Captain Jack's Woman Read online

  The stables were large, set around two interconnecting yards. Kit wandered along the rows of stalls, searching for Delia’s black hide. The head groom came out of the second courtyard. Catching sight of her, he hurried over, doffing his cap as he came.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  Kit waited for him to ask if he could help her. When he simply stood, plainly nervous, twisting his hat in his hands, she took pity on him. “I’d like my horse, please. The black mare.”

  To her surprise, the man subjected his hat to a further twist and looked even more uncomfortable. Kit frowned, a nasty suspicion displacing her good humor. “Where is Delia?”

  “The master said to put her in the back paddock, my lady.”

  Kit put her hands on her hips. “Where is this back paddock?”

  The groom waved in a southerly direction. “Over the hills a-way.”

  Too far to walk. Before Kit could ask her next question, the groom added: “The master said she was only to be brought up at his orders, ma’am.”

  Inwardly, Kit seethed. There was no point haranguing the groom; he was only obeying orders. The person she wanted to harangue, needed to harangue, was the giver of those orders. Abruptly, she turned on her heel. “Send word to me the moment Lord Hendon returns.”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am but he came in not ten minutes ago.”

  Kit’s eyes glittered. “Thank you—Martins, isn’t it?”

  The groom bowed.

  Kit rewarded him with a stiff smile and marched back to the house.

  She found Jack in the library. She sailed into the room and waited until she heard Lovis shut the door before advancing on her husband. He was standing behind his desk, a sheet of paper in his hand. Noting the arrested look in his eyes, she realized any attempt to hide her anger would be wasted. She drew breath, only to have him seize the initiative.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t back for lunch. How did your tour with Mrs. Miles go?” Jack dropped his list on the blotter and came around the desk.

  Thrown by the mild question, Kit blinked, then realized Jack was advancing on her. He was going to kiss her. Nimble-footed, she stepped around a chair. “Er…fine. What have you done with my horse?”

  His flanking attack defeated, Jack halted and faced her guns. He contemplated her belligerent stance, muted in effect by her retreat behind the chair. “I’ve had her put in a paddock large enough for her to stretch her legs.”

  “She stretches her legs often enough. I ride her every day.”

  “Past tense.”

  Kit frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You rode her every day.”

  When no further explanation was forthcoming, Kit gritted her teeth and asked: “Just what are you trying to say?”

  “As of now, you ride Delia only when I ride with you. Other than Champion, there’s no beast in Norfolk that can keep up with that black streak you call a horse. I won’t saddle my grooms with the responsibility of trying to keep you in sight. Hence, you ride with me, or accept a meeker mount and take a groom with you.”

  Kit had never known exactly what flabbergasted felt like. Now, she knew. She was so angry, she couldn’t even decide which point to attack first.

  The obvious riposte—that Delia was her horse—had an equally obvious answer. As his wife, all her property was his. But his dictates were outrageous. Kit’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Jonathon,” she said, using his given name for the first time since their wedding vows, “I’ve been riding since I could walk. In the country, I’ve ridden alone all my life. I will not—”

  “Be continuing in such unacceptable style.”

  Kit bit her tongue to keep from screaming. The unemotional statement sounded far more ominous than Spencer’s ranting ever had. She drew a deep breath and forced her tone to a reasonable pitch. “Everyone around about knows I ride alone. They think nothing of it. On Delia, I’m perfectly safe. As you’ve just pointed out, no one can catch me. None of our neighbors would feel the least bit scandalized to see me riding alone.”

  “None of our neighbors would imagine I’d allow you to do so.”

  It was an effort, but Kit swallowed the curse that rose to her lips. Her husband’s calm gaze hadn’t wavered. He was watching her, politely attentive but with the cool certainty that he’d be the victor in this little contretemps stamped all over his arrogant face. This was the side of Jack she didn’t know but had surmised must exist; this was Jonathon.

  Kit tried a different tack. “Why?”

  Explaining was not his style, but in this case, Jack knew the ground to be firm beneath his feet. She was new to his bridle; it wouldn’t hurt to give his reasons. “Firstly, as Lady Hendon, your behavior will be taken as a standard for others to follow, a status not accorded Miss Kathryn Cranmer but a point I’m sure Lady Marchmont and company would quickly make clear to you if I did not.” He paused to let the implication of that sink in. Strolling toward the chair behind which Kit had taken refuge, he continued: “There’s also the fact that your safety is of prime concern to me.” Another pause enabled him to trap her gaze in his. “And I don’t consider riding the countryside alone a suitably safe pastime for my wife.”

