Cantering up the steep paddock to the stable, Kit resisted the temptation to look back. He’d be standing where she’d left him, hands on hips, watching her. She’d turn up tomorrow, and if they were doing a cargo, the night after that. But from then on, she’d give Captain Jack a wide berth. Distance was imperative. She knew the dangers now; there could be no excuse.
When the dark cavern of the stable had swallowed Kit, Jack turned and headed north. The moon sailed free of its fettering clouds and lit his way. Miles ahead, Castle Hendon awaited its master, his bed fitted with silk sheets, cool and unwarmed. Jack’s lips quirked. He had an ambition to see Kit writhing in ecstasy on that bed, her curls a flaming aureole about her head, those other curls he’d touched but hadn’t seen, burning him. He’d counted the nights ever since he’d first touched her and known his senses weren’t playing him false. Now, she was damn near an obsession.
As his swinging stride ate the miles, his mind remained on the woman who’d captured his senses. She’d never be just another mistress—those who’d come before her had never intrigued him as she did. From her, he wanted much more than mere physical gratification, despite that every time he set eyes on her he was driven by a primal urge to bury himself in her heat. The need to possess her went much further than that.
He wanted to bring her to climax again and again. He wanted her cries of satisfaction to ring in his ears. He needed to know she was close and safe at all times.
Jack frowned. He’d never felt like that about a woman before.
Chapter 16
The slap of the waves against the fishing boat’s hull was drowned by the roar of the surf. Thigh deep in the tide, Jack flexed his shoulders, then reached for the barrel Noah held out. With the keg balanced on his shoulder, he waded to the shore, to where the ponies were being loaded.
Jack waited for the men lashing the barrels to the ponies’ saddles to take the heavy keg, then turned to survey his enterprise.
They had the routine down pat. Even as he looked, the men in the emptied boats bent to the oars and the six hulls slipped back out through the surf, off to find any fish they could before heading home. The last kegs were being lashed in place, then the parcels of lace, stacked against a rock nearby, would be balanced on top and secured.
As the lace was brought up, Jack let his gaze rise to the cliff overlooking the beach. He’d stationed Kit on the eastern point, but had no idea where she actually was. Doubtless the stubborn woman had made good her threat and moved farther west. She’d attended the meeting in the Old Barn the previous night, slipping in late to stand in the shadows at the back. Immediately after he’d finished detailing tonight’s run, she’d vanished.
He hadn’t been surprised. But he’d be damned if he let her escape him tonight.
Two miles to the west, Kit halted Delia. She’d gone far enough. Time to turn back if she was to meet Jack at the cliff top as ordered. But still she sat, staring, unseeing, westward.
Her stomach was tied in knots. Her nerves wouldn’t settle, fluttering like butterflies every time Jack’s image hove on her mental horizon. His ideas for tonight, as far as she’d allow herself to imagine them, were pure madness, but what she could do to avoid them was more than she could fathom.
She would have to see him, that much was plain. Was there any chance she could talk her way free of his “later”? His words on the ride back
from the ill-fated masquerade made it clear he’d read her teasing as encouragement. Kit grimaced. She simply hadn’t realized how much she affected him. Whatever his reasons for reticence, she’d fallen into the trap.
With a tight little sigh, she plotted her course. She would have to explain. As a gently reared woman, she couldn’t—simply could not—consider the alternative.
Light drizzle started to fall, misting Delia’s breath. Kit’s fingers were tightening on the reins to draw the mare about when she heard a jingle.
Followed by another.
Her senses pricked. The hairs on her nape rose. She’d heard that sound before. The heavier clink of a stirrup confirmed her deductions. An instant later she saw them, a whole troop, advancing at a steady canter.
Kit didn’t wait to see more. She took the first path she found down to the sands and let Delia’s reins fall. Her cheeks stung by the flying black mane, she clung to the mare’s neck as the sand sped beneath the black hooves.
Automatically checking the ropes holding the precious cargo in place, Jack passed down the pony train. He’d made sure Kit wouldn’t disappear like a wraith the instant the last pony gained the cliff top by the simple expedient of ordering her to meet him at the head of the path up from the beach—in the presence of half a dozen men. She wasn’t a fool. She wouldn’t risk the instant suspicion that failure to comply with such explicit orders would generate.
He was nearing the end of the pony train, and the men at its head were already mounting, when the reverberation of flying hooves on firm-packed sand brought him instantly alert.
Out of the night, a black horse materialized. Kit. Riding hard. From the west.
By the time she was slowing, so as not to spook the ponies, Jack was already running to the head of the train, where Matthew waited, mounted, Champion’s reins in his hand. The big stallion was shifting, excited by the precipitous arrival of the mare, his huge hooves stamping the sand. Jack threw himself into the saddle as Kit pulled up before him, Delia pawing the air.
“Revenue. From Hunstanton,” Kit gasped. “But they’re still a mile or more away.”
Jack stared at her. A mile or more? She’d been reinterpreting his orders with a vengence! He shook off the urge to shake her—he’d deal with her insubordination later and enjoy it all the more.
He turned to Shep. “Stow the stuff in the old crypt. Then clear everyone. You’re in charge.” The train had been intended for the Old Barn, but that was impossible now. Kit had given them one chance to get safely away; they had to take it. “The four of us”—his nod indicated Matthew and George as well as Kit—“will draw the Revenue off toward Holme. With luck, they won’t even know you exist.”
Shep nodded his understanding. A minute later, the train moved off, disappearing into the dunes cloaking the eastern headland. They’d go carefully, wending their way under maximum cover close by Brancaster before slipping south to the ruined church. Jack turned to Kit. “Where, exactly?”
“On the cliff, riding close to the edge.”
Her voice, strained with excitement, showed an alarming tendency to rise through the register. Jack hoped George wouldn’t hear it. “Stay by me,” he growled, praying she’d have the sense to do so.