“I’ll bear your warning in mind, m’lord.” Jack grinned back, a rogue unrepentant.
Spencer chuckled. “You do that, m’boy. Wouldn’t want to see you leg-shackled to some drab female who’s the dearest cousin of one of their ladyships, would we?” With that dire prediction, Spencer went on his way, chuckling to himself.
“The devil!” Jack heaved a sigh. “I’ve a nasty suspicion he’s right.” The memory of Kit’s words, uttered while she’d been sitting on his bed last night, echoed in his brain. “Fighting shy of society seemed a wise idea, but it looks like we’ll have to attend a few balls and dinners.”
“We’ll?” George turned, eyes wide. “Might I remind you I’ve had the good sense to get betrothed and so am no longer at risk? I don’t have to attend any such affairs.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You’d leave me to face the guns alone?”
“Dammit, Jack! You survived Corunna. Surely you can fight this engagement unsupported?”
“Ah, but we haven’t sighted the enemy yet, have we?” When George looked puzzled, Jack explained: “Lady Whatsit’s drab cousin. Just think how you’ll feel if I get caught in parson’s mousetrap, all because I didn’t have you to watch my back.”
George pulled back to eye the elegant figure of Lord Hendon, at thirty-five, a man of vast and, in George’s opinion, unparalleled experience of the fairer sex, consistent victor in the amphitheaters of tonnish ballrooms and bedrooms, a bona fide, fully certified rake of the first order. “Jack, in my humble opinion, the ladies of the district haven’t a hope in hell.”
There was no moon to light the clearing before the cottage door. Kit stopped Delia under the tree opposite and studied the scene. A chink of lamplight showed beneath one shutter. It was midnight. All was still. Kit slackened her reins and headed Delia toward the stable.
In the shadow of the stable entrance, she dismounted, drawing the reins over Delia’s head. The mare tossed her head sharply.
“Here. Let me.”
Kit jumped back, a curse on her lips. A large hand closed about hers, deftly removing the reins. Jack was no more than a dense shadow at her shoulder. Unnerved, her wits frazzled by his touch, Kit waited in silence while he stabled Delia in the dark.
Were there others about? She peered into the gloom.
“There’s no one else here.” Jack returned to her side. “Come inside.”
Kit had to hurry to keep up with Jack’s long strides. He reached the door and entered before her, heading straight for the table to take the chair on the far side. Irritated by such cavalier treatment, Kit bit her tongue. She closed the door carefully, then turned to survey him, pausing to take stock before sauntering across the floor to the chair facing his.
He was scowling again, but she wasn’t about to try for one of his smiles tonight. Pulling off her hat, she unwound her muffler, then sat.
“What’s your decision?” Jack asked the question as soon as her bottom made contact with the chair seat. He’d been steeling himself for this meeting for more than twenty-four hours; it was galling to find the time had been wasted. The instant she’d appeared on his horizon, the only thing he could think of was getting her back onto his bed. And what he’d do next. He wanted this m
eeting concluded, and her safely on her way, with all possible haste.
From her expression, he knew his frown didn’t meet with her approval. Right now, she didn’t meet with his. She was the cause of all his present afflictions. Aside from the physical ramifications of her presence, he was having to cope with untold guilt over his deliberate support of her hoax.
He hadn’t told Matthew or George. And now he was uncomfortably aware of Spencer, previously a shadowy figure he’d had no difficulty ignoring, transformed by their meeting into a flesh-and-blood man, presumably with real affection for his wayward granddaughter, even if she was illegitimate. Impossible to tell him, of course. What could he say? “A word in your ear, old man—your bastard granddaughter is masquerading as a smuggler”?
Dragging his gaze from Kit’s lamplight-sheened curls, Jack stared into her violet eyes, alike yet quite different from Spencer’s.
Kit’s response to Jack’s abrupt question had been to pull off her riding gloves, with infinite slowness, before glancing up to meet his gaze. “My men have agreed.” She’d met her little band earlier that evening. “We’ll join you as of now, provided you let us know what the cargoes are beforehand.” It was her condition; the fishermen had been only too glad to accept Jack’s offer.
Impassivity overtook Jack’s scowl. Why the hell did she want to know that? His mind ranged over the possibilities but could find none that fit. “No.” He kept the answer short and waited for her reaction.
“No?” she echoed. Then she shrugged. “All right. But I thought you wanted us to join you.” She started to draw her gloves back on.
Jack abandoned impassivity. “What you ask is impossible. How can I run a gang if I have to check with you before I accept a cargo? There can be only one leader, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m it.”
Kit leaned one elbow on the table and cupped her chin in that hand, keeping her eyes on his face. It was a very strong face, with its powerful brow line and high cheekbones. “You should be able to understand that I feel responsible for my little band. How can I tell if you’re doing right by them if I don’t know what cargoes you’re accepting or declining?”
Jack’s exasperation grew. She’d hit on the one argument he couldn’t, in all honesty, counter. If she’d been a man, he’d have applauded such a reason—it was the right attitude for a leader, of however small a troop. But Kit wasn’t a man, a fact he was in no danger of forgetting.
Artfully, Kit continued. “I can see it might prove difficult to keep an agent waiting for confirmation. But if I was with you when you arranged the cargoes, there’d be no time lost.”
Jack shook his head. “No. It’s too dangerous. It’s one thing to fool semicivilized fishermen; our contacts are not of that ilk. They’re too likely to penetrate your “disguise—God only knows what they’ll make of it.”
Kit received the assessment coolly, drawing her gloves through her fingers. “But you deal mostly with Nolan, don’t you?”