Kit moaned with each successive onslaught on her senses. An urgent ache had developed between her thighs. She longed to ease it; she knew how. But Jack relentlessly stoked her fire, apparently unaware of her need.
“Jack!” Kit put all the longing she could into the syllable. Instantly, she felt his hands pushing aside her shirt to reach between her thighs. She sighed in relief when first one long finger, then two, slid into her. The fingers moved and she gasped, concentrating on their probing. They settled to a rhythm she recognized; she matched it. Jack’s mouth continued on her breasts, his tongue laving the sensitized peaks, sending streams of fire coursing down her veins.
Jack waited until her gasps were quick and uneven, until her hips were pressing against his hand, her body seeking greater satisfaction. Her honey poured over his fingers as he drew them from her. “Now take me inside you.”
The growled command was barely discernable but Kit heard and needed no further urging. She edged back, to where his member waited, throbbing with the desire to ease her need. She lowered herself onto it, tilting her hips to catch its head, drawing it into her. As soon as she felt him enter her, Kit sank back, taking him fully in one smooth movement.
Jack couldn’t breathe. He grabbed her hips and raised her slightly. Immediately, Kit took the initiative, rising until he felt sure he’d lose her clinging heat, only to impale herself more deeply on the downward stroke. Once he was sure she was in control, Jack drew a ragged breath and refocused his attention on her breasts, warm and ripe beneath the tantalizing film of her shirt.
Kit savored the sensation of being in complete control, able to slide his strength into her at whatever pace she desired. She spread her thighs wide and took him deep; she experimented, clenching her muscles tight about him, closing her thighs to minimize penetration.
She felt Jack’s hands close about her breasts, one hand covering each ripe mound, squeezing in rhythm with her ride. His fingers found her nipples. Then he started rocking his hips against hers, driving into her as she descended. Abruptly, Kit understood the purpose of her shirt. The edge floated on her thighs, rising and falling as she did, bringing home to her the view Jack would have if he was watching their bodies merge.
As she felt her fires coalescing, pooling into the conflagration that would ultimately consume her senses, Kit forced her eyes open. Jack was watching. Avidly.
With a groan she closed her eyes. Her head dropped back as the fires raged. She tightened her body, trying to hold back the inevitable, to prolong the sweet agony for just a little longer.
Jack wasn’t up to prolonging anything. The sensual sight of their bodies fusing, of his staff driving into her, slickly penetrating her fevered body, was not designed to stave off consummation. He felt her body clench against release, tightening about him. He let go of her breasts and gripped her hips, holding her immobile. Drinking in the sight, he drove deeply into her.
That was all it took.
They climaxed together, gasping, their eyes open, gazes locked, their souls as fused as their bodies.
Kit’s release swept her, draining her of all strength. She slumped forward and Jack gathered her to him, settling her legs so she lay on top of him, tucking her head under his chin.
She fell asleep with his arms about her.
When Kit awoke, they were lying entangled under the covers. She couldn’t remember being moved, but Jack now lay sleeping beside her, one arm tucked protectively about her. Kit smiled sleepily, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her cheek. She was warm and secure, sated and content. Which was more than she’d been able to say since Wednesday night.
She squinted over the bedclothes at the window; the pink tinge of sunset was coloring the sky. It was nearly time to leave.
Memories of her recent activities drifted through her brain. She stifled a delighted giggle, then sobered. If she’d learned anything from today’s episode, it was that she couldn’t live without Jack. The fire in her veins was a drug she could no longer face the day without. Only he could stoke the blaze.
But Jack was smuggling spies.
Kit snuggled closer to his comforting warmth. She knew, beyond all doubt, that he was not personally involved with the spying. He was just misguided, believing it no different than smuggling brandy. She’d have to ensure, next time, that she explained it to him fully. It was up to her to make him see sense.
She had to succeed. There were three lives depending on it—Julian’s, Jack’s, and hers. Kit sighed. She’d speak to him about it next time she came. There was no point in spoiling the moment now.
