head down to hers. He kissed her. And went on kissing her as he felt her come alive.
It hadn’t been his intention, but when later he lay sated and close to sleep, Kit a warm bundle beside him, he had to admit his wife’s timing had not been at fault. Their union had been an affirmation of their need for each other, of the fact that they were both still alive. They’d needed the moment.
Jack yawned and tightened his hold about Kit. There were things he had to think of, before he could yield to sleep. Someone had to take news of Belville’s death posthaste to London. It sounded as if “Henry” was Belville’s superior in the spying trade, and presumably worked somewhere in Whitehall. Whoever Henry was, they needed to make sure of him before Belville’s disappearance tipped him off. Could George go to London? No-whoever went would need to explain Belville’s death. He could take responsibility for his wife’s actions; no other man could.
He would have to go, and go early.
Jack glanced down at Kit’s curly red head, a fuzz in the darkness. He grimaced. She wouldn’t be pleased, but there was no help for it.
The vision of her, his smoking pistol in her hand, came back to haunt him. He hadn’t known what he’d felt when he’d seen her standing there and realized what she’d done. He still didn’t.
No husband should have to go through the traumas she’d put him through. When he returned from London, that was something he
Chapter 28
When Kit woke and saw the letter, addressed to her in her husband’s scrawl, propped on the pillow beside her, she groaned and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the letter was still there.
Damn him! What now? Muttering French curses, she sat up and broke the seal.
Her shriek of fury brought Elmina hurrying in. “
“
Kit threw down the letter and flung the covers from her legs, barely noticing her nakedness in her anger. She accepted the gown Elmina, scandalized, threw about her shoulders, shrugging into the silk confection before she realized it was one of those he’d bought her. “What’s the use of these things if he’s not even here to see them?”
Her furious question was addressed to the ceiling. Elmina left it unanswered.
By the time Kit had bathed and breakfasted, very much alone, her temper had cooled to an icy rage. She read her husband’s letter three more times, then ripped it to shreds.
Determined not to think about it, she tried to submerge herself in her daily routine with varied success. But when evening approached and she was still alone, her distractions became limited. In the end, after a lonely dinner, seated in splendid solitude at the dining table, she retired to the library, to the chair by the fire, to stare broodingly
