Sheer fury seared Kit’s veins. She clamped her lips shut and hauled on Delia’s reins. If she gave vent to her feelings here and now, her disguise would be blown past redemption.
Once on the cliff, she found a position overlooking Jack’s operations and dismounted. Too furious to sit still, she paced back and forth, twitching her gloves between her hands, her gaze on the beach, her temper on the boil.
Exclamations crowded her brain. How dare he? seemed far too mild. Besides, she knew how he dared—he knew damn well she wasn’t strong enough to withstand attack on that front, damn his silver eyes! If she didn’t need to know about the spies, she’d never come near him again. But she’d been through all the arguments, assessed all the alternatives. Until she had some facts, a run date for instance, there was no point in revealing her masquerade. If Spencer heard of it, he’d forbid her to continue, and then they’d never stop the spies.
Anger was not the only emotion coursing through her. Kit shivered with reaction. Damn the man—if she’d needed any confirmation he’d planned Wednesday night’s activities, that knowing caress had provided it. He’d purposely lit the fires of sensual pleasure in her flesh, so it would take just a caress to stir them to life. Kit ground her teeth and kicked a rock out of her way.
He was too damned sure of himself! He was too damned sure of her.
The run proceeded smoothly, as all Jack’s enterprises did. Kit watched, mulling over that fact. Jack’s cottage was on Lord Hendon’s land. And Lord Hendon had conveniently sent Sergeant Osborne to patrol the Sheringham beaches and Sergeant Tonkin to watch the shores of the Wash. A cynic might imagine there was a connection.
Kit snorted. The only real connection would be that Lord Hendon, like all the surrounding gentry, tolerated the smugglers. But not the spies. On that point, Jack had stepped beyond the line.
As the ponies headed for the cliff, Kit rose and caught Delia’s trailing reins. She mounted and urged the mare into the trees lining the first field. From there, she watched until the last of the pack train emerged from the cliff path. Then, before the grey stallion appeared, Kit turned Delia’s head for Cranmer Hall and dropped her hands.
She kept the mare to a steady gallop, the black hooves eating the miles. When the shadow of the Hall loomed out of the dark, Kit uttered a small whoop and sent Delia flying over the stable paddock fence.
Safe home. She’d escaped Jack’s trap, for one night at least. A fever might be the price she’d have to pay, but she’d pay gladly. Aside from anything else, it was safer this way.
Jack and his swaggering arrogance could spend the night alone.
On Sunday afternoon, after spending a virtuous morning at church, then presiding over the luncheon table, Kit sat Delia in the shadow of the trees facing Jack’s cottage, her confidence at an all-time low. Distrustful of her reasons for being there, uncertain of her chances of success, she bit her lip and eyed the closed door. There was nothing to tell her if the cottage was inhabited or not.
If she sat still for long and Champion was in the stable, the stallion would sense Delia’s presence and neigh, destroying any advantage surprise might otherwise give her. If she sat still for much longer, her courage would desert her and she’d turn tail for home. Kit directed Delia in an arc about the clearing. She approached the stable and dismounted, then led Delia inside.
Champion’s huge grey rump loomed out of the dimness.
Kit stopped, not sure if she felt relieved, excited, or dismayed. The stallion’s head came around; Kit took Delia to the stall alongside. After tethering the mare, she debated whether to unsaddle or not. In the end, she did, refusing to acknowledge the action implied anything at all about her intentions, much less her hopes. She rubbed the mare down, ears pricked to detect any sound of approaching danger.
She knew why she was there—she needed to mend her fences with Jack; he was her only reliable source of information on the spies. Her wilder self jeered; Kit strangled it. There might be other reasons she’d ridden this way, but she wasn’t ready to acknowledge them—not in daylight. Her innards were in a dreadful state; trepidation walked her nerves. She’d never felt like this before, not even when admitting to riding Spencer’s favorite stallion at the age of ten. Spencer’s rages had no power to make her quiver. The thought of how Jack would look when next she saw him, in a few minutes, did.
How would he welcome her this time?
The thought stopped her in her tracks as she headed for the stable door. She almost turned back to resaddle Delia. But her reason for being here resurfaced. She couldn’t walk away from “human cargo.” Kit set her jaw. With a determined stride, she made for the cottage door.
