“Young Kit?” George blinked sleepily. “One of our neighbors’ sons, I should think. Where else the horse?”
Jack nodded. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t know of any such whelp hereabouts. Morgan’s sons are too old—they’d be nearer thirty, surely? And Henry Fair-clough’s boys are too young. Kit must be about sixteen.”
George frowned. “I can’t recall anyone that fits, either. But perhaps he’s a nephew come to spend time on the family acres? Who knows?” He shrugged. “Could be anyone.”
“Can’t be just anyone. Young Kit knows this district like the back of his hand. Think of the chase he led us, the way he rode across those fields. He knew every fence, every tree. And according to Noah, Kit was the one who knew about the quarries.”
George yawned. “Well, we knew about the quarries, too. We just hadn’t thought of using them.”
Jack looked disgusted. “Lack of sleep has addled your wits. That’s precisely what I mean. We k
now the area because we grew up here. Kit’s grown up here, too. Which means he should be easy enough to track down.”
“And then what?” mumbled George, around another yawn.
“And then,” Jack replied, getting to his feet and hauling George to his, “we’ll have to decide what to do with the whelp. Because if he is someone’s son, the chances are he’ll recognize me, if not both of us.” Propelling George to the door, he added: “And we can’t trust Young Kit with that information.”
What with seeing the somnolent George on his way before riding home with Matthew and stabling Champion, it was close to dawn before Jack finally lay between cool sheets and stared at the shadow patterns on his ceiling.
Neither George nor Matthew had found anything especially odd about Young Kit. Questioned on the way home, Matthew’s estimation had mirrored George’s. Kit was the son of a neighboring landowner, sire unknown. There was, of course, the possibility that Kit was an illegitimate sprig of some local lordly tree. The horse might have been a gift, in light of the boy’s equestrian abilities, or alternatively, might be “borrowed” from his sire’s stables. Whatever, the horse provided the best clue to Young Kit’s identity.
Jack sighed deeply and closed his eyes. Kit’s identity was only one of his problems and certainly the easier to solve. His odd reaction to the boy was a worry. Why had it happened? It had been decades since any sight had affected him so dramatically. But, for whatever incomprehensible reason, the slim, black-garbed figure of Young Kit had acted as a powerful aphrodisiac, sending his body into a state of immediate readiness. He’d been as horny as Champion on the trail of the black mare!
With a snort, Jack turned and burrowed his stubbled cheek into the pillow. He tried to blot the entire business from his mind. When that didn’t work, he searched for some explanation, however insubstantial, for the episode. If he could find a reason, hopefully that would be the end of it. There was a strong possibility that it might prove necessary to include Young Kit in the Gang. The idea of having the young whelp continuously about, wreaking havoc with his manly reactions, was simply too hideous to contemplate.
Could it have been some similarity to one of his long-discarded mistresses, popping up to waylay him when he least expected it? Perhaps it was simply the effect of unusual abstinence?
Maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part? Jack grinned. He couldn’t deny that a nice, wild woman, the sort who might lead a smuggling gang, would make a welcome addition to his current lifestyle. Elsewise, the only sport to be had in the vicinity consisted of virtuous maids, whom he avoided on principle, and dowagers old enough to be his mother. Ever fertile, his brain developed his fantasy. The tension in his shoulders slowly eased.
Insidiously, sleep crawled from his feet to his calves to his knees to his hips, ever upward to claim him. Just before he succumbed, Jack hit on his cure. He’d unmask Young Kit—that was it. The sensation would disappear once Kit was revealed as the male he had to be. George was sure of it, Matthew was sure of it. Most importantly, the smugglers who followed Kit were sure of it, and surely they must know?
The problem was, he was far from sure of it.
Kit spent the following day in a distracted daze. Even the simplest task was beyond her; her attention constantly drifted, lured in fascinated horror to contemplation of her dreadful dilemma.
After incorrectly mixing a potion for the parlor maid’s sore throat, twice, she gave up in disgust and headed for the gazebo at the end of the rose garden. The morning had cleared to a fine afternoon; she hoped the brisk breeze would blow away her mental cobwebs.
The little gazebo, with its view of the rose beds, was a favorite retreat. With a weary sigh, Kit sank onto the wooden bench. She was caught, trapped, squarely between the devil and the deep blue sea. On the one hand, prudence urged that she accept Captain Jack’s proposal for her crew and decline it for herself, slipping cautiously into the mists, letting Young Kit disappear. Unfortunately, neither her men nor Captain Jack would be satisfied with that. She knew them—knew them far better than they knew her. She didn’t, in truth, know Captain Jack, and if she was intent on following prudence’s dictates, she never would.
Coward! sneered her other self.
“Did you see him?” Kit asked, annoyed when her heartbeat accelerated at the memory.
Oh, yes! came the thoroughly smitten answer.
Kit snorted. “Even in moonlight he looked like he could give the London rakes lessons.”
Indubitably. And just think what lessons he could give you.
Kit blushed. “I’m not interested.”
Like hell you’re not. You, my girl, turned a delicate shade of green when Amy was describing her experiences. Now fate hands you a gilded first-ever opportunity to do a little experiencing of your own and what do you do? Run away before that gorgeous specimen gets a chance to raise your temperature. What’s happened to your wild Cranmer blood?
Kit grimaced. “I’ve still got you to remind me I haven’t lost it.”
Putting a lid on her wilder self, Kit brooded on her folly in getting involved with smugglers. That didn’t last long. She’d enjoyed the past weeks too much to dissemble, even to herself. The excitement, the thrills, the highs and lows of tension and relief had become a staple in her diet, an addictive ingredient she was loath to forego. How else would she fill in her time?
The alternative to disappearing grew increasingly attractive.