Carefully, she eased from Jack’s side, only to have him draw her back, his arm heavy in sleep. Kit glanced at the window. Perhaps it wasn’t that late. She wriggled against Jack, rising up to find his lips with hers. And set about kissing him awake.
Chapter 20
The stars fell from Kit’s eyes on Monday night. She’d decided to attend the meeting at the Old Barn. Although she no longer felt compelled to join the smugglers on their runs, she needed to see Jack, to try to learn more about his views on “human cargoes.” When better to lead the conversation in that direction than on the slow ride back to the cottage after the meeting? She held few illusions as to how much rational discussion they’d engage in once they entered the cottage. But he’d only run one “human cargo” in the last two months; she had time, she felt, to pursue his conversion at a leisurely pace.
The meeting had already started when she got there. She slipped into the protective shadows at the back of the barn and found a dusty crate to perch on. Some noticed her furtive entrance; a few nodded an acknowledgment before returning their attention to Jack, standing in the cone of weak light shed by a single lamp.
Kit saw his grey eyes sweep her, but Jack’s recitation of detail never faltered. He was midway through describing a cargo to be brought in the next night on the beaches east of Holme. Kit listened with half an ear, fascinated by the way the lamplight gilded the odd streaks in his hair.
Jack turned to address Shep. “You and Johnny collect the passenger from Creake at dusk. Bring him direct to the beach.”
Kit froze.
Shep nodded; Jack turned to Noah. “Come in and pick him up. Your boat should be the last to the ship. Transfer him and get the last of the goods.”
“Aye.” Noah ducked his head.
“That’s it, then.” Jack scanned the faces, all weatherworn, most expressionless. “We’ll meet again Thursday as usual.”
With grunts and nods, the band dispersed, unobtrusively slipping into the night in twos and threes. The lamp was hauled down and extinguished.
Still Kit sat her crate, head down, her face hidden by the brim of her tricorne. Jack eyed her silent figure. His misgivings grew. What the devil was wrong now? He’d expected her to arrive, but her pensiveness was unsettling. Eagerness was what he’d been expecting after her efforts of Sunday afternoon.
George and Matthew joined him by the now open door.
“I’m heading straight home.” George spoke in a subdued tone, clearly aware Kit was behind in the gloom. He raised a questioning brow.
Jack’s jaw set. He nodded decisively. George slipped into the night.
“You’d best be on your way, too.”
“Aye.” Matthew went without question. Jack watched him mount and head south, through the shielding trees and into the fields beyond.
In the darkness behind Jack, Kit struggled to bring some order to her mind. Jack must have known about this latest “human cargo” since his visit to the Blackbird last Wednesday. Although she’d spent all Wednesday night and Sunday afternoon by his side, he’d not mentioned the fact. He’d not even alluded to it. So much for her ideas of learning of the spies ahead of time. Now, she’d less than twenty-four hours to make a decision and act.
When the silence of the barn remained unbroken, Jack turned and paced inside. He stopped where the moonlight ran out, and looked to where he knew Kit still sat. “What is it?”
At his impatient tone, Kit bristled, a fact Jack missed in the dark. Realizing her advantage, she took a long moment to weigh her strategy. She’d intended dissuading Jack from his treasonous enterprise; it was still worth a try. But the drafty barn, with its loose boards and warped doors, was no place to have a discussion on treason, particularly not with the person you suspected of committing it. “I need to talk with you.”
Hands on hips, Jack glared into the dark. Talk? Was she up to her tricks again? He was getting damned tired of her changes in mood. He’d thought, after Sunday, that their relationship had got itself on an even keel—that she’d accepted her position as his mistress. Admittedly, she didn’t know whose mistress she was, but he didn’t think she’d jib at the change from smuggler to lord of the castle. He didn’t think she’d jib, period.
