Her heart in her mouth, Kit met Jack’s gaze, smoldering silver fire. Would he? When his eyes held hers, as if trying to see beyond the passion of the moment, her confidence faltered. Her arms dropped to her sides. The silver gaze fell to her parted lips, then to her breasts, rising and falling rapidly, and finally, to the auburn curls between her widespread thighs.
Jack groaned and took her to the sheets, turning her into his arms. “Hell only knows, Kit Cranmer, but you’re the most wanton virgin I’ve ever known.”
It was the last lucid thought either of them had. Their lips met in a frenzy of need, too long denied to be gentle. The fire of their passion engulfed them, obliterating any lingering reservations. When Jack swung over her, Kit accepted his weight eagerly, her hands kneading his back in frantic entreaty.
Eyes closed, savoring the feel of her slim body arching against his, Jack grimaced. She was going to try his control as it had never been tried before. “Bend your knees up. It’ll make it easier.”
Kit complied with the rough command, too far gone in longing to be concerned over the intimate and vulnerable position. She felt his fingers part her, then hardness, smooth and solid, entered her. The pressure built as he pushed farther, inexorably inward, forcing her heated flesh to yield him passage. There was no pain, but she felt the tension when he abutted the barrier that marked her incontrovertibly virgin. To her dismay, he pulled back. Kit clamped her muscles tight to hold him within her.
Braced above her, he gave a chuckle that changed halfway through to a groan. “Relax.”
Passion permitted her a spurt of resentment. Relax? He might have done this countless times before, but he knew she was a novice. Did he have any idea what it felt like, to have him invading her body in such an intimate way? At the thought, Kit pressed her head back into the pillow. She moaned, with relief, with anticipation, as she felt him return, surging up to the barrier, only to stop and retreat again.
Gradually, as he repeated the motion, Kit caught his rhythm. Instinctively, she matched it, tightening as he withdrew, relaxing as he entered. Even through her slickness, she could feel the friction in her flesh. A flame of a different sort grew steadily, ripples of tension concealed within it.
Jack’s groan was encouraging. He dropped from his elbows, the pressure of his chest soothing her aching breasts. Kit hugged him to her. Her lips sought his, every bit as fervent as he. Her breath was suspended when his tongue delved deep. The sensation that streaked through her was quite different now that he was inside her. Her tension built. She felt her body arch hard against his, her hips lifting, searching. One large hand pushed under her until it cradled her buttocks. At the limit of his next outward movement, the long fingers slipped between her thighs, to the point of their union. And pressed.
Kit came off the bed, arching wildly in the grip of a passion she’d no hope of controlling. In desperate need of air, she dragged her lips from Jack’s, pressing her head back into the pillows. She felt him thrust powerfully and a fiery pain flared inside. Her fingers dug into his back as he plunged deep into her body. Abruptly, the pain of his invasion disappeared in an explosion of delicious release, her tension peaking and overflowing in intense ripples through her straining muscles, the flames he’d stoked transforming pain to pleasure.
It took some minutes before Kit’s mind registered anything beyond the warmth left behind by the flames. They continued to flicker, drawing her back to reality and the fact that. Jack was holding still, his cheek pressed hard against her hair, his breathing a ragged, desperate sound by her ear. Her senses returned and she felt the steady throb of him, deep against her womb.
It was torture of the most exquisite sort, but Jack held still, every muscle clenched with the effort. He should have expected it. The damn woman had done everything she could to bring him low so of course she’d climax at just that moment. As their heartbeats mingled, the tension of her release dwindled. Her body’s instinctive response to his invasion subsided as her muscles adapted to the novelty of having him buried inside her. When her hips tilted slightly, experimentally, as if to draw him deeper, he released the breath he’d been holding and started to move.
Kit responded immediately, caught by the discovery of how easily he rode her now that there was no barrier holding him back. His lips returned to hers and she accepted his kiss eagerly, her body straining against his as sensation washed through her. The tight buds of her nipples brushed his chest, over and over. With something very like awe, she felt that odd tension burgeoning once more, swelling and growing and expanding within her.