  Was he really just concerned for her welfare? Kit opened her mouth, but Jack held up a hand to stop her.

  “Spare me your arguments, Kit. I won’t change my mind. Spencer let you ride alone for far longer than was acceptable. He’d be the first to admit it.” Kit stiffened as Jack’s gaze slowly traveled the length of her slim frame. A subtle smile twisted his lips. “You’re not a child anymore, my dear. You are, in fact, a most delectable plum. One I’ve no intention of letting any other man taste.”

  One arrogant brow lifted, inviting her comment. Kit bit her lip, then blurted out: “If I were in breeches, no man would look twice at me.”

  She shifted uneasily as she watched Jack’s smile grow. It wasn’t entirely encouraging, for it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “If I ever come upon Lady Hendon in breeches, do you know what I’ll do?”

  The soft, velvety tones transfixed Kit. She felt her eyes grow round, trapped in her husband’s gaze. Little flames flickered deep. Slowly, all but mesmerized, Kit shook her head.

  “Wherever we are, indoors or out, I’ll take great delight in removing said breeches from her.”

  Kit swallowed.

  “And then—”

  “Jack!” Kit scowled. “Stop it! You’re just trying to scare me.”

  Jack’s brows flew. He reached out and, to Kit’s surprise, pushed the chair from between them. She hadn’t realized he was so close. Before she could react, he caught her elbows and pulled her to him. Trapped within the circle of his arms, Kit looked into his face, her pulse accelerating. A peculiarly devilish look had settled over his features. “Am I?”

  For the life of her, Kit couldn’t decide if he was teasing or not.

  “Try me, by all means, if you doubt it.”

  The invitation was accompanied by a look which made Kit vow not to call his bluff. She became engrossed in smoothing his lapel. “But I need the exercise.”

  Even as the plaintive words escaped her lips, Kit realized her error. Her eyes flew wide; there was no way she would risk looking up.

  A nerve-stretching pause ensued. “Really?” came the mild reply.

  Kit wasn’t about to answer.

  “I’ll bear that in mind, my dear. I’m sure I can devise any number of novel ways to exercise you.”

  Kit didn’t doubt it. The tremor in the deep voice suggested he didn’t either. A maxim of Lady Gresham’s recurred in her mind.When all else fails, try cajoling. She looked up. “Jack—”

  But he shook his head. “Give over, Kit. I won’t change my mind.”

  Kit stared into his perfectly serious eyes and knew it was beyond her powers to sway him. With a sigh of exasperation, of deep frustration, she grimaced at him.

  He kissed her pouting lips. And kept kissing them until she yielded. Feeling her wits slip
their moorings, Kit summoned enough will for one mental curse against masterful men, before settling down to enjoy one.

  For the rest of that day, she maintained an attitude that was the very essence of wifely complaisance. Her halo positively glowed. Her husband had insisted—she’d desisted. If she couldn’t win the bout, she was detemined to make the most of her defeat. Unfortunately, Jack showed every sign of being overly understanding. When he used her newfound meekness to trap her into agreeing to retire early, Kit rapidly reverted to her usual argumentative self. Only by then it was too late.

  She had her revenge two days later, when the question of her visiting the shops in Lynn arose. It quickly became clear that Jack was not enamored of the idea of her being simultaneously out of his sight and off Hendon lands. She simply shrugged. “If you want to come with me, I’ve no objection.” She kept her eyes, wide and innocent, on the gloves she was buttoning up. “But I hadn’t imagined you sitting in on all the visits I’ll have to pay in a few weeks. Not but what the ladies would be only too pleased to see you.”

  She won her carriage by default. But when she descended the front steps on her husband’s arm, it was to see, not one, but two footmen waiting in attendance. She hesitated only a moment, taken aback by the sight but, by now, too wise not to accept the better part of victory with good grace. The footmen dogged her steps throughout her expedition.

  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.

  Lord Hendon is Captain Jack.

  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—Oh!”

  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.