Then he remembered she’d been watching him avidly when she’d first come in. Her attitude had changed later. An inkling of his problem blossomed in Jack’s brain. “If you want to talk, it’d better be back at the cottage.”
Kit stood and walked forward.
Jack heard her. He turned and strode to the door, not looking back to see if she was following. He went to where Champion stood tethered under a gnarled fir and vaulted into the saddle. He nudged the stallion into a canter, ignoring the horse’s reluctance. Champion’s gait didn’t flow freely until halfway across the first field, when Delia drew alongside.
Jack rode in silence, his eyes probing the shadows ahead, his mind firmly fixed on the woman by his side. Why should she get her inexpressibles in a twist over him smuggling spies? Did she even know they were spies? The road appeared ahead, and he turned Champion onto the beaten surface.
Edging Delia up alongside Champion, Kit glanced at Jack’s stern profile. It wasn’t encouraging. Far from dampening her determination, the observation strengthened her resolution. Matthew was Jack’s servant, George a too-close friend; neither had shown the slightest ability to influence Jack. Clearly, it was time someone forced him to consider his conscience. She didn’t expect him to like the fact she intended to be that someone, but male arrogance was no excuse. She’d tell him what she thought regardless of what he felt.
They turned south and walked their mounts up the winding path to the top of the rise. Kit watched as Jack peered down, automatically ensuring that they hadn’t been followed. The path below remained clear. She saw Jack grimace before he turned Champion’s head for the cottage. Setting Delia in Champion’s wake, she fell to organizing her arguments.
Jack dismounted before the stable and led Champion in. Kit did likewise, taking Delia to the neighboring stall. Having decided on her route of attack, she went straight to the point. “You do know the men you bring in and take out are spies, don’t you?”
Jack’s answer was to thump his saddle down on top of the partition between the stalls. Kit stared into the gloom. So he was going to be difficult. “You’ve been in the army, haven’t you? You must know what sort of information’s going out with your ‘human cargoes.’”
When silence prevailed, Kit dropped her saddle on the partition and leaned on it to add: “You must have known men who died over there. How can you help the enemy kill more of our soldiers?”
In the dark, Jack closed his eyes against the memories her words unleashed. Known men who’d died? He’d had an entire troop die about him, blown to hell by cannon and grapeshot. He’d only escaped because a charger harnessed to one of the guns he’d been trying to reposition had fallen on him. And because Matthew, against all odds, had found him amidst the bloody carnage of the retreat.
Champion shifted, nudging him back to the present. Unclenching his fingers, he grabbed a handful of straw and fell to brushing the glossy grey coat. He had to keep moving, to keep doing, letting her words, however undeserved, wash over him. If he reacted, the truth would tumble out, and, God knew, the game they were playing was too dangerous for that.
When Kit realized she wasn’t going to get any verbal reaction, she plowed on, determined to make Jack see the error of his ways. “Just because you survived with a whole skin doesn’t mean you can forget about it.”
Jack paused and considered telling her just how little he’d forgotten. Instead, he forced himself to continue mutely grooming Champion.
Kit glared in his direction, uncertain whether he could see her or not. She grasped some straw and started to brush Delia. “Smuggling’s one thing. It might be against the law, but it’s only dishonest. It’s more than dishonest to make money from selling military information. From selling other men’s lives. It’s treason!”
Jack’s brows rose. She should be in politics. He’d finished rubbing Champion down. He dropped the straw and headed for the door. As he crossed the front of the cottage, he heard a muffled oath from the stable. As he went through the doorway, he heard Kit’s footsteps following. Jack headed straight for the keg on the sideboard.
Kit followed him into the room, slamming the door behind her. “Well, whatever…” Her voice died as she blinked into the black void left once the door had shut. She heard a muttered curse, then a boot hit a chair leg. An instant later, a match scraped, then soft light flared. Jack adjusted the wick, until the lamp threw just enough light to see by. Then he grabbed his glass, half-filled with brandy, and dropped into the chair on the other side of the table, his long legs stretched before him, his eyes broodingly watching her.