Jack released her lips, his breathing labored. His thrusts rocked her; she urged him on, her hips meeting his, her hands urgent on his back.
“Jack!” Kit’s breath caught on a sob.
Her second climax overtook her, hurling her into the limbo of lovers. She was deaf to Jack’s triumphant shout as he followed her.
Firelight filled the room with shifting shadows, gilding the heavy musculature of Jack’s back as he stood at the end of the bed and stared, frowning, at the woman curled naked under the sheet.
The vision of how she’d looked, sprawled, sated and at peace beneath him, shook him. It took no effort to conjure up the rosy-tipped breasts, firm and proud, the tiny waist and those hips that had defeated him under the tree. And her legs—long and slender, thighs firm and strong from riding. She’d given him the ride of his life. He glanced down, and was relieved to see the memory hadn’t stirred him beyond mild interest. She was exhausted—more from her own excesses than his. He’d no plans to mount her again that night.
Jack took a long sip of brandy from the glass in his hand. She’d fallen asleep virtually instantaneously the first time. He’d held her cradled in his arms, tired but not ready to sleep, prey to an emotion he couldn’t define. He’d forgotten it when she’d stirred. Her lids had fluttered, then opened wide, the amethyst eyes large and shining. He’d been watching, interested to see her reaction. Having been in the same position often before, he’d been prepared for anything from shocked reproaches to smug self-satisfaction. He hadn’t been prepared for the smile of dazzling beauty that had lit her face, or the warm tenderness in her eyes. And even less prepared for the kiss she’d bestowed on him.
His body had reacted with a vengeance. His control in abeyance, he’d been unable to rein in the passion that had flared. When her fingers had touched him, stroked him, he’d been rigid and ready for her. He’d heard her chuckle, delighted with his response as she continued to caress him.
“You fool! You’ll be sore enough as it is.”
She’d only laughed, a low, husky, mind-numbing sound that had frazzled his good intentions. “I’m not sore at all.”
He’d lain on his back and tried to ignore her. She’d come over him, her breasts brushing his chest, to kiss him long and lingeringly, exploring his mouth as he had hers. His control had been in tatters by the time she’d drawn back to whisper against his lips: “I want you Jack. Inside me. Now.”
How he’d remained still in the face of such an invitation he’d never know. But she hadn’t been defeated. “I’m hot and wet for you, Jack. See?” And the brazen woman had caught his hand and guided his fingers to where her warm honey was spilling onto her thighs.
With a groan, he’d delved deep and heard her breath catch. An instant later, he’d rolled her onto her back and, with one powerful thrust, had sheathed himself to the hilt in her welcoming warmth. And it hadn’t stopped there.
He’d tried to remind himself she was new to the game, but her responses drove him far beyond rational thought. However hard he pushed her, she met him and urged him on, matching his passion with hers. Of her own volition, she’d wrapped her long legs about his waist, opening to him completely. As her tension had mounted a second time, he’d remembered what he’d promised himself.
“Open your eyes.” Thankfully, she’d responded to his gravelly command, ground out through clenched teeth. His next thrust had sent her spiraling over the precipic
e. As her lids drooped, he’d closed his own eyes in satisfaction. Her eyes had gone black.
Sensing that her release had been total, he’d opened her even wider and thrust deeply, seeking his own ticket to heaven in her fire. He’d found it.
When next he’d been able to sense anything, he’d felt her soft breath on his cheek. She’d fallen asleep while he was still inside her, a small, satisfied smile on her lips. Feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, he’d held her close and turned to his side, careful not to disturb their union. He’d surrendered to sleep, feeling her heartbeat in his veins.
He’d woken ten minutes ago. After gathering his wits, he’d carefully unwound their tangled limbs and pulled the sheets over her. Then headed for the brandy.
The intensity of his satisfaction was one thing. What was much more worrying was this other feeling, an irrational emotion which the events of the night had caused to grow alarmingly. Her whispered plea had been his undoing, in more ways than one.
