George saw Jack’s face and leapt in with, “Who’s Geoffrey?”
Amy blinked. “Her cousin, of course. Geoffrey Cranmer.”
The sudden easing of Jack’s shoulders was dramatic enough to be visible. “Thank God for small mercies. Where does Geoffrey Cranmer live?”
Frowning, Amy took another sip of tea. “I think,” she began, then stopped, her frown deepening. “Does Jermyn Street sound right?”
George dropped his head back and closed his eyes. “Oh, God.”
“It sounds all too right.” His jaw ominously set, Jack picked up his gloves. “My thanks, Amy.”
George swung about as Jack made for the door. “For God’s sake, Jack, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
Jack paused at the door, a look of long suffering on his face. “Never fear. Aside from giving her a good shaking, and one or two other physical treatments, I intend to spend a long, long time explaining things—a whole host of things—to my wife.”
At five o’clock, Geoffrey studied the elegant timepiece on his mantel and wondered what he could do to fill the time until dinner. He’d yet to come to a conclusion when the knocker on his door was plied with the ruthless determination he’d been expecting for the last three days.
“Lord Hendon, sir.”
Hemmings had barely got the words out before Jonathon Hendon was in the room. His sharp and distinctly irritated grey gaze swept the furniture before settling with unnerving calm on Geoffrey’s face.
Geoffrey remained outwardly unmoved, rising to greet his wholly expected guest. Inwardly, he conceded several of the points Kit had attempted to explain to him. The man standing in the middle of his parlor, stripping riding gloves off a pair of large hands and returning his welcoming nod with brusque civility, didn’t look the sort to be easily brought to the negotiating table. Now he could understand why Kit had felt it necessary to flee her home purely to gain her husband’s attention.
His knowledge of Jonathon Hendon was primarily based on rumor—not, he was the first to admit, a thoroughly reliable source. Hendon was a number of years his senior; socially, their paths had crossed infrequently. But Jack Hendon’s reputation as a soldier and a rake was close to legendary. Undoubtedly, had the country not been at war, he and Kit would have met much sooner. But how his slip of a cousin coped with the powerful male force currently making itself felt in all sorts of subtle ways in his parlor was beyond Geoffrey’s ability to guess.
“I believe, Cranmer, you have something of mine.”
The steel encased in the deep velvety tones brought Geoffrey’s well-honed defense mechanisms into play. Angry husbands had never been his cup of tea. “She’s not here.” Best to get that out as soon as possible.
Arrested, the grey gaze trapped him. Some of the tension left the large frame. “Where is she?”
Despite Kit’s instruction to tell her husband precisely where she was as soon as he appeared, Geoffrey found himself too intrigued to let the information go quite so easily. He waved his guest to a seat, an invitation that was reluctantly accepted. Smoothly, Geoffrey grasped a decanter and poured two glasses of wine, handing one to his guest before taking the other back to his armchair. “I’ve been expecting you for the past three days.”
To his surprise, a slight flush rose under his guest’s tanned skin.
“I thought the damned woman was at Cranmer. I went to fetch her this morning, only to find Spencer hadn’t seen her. It took some hours to uncover her trail. If it hadn’t been for Amy Gresham remembering you, I’d still be chasing my arse in Norfolk.”
Hearing exasperation ring behind the clipped accents, Geoffrey kept his expression serious. “You know,” he said, “I don’t think Kit intended that.”
“I know she didn’t.” Jack fastened his gaze on Geoffrey’s face. “So where is she?”
The commanding tones were difficult to resist but still Geoffrey hesitated. “Er…I don’t suppose you’d consider allaying my cousinly fears with an assurance or two?”
For a moment, Jack stared, incredulous, until the sincerity in Geoffrey’s eyes struck him. Here was another who, while recognizing Kit’s wildness, had learned to overlook the fact. With a grimace, Jack conceded: “I’ve no intention of harming a single red hair. However,” he added, his voice regaining its sternness, “beyond that, I make no promises. I intend taking my wife back to Castle Hendon as soon as possible.”