Kit paused with her hand on the latch, swept by the sense of being about to enter a potentially dangerous animal’s lair. The cold iron of the latch sent a thrill through her fingers. Her whole being vibrated with anticipation. In truth, she wasn’t sure where the danger lay—with him? Or with herself?
Inside the cottage, Jack lay sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed, his hands locked behind his head. He stared at the ceiling.
How long would it be before it got to her? How long before she came to find him?
He gave a disgruntled snort; his brows lowered. When he’d embarked on his scheme to embed passionate longing firmly beneath Kit’s satiny skin, he’d overlooked the inevitable effect such an undertaking would have on his own lustful appetites. Since Wednesday night, he’d been ravenous. And, thanks to Kit, he hadn’t been able to sate his hunger. No other woman would do. He’d retired to the cottage, to brood on his desire.
He wanted her—Kit—the redheaded houri in breeches.
When he stroked her, she purred. When he mounted her, she arched wildly. And later, when their passion was spent, she curled into his side like a small cream-and-ginger cat. His very own kitten.
His very own pedigree kitten. When it came to making love, she was an aristocrat, no matter what her breeding. Her performances to date had been eye-opening, particularly to one of his experience. He’d thought he’d known all there was to know of women; she’d proved him wrong. The feigned responses of the gilded whores of the ton had always bored him. Kit’s naturalness, her sincere enjoyment of their play despite the underlying prudery behind her occasional shocked protests, entranced him. He’d been able to turn her protests into moans with satisfying regularity.
With a stifled groan, Jack stretched his arms and legs, trying to ease the tension locked in the heavy muscles. His frown converted to a scowl. Twenty-four hours had been too long for him—seventy-two had been hell. The fact that she could deal with this particular disease better than he could was a severe blow to his male pride.
The latch on the door eased upward.
Instantly, Jack was alert, half-sitting before his mind took control and stilled his instinctive reaction. His impulse was to cross silently to stand behind the door. But if his visitor was Kit, he might scare her witless by appearing beside her so unexpectedly.
The door swung slowly inward. The shadow of a slender figure, topped by a tricorne, fell on the floor. Jack relaxed. He permitted himself a smug smile, then the memory of the past seventy-two hours intruded. He’d no guarantee she’d come to alleviate his discomfort. His expression bland, he settled back on the pillows.
Kit scanned the area revealed by the open door. Jack was not at the table. Swallowing her nervousness, she took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. She paused by the door, one hand on the edge of the worn wooden panel, and forced herself to look at the bed.
There he lay, sprawled full-length on the covers, arrogant male inscribed on every line of his tautly muscled frame. Watching her. With a distinctly predatory gleam in his silver eyes.
Kit’s breath suspended; her mouth went dry. She felt her eyes grow larger and larger.
Jack read her state in her eyes and knew precisely why she’d come. The news sent his senses soaring, but he clamped down on them before they addled his wits. His body had tensed w
ith the instinctive urge to rise and go to her, to sweep her into his arms and crush her lips, her breasts, her hips, to his. But if he did, what would happen next?
The door was midway between the bed and the table, not particularly close to either. Judging by his last effort in welcoming her, they’d probably end up on the floor. While he had nothing against al fresco intercourse, he hadn’t been particularly proud of his lack of control in taking her on the table. He didn’t know what she’d made of the experience, but he’d seen the red patches on her buttocks later. And felt hideously guilty. Too often he’d ended giving her bruises, however unintentionally. Some, like the marks his fingers left in the soft curves of her hips, were unavoidable, given she bruised easily. But he didn’t need to add to them through lack of thought.
“Bolt the door.” He tried to keep the raw passion pulsing his veins from coloring his tone and only partially succeeded.
Kit’s eyes grew rounder still. Her limbs felt heavy as, her gaze trapped in Jack’s silver stare, she moved slowly to obey. Her fingers fumbled and she dragged her eyes from his. The bolt slid home with a metallic thud. Slowly, she turned back to face him, expecting to see him rising.
He hadn’t moved. “Come here.”