Jack snorted and sipped his brandy, raising his head to listen to the storm as it swept past. The wind was still howling; the rain was still drumming against the shutters. There’d been a number of cracks of thunder; from them, he judged the worst was past. Outside. Inside, he was far from convinced Kit’s seduction was the end of anything. It felt much more like a beginning.
His eyes traced the curves concealed beneath the sheet. If it’d just been lust, all would be well, but what he felt for the damn woman went far beyond that. Jack grimaced. No doubt George could define the emotion for him, but he, of his own volition, wasn’t ready to do so yet. He didn’t trust the feeling—he’d wait to see what came next. Who knew how she’d behave tomorrow—she’d been one surprise after another thus far.
With a sigh, Jack drained the glass and replaced it on the table. He stoked the fire, then joined Kit between the sheets. She stirred and, in her sleep, snuggled closer. Jack smiled and turned on his side, drawing her to him, curving her back into his chest. He heard her contented sigh as she settled under his arm. At least he wouldn’t have to spend any more nights following her home through the dark.
Chapter 18
Dawn was painting the sky when Kit rode up the paddock at the back of the Cranmer Hall stables. She dismounted and led Delia inside, then unsaddled the mare and rubbed her down. Delia had survived the storm, safe in her stall beside Champion. As for herself, Kit wasn’t so sure.
She couldn’t even remember any thunder, let alone the panic that usually attacked her at such times. What she could remember had kept her cheeks rosy all the way home from the cottage.
The weight of Jack’s arm across her waist had penetrated her doze and brought her fully awake. She’d spent minutes in stunned recollection, as the events of the night had replayed in her brain. Jack had been sound asleep beside her. She’d edged from under his arm, conscious of a reluctance to leave his safe warmth yet quite sure she wouldn’t want to be there when he awoke.
With a last pat for Delia, Kit left the stables. The morning-room windows which gave onto the terrace had long been her favored route for clandestine excursions. Minutes later, she was safe in her chamber. She discarded her clothes, a simple matter now that they were dry. She’d dressed in silent haste, petrified lest Jack should hear her and wake up. But he’d slumbered on, a smile she’d long remember on his lips.
She’d remember his lips for a long time, too. Kit blushed and clambered into her bed. Damn the man—she’d wanted to be initiated, but had he needed to go so far? She couldn’t even think of the experience without blushing. She’d have to get over it, or Amy would become suspicious. The idea of confiding in Amy surfaced, only to be discarded. Amy would be horrified. Scandalized by her wildness. But then, Amy was marrying for love. She, Kit, was not marrying at all.
Kit pulled the covers to her chin and turned on her side, conscious of the empty bed behind her and annoyed at herself for it. She’d have to put the entire episode from her mind or even Spencer would notice. She wasn’t up to analyzing how she felt and what her conclusions on the activity were—she’d do that some other time, when she could think straight again.
She closed her eyes, determined to find slumber. She’d learned what she’d wanted to know—Jack had been a thorough teacher. Her curiosity had been well and truly satisfied. She was free and unfettered. She was no longer in charge of smugglers; she no longer needed to appear at their runs to be a redundant lookout. All was well in the world.
Why couldn’t she sleep?
Seven miles to the north, Jack came awake and instantly knew he was alone. He sat up and scanned the room, then, his privacy confirmed, fell back to the pillows, a puzzled frown on his face. Had he dreamed it?
A glance to the left revealed two bright strands of curling red hair, lying in an indentation in the pillow. Jack picked them up; the dim light filtering through the shutters struck red glints from their surface. Memories flooded him. One brow quirked upward. He lifted the sheet and looked down to where a few flecks of reddish brown stained the cream sheets.
No, he hadn’t dreamed it. Once his mission was complete, he’d build on the start he’d made last night.
Jack groaned. Who was he fooling? His mission might take months. He couldn’t possibly wait that long; after last night, he sincerely doubted she could. Not that she’d know that, but she’d find out soon enough. He might as well face it—for good or ill, Kit Cranmer and his mission looked set to stay entangled, certainly for the forseeable future.