The strength in that reply should have reassured Geoffrey. Instead, the implication revealed a glaring gap in Kit’s plan. “I’m sure she has no other intention than to return with you.” Geoffrey frowned. Had Kit explained to her intimidating spouse why she’d taken to her heels as she had? “In fact, I was under the distinct impression she was waiting for you to arrive to take her home momentarily.”
Jack frowned, not a little confused. If she didn’t want to bargain with him, her return against his promises, what was this all about? Admitting she wished to return with him would leave her no leverage to wring promises from him.
His bewilderment must have shown, for Geoffrey was also frowning. “I don’t know that I’ve got this entirely straight—with women one never knows. But Kit led me to understand that her…er, trip was solely designed to make you sit up and take notice.”
Jack stared at Geoffrey, his gaze abstracted. Was she wild enough to do such a thing—simply to make him acknowledge her feelings? To force him to do nothing more than admit he understood? The answer was obvious. As the memory of the sheer worry he’d endured for the past four days washed through him, Jack groaned. He leaned his brow on one palm, then glanced up in time to catch the grin on Geoffrey’s face. “Has anyone warned you, Cranmer, against marriage?”
Jack stretched his long legs to the comfort of the fire blazing in Geoffrey Cranmer’s parlor. Kit’s cousin had invited him to dine and then, when Jack had confessed he’d yet to seek lodgings, Hendon House being let for the Season, had offered him a bed. By now at ease with both Geoffrey and the younger Julian, who’d joined them over dinner, he’d accepted. Both he and Geoffrey had been entertained by the conversion of Julian from guarded civility to hero worship. Aside from the ease of an evening spent with kindred spirits, Jack doubted Kit would find support from these two the next time she made a dash for town.
Not, of course, that there’d be a next time.
Before leaving with Julian for a night about town, Geoffrey had filled Jack in on Jenny MacKillop and her relationship to the Cranmer family. Julian had painted a reassuring picture of a genteel household in one of the better streets of Southampton. Kit was safe. Jack knew where he could lay his hand on her red head whenever he wished. He wished right now. But experience was at last taking root. This time, he would take the time to think before he tangled with his loving, devoted, and dutiful wife.
His record in paying sufficient attention to her words was not particularly good. He’d ignored her requests to be told about the spies because it had suited him to do so. He’d not listened as carefully as he should have to her warning about Belville, oblique though it had been, too engrossed in delighting in her body to pay due interest to the fruits of her brain. And he’d put off fetching her from Cranmer, knowing it would involve him in a discussion of topics he had not wished to discuss.
Uneasily, Jack shifted in the chair. Admitting to such failures and vowing to do better was not going to come naturally.
It would have to come, of course. He knew he loved the damned woman. And that she loved him. She’d never said so, but she proclaimed it to his senses every time she took him into her body. Even when she’d offered herself to him that night in the cottage, he hadn’t imagined she’d done so lightly; that was what had made the moment so special. For her, and now for him, although it hadn’t been so in the past, love and desire were two halves of the same whole—fused, never to be split asunder.
So he would have to apologize. For not telling her what she’d had a right to know, for treating her as if she was outside his circle of trust, whe
n in reality she stood at its center. He’d never imagined a wife would be close to him in that way—but Kit was. She was his friend and, if he would permit it, his helpmate, more attuned to his needs than any man had a right to expect.
Jack grinned at the flames and sipped his brandy. He was a lucky man, and he knew it. Doubtless she’d want some assurance that he’d improve in the future. No doubt she’d assist, prodding whenever necessary, reminding him of this time.
With a confident snort, Jack drained his glass and considered his next meeting with his wife. His part was now clear. What of hers?
There was one point he was determined to make plain, preferably in sufficiently dramatic fashion so that his redheaded houri would not forget it. Under no circumstances would he again endure the paralyzing uncertainty of not knowing where she was, of not knowing she was safe. She must promise not to engage willy-nilly in exploits that would turn his golden brown hair as grey as his eyes. She’d have to agree to tell him of any exploit beyond the mundane before she did her usual headlong dash into danger—doubtless he’d arrange to block quite a few; others he might join her in. Who knew? In some respects, they were all too alike.