“Whatever,” Kit reiterated firmly, trying to ignore all that lounging masculinity, “you can’t continue to run your ‘human cargoes.’ They may pay well, but you’re running too great a risk.” She glared at the figure across the table, as inanimate as the chair he occupied. In the low light, she could barely make out his features, much less his expression. “What sort of leader knowingly exposes his men to such dangers?”
Jack shifted as her words pricked him. He prided himself on taking care of those in his command.
Kit sensed her advantage and pounced. “Smuggling’s a transportable offense; treason’s a hanging matter. You’re deliberately leading these men, who don’t know enough to understand the risks, to court death.” When no response came, she lost her temper. “Dammit! They’ve got families dependent on them! If they’re taken and hanged, who’s going to look after them?”
Jack’s chair crashed to the floor, overturned as he surged to his feet. Kit’s nerves jangled. She took an instinctive step back.
“What the hell would you know of taking care of anyone? Taking responsibility for anything? You’re a woman, dammit!”
The outburst hauled Jack to his senses. Of course she was a woman. Of course she knew nothing of leading and the consequent worries. He should know better than to let a woman’s words get under his skin. He frowned and took another sip of his brandy, holding her silent with a glower. What he couldn’t fathom, what he should pay more attention to understanding, was why she was so opposed to him running spies. In his experience, women of her ilk cared little for such abstract matters. Whoever heard of a lowborn mistress lecturing her aristocratic lover on the morality of political intrigue?
With an effort, Kit shook free of Jack’s intimidating stare and glared back. Setting her hands on her hips, she opened her mouth to put him right on the role of women.
Jack got in first, one long finger stabbing the air for emphasis. “You’re a woman. You’re not the leader of a gang of smugglers—you played at being a lad in charge of a small group, but that’s all.” His empty glass hit the table. He placed both hands beside it and leaned forward. “If I hadn’t come along and relieved you of command, you’d have sunk without trace long since. You know nothing—nothing—of leading men.”
Kit’s eyes sparked violet daggers; her lips parted on words of rebuttal.
Jack was in no mood to give her a chance. “And if you’ve any notion on lecturing me on the matter, I suggest you keep your ill-advised opinions to yourself!”
Fury surged through Kit’s veins, cindering her innate caution. Her eyes narrowed. “I see.” She stu
died the large form, bent intimidatingly over the table, the very table where she’d lain, sprawled in wanton abandon, five nights before, with him, erect, engorged, between her wide-spread thighs.
Kit blinked and shook aside the unhelpful memory. She rushed into speech. “In that case, I’ll have to take…” Some sixth sense made her pause. She looked into the grey eyes watching her. Caution caught her tongue.
“Have to take…?”
Jack’s soft prompt rang alarm bells in Kit’s brain. Desperation came to her rescue. She put up her chin, cloaking her sudden uncertainty in truculence. “Take what steps I can to see that you don’t get caught.” Racked by nerves, she resettled her muffler. It was time for her to leave.
A cold calm descended on Jack, leaving little room for emotion. He saw straight through her obfuscation. “You mean to warn the authorities of our activities.”
The statement brought Kit’s head up so fast, she’d no time to wipe the truth from her eyes. The moment hung suspended between them, her silence confirming his conjecture more completely than any confession.
Realizing the trap she’d fallen into, Kit blushed. Denial was pointless, so she took the other tack. “If you continue to run spies, you leave me little choice.”
“Whom do you plan to convince? Spencer?” Jack moved, smoothly, to come around the table.
Her mind on his words, Kit shrugged, raising her brows noncommittally. “Perhaps. Maybe I’ll look up Lord Hendon—it’s his responsibility, after all.”
She swung to face Jack. And found him on the same side of the table and advancing slowly. Her heart leapt to her throat. She recalled the time on the Marchmont Hall terrace when she’d underestimated his speed. Cautiously, she backed away.