His glance strayed to the bright strands wrapped around his fingers. He should, of course, feel irritated. But irritation was not what he felt.
Four days later, irritation was very close to his surface. He’d spent his Saturday and Sunday in a peculiar daze. On both nights, he’d gone to the cottage, but Kit hadn’t shown up. He’d relieved his frustrations by visiting the Revenue Office at Hunstanton on Monday and making Sergeant Tonkin’s life miserable. His questions had been phrased in an idle way, concealing the fact that he was intimately acquainted with Tonkin’s unsuccessful attempt to trap his “big gang.” He’d made Tonkin squirm, then later felt guilty. The man was a blot on the landscape, but in this instance he’d only been doing his job.
Jack had ridden to the Monday meeting at the Old Barn, silently rehearsing the words he intended to burn Kit’s ears with, when they repaired to the cottage afterward. She hadn’t shown her face.
What annoyed him most was that he actually felt hurt by her nonappearance. And the emotional hurt was much worse than the physical manifestation. At least, thanks to her earlier antics, he’d got used to that.
Now, he stood on the sands in the lee of the cliff and waited for his first “human cargo” to come ashore. He forced his mind back to the present, slamming a mental door against all thoughts of a redheaded houri in breeches. He glanced up at the cliff. Joe was on watch, but Jack doubted Sergeant Tonkin would try his luck quite so soon after his last dismal failure.
The first boat came in, swiftly followed by three more. A cargo of kegs and one man. He was in the first boat, a slight figure muffled to the eyes in an old greatcoat. Matthew, beside Jack, snorted at the sight.
Jack grimaced. “I know, you old warhorse—I’d like to get my hands around his throat, too. But he won’t escape.”
Matthew shifted, checking their surroundings. “D’ye think Major Smeaton’ll have reached London by now?”
“George won’t have dallied on the road. He should have passed the news on by now. There will be a welcome awaiting this one when he gets to London. A welcome he wasn’t counting on.”
“Why can’t we just stop him here?”
“Because we need to know who he’s meeting in London.” Jack started down the beach. Reluctantly, Matthew followed.
Jack paid little attention to the spy, which gave the spy equally little chance of studying him. His disguise was good but not perfect; he’d no idea who the man was or what his station in life might be. A fellow officer, or the personal servant of a
fellow officer, might well recognize him, or at least realize there was something a little odd about the Hunstanton Gang’s leader. Jack busied himself with his material cargo and ignored the man.
The spy was put on a pony, and Shep and two of the older members of the gang set out to deliver him to the ruins of Creake Abbey. From there, he’d be spirited to London, the Admiralty’s tracker on his tail.
Satisfied that all had gone smoothly, Jack followed the kegs to the Old Barn. They’d be taken to the abbey the following night. After the men had dispersed, he and Matthew rode to the cottage. From the first, he’d made a point of changing his clothes and his identity at the old fishing cottage; tonight, he had another reason for calling in. He didn’t have much hope Kit would appear, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep, alone between his silk sheets, if he didn’t check.
The cottage was empty.
Lord Hendon rode home to his castle, cursing all redheaded houris.
There was no moon on Wednesday night. Astride Delia, Kit sat concealed in the deepest shadows under the trees in front of Jack’s cottage and waited for him to return from the Blackbird. She’d determined not to come near him. Nothing could have got her to the cottage again—nothing except the news that the Hunstanton Gang had run a “human cargo” last night.
The past five days seemed an eon in time. She’d been consumed by an odd restlessness that increased daily. Doubtless the effect of delayed guilt. It had even disturbed her sleep. She didn’t need to convince herself of the threat Jack represented. He was a smuggler—not of her class, hardly an acceptable suitor. The events of Friday night were burned into her brain; the effects were burned into her flesh. She’d wanted to know—now she knew. But that didn’t mean she could turn her back on Spencer and all he represented. She was a gentlewoman, no matter how much that sometimes irked. After the night of the storm, Jack was not just forbidden fruit—he was danger personified.