Jack stared long and hard at the flames. Then, satisfied he’d established all the important points in their upcoming discussion, he settled down to plan how best to take his wife by storm.
Despite her interest in some of his affairs, she’d neglected to ask about the family business. Perhaps, as the Cranmers relied totally on the land, she hadn’t realized there was a business to ask about? Whatever, one of his brigs was currently in the Pool of London, due, most conveniently, to set sail for its home port of Southampton on the morning tide. The Albeca was due to load at Southampton for a round trip to Lisbon and Bruges before returning to London. Like all his major vessels, the Albeca had a large cabin reserved for the use of its owner.
He’d commandeer the Albeca. It could still do its run, but, after Bruges, could lie in at one of the Norfolk ports to let them ashore. As a means of transporting his wife from Southampton to Norfolk, a boat had a number of pertinent advantages over land travel. Aside from anything else, it would give them countless hours alone.
It was definitely time to reel Kit back.
Back where she belonged.
Chapter 30
Kit stared at the forget-me-nots bobbing their blue heads in Jenny’s small walled garden and wondered if Jack had forgotten her. It was Monday, more than a week since she’d left Castle Hendon. She’d been absolutely confident he’d be after her the instant he returned from London, which should have been on Tuesday at the latest. A minute should have sufficed to tell him where she’d gone. Cranmer was out of the question; likewise, her aunts could not be considered candidates. Her cousins should have stood out as the only possibility, and she’d mentioned Geoffrey was her favorite. Of course, her move to Southampton would have delayed him for a day, maybe two. But he’d yet to show his arrogant face in Jenny’s neat little parlor.
Worry creased Kit’s brow; she chewed her lower lip in something close to consternation. It had never occurred to her that he might not behave as she’d expected. Had she misread the situation? Men often had peculiar views and certainly, her flight was not the sort of action any husband would view with equanimity. But she hadn’t expected Jack to be overly concerned with the proprieties, or with how her actions reflected on him. Had she miscalculated?
She knew he loved her; where that certainty sprang from she couldn’t have said, but the fact was enshrined in her heart, along with her love for him. The whens and wheres and hows were beyond her. All she knew was those truths, immutable as stone.
But none of that answered her question—where was he?
Kit heaved a heavy sigh.
So deep in contemplation was she that she failed to hear the footsteps approaching over the grass. Nevertheless, despite her distraction, her senses prickled as Jack drew close. She whirled with a gasp to find him beside her.
Her eyes locked with his. Her heart lurched to a standstill, then started to race. Anticipation welled. Then she saw his expression—stern, distant; not a flicker of a muscle betrayed any softer emotion.
“Good morning, my dear.” Jack managed to keep his tone devoid of all expression. The effort nearly killed him. He kept his arms rigid at his sides, to stop himself from hauling Kit into them. That, he promised himself, would come later. First, he was determined to demonstrate to his errant wife how seriously he viewed her actions. “I’ve come to take you home. Jenny’s packing your things. I’ll expect to leave directly she’s finished.”
Stunned, Kit stared at him and marveled that the words she’d so longed to hear could be delivered in such a way that all she felt was—nothing. No joy, no relief—not even any guilt. Jack’s words had been totally emotionless. Searching his face, she waited, more than half-expecting his austere expression to melt into teasing lines. But his frozen mask did not ease.
For the first time in her life, Kit did not know what she felt. All the emotions she’d expected to experience upon seeing Jack again were there, but so tangled with a host of newborn feelings, disbelief and resurgent anger chief amongst them, that the result was total confusion.
Her mind literally reeled.
Her face was blank; her mind had yet to sort out what her expression should be. Her lips were parted, ready to speak words she could not yet formulate. It was as if she was in a play, and someone had switched the scripts.
Wordlessly, Jack offered her his arm. Speech was still beyond her; her mind was in turmoil. Kit felt her fingers shake as she placed them on his sleeve.
Jenny was waiting, smiling, in the hall, Kit’s small bag at her feet. Still struggling to grasp what tack Jack was taking, and how she should react, Kit absentmindedly kissed her erstwhile governess, promising to write, all the while conscious of Jack’s commanding figure, an impregnable rock beside her.
Surely he hadn’t missed her point entirely?
Kit sank onto the cushions of the hired carriage, puzzled that it wasn’t one of the Hendon coaches. She blinked when Jack shut the door on her. Then it dawned that he’d elected to ride rather than share the coach with her.
Suddenly, Kit was in no doubt of what she felt. Her temper soared. What was going on here?
Ten minutes later, the carnage jolted to a halt. Sitting bolt upright on the carriage seat, Kit waited. Jack called an order. The keening of gulls came clearly on a freshening breeze. She narrowed her eyes. Where were they? Before she could slide to the window and peer out, Jack opened the door. He held out his hand, but his eyes did not meet hers.
Her temper on the tightest of reins, Kit coolly placed her fingers in his. He handed her down from the carriage. One glance was enough to tell her that she would have to delay giving him her reaction to his stoic performance. They stood on a wharf beside a large ship, amid bales and crates, ropes and hooks. Sailors rushed about; bustle and noise surrounded them. At Jack’s urging, she stepped over a coil of rope. His hand at her elbow, he guided her along the busy wharf to where a plank with a rope handrail led up to the ship’s deck.
Kit eyed the gangplank, rising and falling as the ship rode the waves of the harbor. She drew a deep breath.
Her chillingly civil request to be carried aboard never made it past her lips.
As she turned, Jack ducked. The next instant, Kit found herself staring down at the choppy green waves as Jack swiftly climbed the gangplank. Fury cindered the reins of her temper. She closed her eyes and saw a red haze; her fingers curled into claws. She’d wanted to be carried, but carried in his arms, not over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes!
Luckily, the gangplank was short. The instant Jack gained the deck, he set her on her feet. Kit immediately swung his way, her eyes going to his. But Jack had already turned and was speaking.
“This is Captain Willard, my dear.”
With an almighty effort, Kit shackled her fury—aside from not wanting to scare anyone else, she wanted to save it a
ll for Jack. Her face set, expressionless, her lips a thin line, she turned and beheld a large man, potbellied and jovial, dressed in a braided uniform.
He bowed deeply. “Might I say what a pleasure it is to welcome you aboard, Lady Hendon?”
“Thank you.” Stiffly, Kit inclined her head, her mind racing. The man’s manner was too deferential for a captain greeting a passenger.
“I’ll show Lady Hendon to our quarters, Willard. You may proceed on your own discretion.”
“Thank you, m’lord.”
The truth struck Kit. Jack owned the ship. Yet another not-so-minor detail her spouse had failed to mention.
Jack steered Kit aft, to where a stairway led down to the corridor to the stern apartments. With every step, he reminded himself to hold firm to his resolution. He had endured a full week of the most wretched worry—surely an hour of guilty misery was not unreasonable retribution? That Kit was shaken by his retreat, his withholding of the responses she would have expected from him, was obvious. The stunned, searching expression that had filled her eyes in Jenny’s garden had wrenched his heart; the quiver in her fingers when she’d laid them on his sleeve had nearly overset his careful plans. He hadn’t been game to meet her eyes after that.
Carrying her up the gangplank had nearly done him in. Even with her tossed over his shoulder, he hadn’t been sure he’d be able to let her go, which would have shocked Willard out of his braid.
He couldn’t take much more of his self-imposed reticence. He’d leave her in his cabin until her hour was up, then surrender as gracefully as possible.
As he followed Kit down the narrow stairs, Jack closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. His resolution was fraying with every step. The sight of her hips, swaying to and fro before him, was more than he could stand.
His quarters lay at the end of the short corridor, spread across the vessel’s square stern. The door he held open for Kit led into the room he used as his study and dining room. A single door led into the bedroom, the two rooms spanning the stern. Both rooms had windows instead of portholes, set in under the overhanging poop deck.