Kit considered that carefully. She might be mesmerized; she wasn’t witless. But she was caught, very firmly, in the sensual web he’d woven with such consumate skill, her pulse already increasing in anticipation of what was to come. Acknowledging the inevitable, she placed one foot before the other. Slowly, warily, she approached the bed.
“Stop.” The gravelly command halted her a yard from the end of the bed. “Take off your hat and coat.”
Kit’s stomach contracted. She pulled off her hat and dropped it, then shrugged off her coat and let it slide to the floor. As the silver gaze dropped from her face to sweep her figure, Kit felt the embers of her passion glow.
“Take off those damned breeches.”
Kit’s embers burst into flame. She stared at Jack, shocked and tantalized by his suggestion.
Jack clenched every muscle in an effort to remain prone on the bed. Kit’s eyes glowed violet, purple sparks of passion striking from their depths. He wasn’t the least surprised to see her fingers move to the buttons which secured the drab breeches. He watched the slim digits work the buttons free. Then, slowly, she peeled back the flap, revealing an expanse of creamy stomach with a riot of red curls at its base.
Kit moved in a dream, sundered from reality. She saw the tension in Jack’s frame increase and reveled in her power. Moving with deliberate slowness, she inched the garment off her hips, balancing on one foot to draw off her boot. When the second boot was off, she lifted first one leg then the other free of her breeches. She sent them to join her coat, then turned to pose, weight on one leg, the other knee bent inward, facing Jack.
He hadn’t moved, but she could feel the effort it was costing him to remain where he was.
“Lift your shirt and free your breasts.” Rigid with need, Jack forced the command from between clenched teeth. His eyes were glued to the rich bounty thus far revealed; his mouth was dry with anticipation of the revelations to come.
Wondering why he hadn’t told her to take her shirt off, Kit obeyed the command literally, assuming there was some pertinent point she’d yet to comprehend behind it. She thought for a moment, then artfully rolled the front of her shirt up until she could hold the folds between her teeth. A sudden shift of the body in the bed told her the impulse was worth following. To her relief, the knot gave easily. She unwound the band. Slowly. The long strip went about her five times. She released her shirt just before the band dropped. Her breasts sprang free, proudly erect, semiobscured behind fine linen.
Jack swallowed a groan. His fingers, locked behind his head, clenched, biting into the backs of his hands. He couldn’t imagine where she’d learned her tricks; the idea that they were instinctive started to unravel his much tried control. To gain a little time, and strength, he examined the figure before him critically. Light streamed through the window on the other side of the cottage. Kit stood directly between the bed and the window; he had an unimpeded view of her silhouette. Lingeringly, he examined every curve, knowing his gaze was heating her. The thought of what that meant forced him to speak. “Come and kneel on the bed beside me.”
Without haste, Kit obeyed, climbing onto the horsehair mattress to sit on her knees by his side. In that position, her shirt covered her legs, giving her a modicum of relief from Jack’s ardent gaze. He wasn’t wearing a coat. His shirt was not of the same fine quality as hers; the muscles of his chest and arms showed as rounded ridges beneath its surface. Her gaze skimmed his chest, then dropped to where his shirt disappeared into the waistband of his breeches. She couldn’t miss the bulge just below.
Jack saw the direction of her gaze. He kept his hands locked safely behind his head and fought to control his breathing. “Undress me.”
Kit’s eyes flew to his, startled conjecture in their purpled depths. Her lips parted but no protest came. Instead, she seemed to consider the idea; Jack wondered what form of slow torture she was planning.
Beneath her stunned surprise, Kit was aware of growing excitement. Never having attempted such an undertaking before, she took a minute to work out her approach.
Jack held his breath when she shifted, pressing her hands, palms flat, against his chest. She swung over him, straddling him.
Boldly, Kit settled her bottom on his thighs. She heard his indrawn breath and felt the sudden leaping of the rigid rod half-trapped beneath her. She shuffled forward, pressing herself against him, protected from instant retribution by the material of his breeches. She glanced up; Jack’s eyes were tight shut. A muscle flickered along his clenched jaw. With a smile of feminine triumph, Kit set to work, pulling his shirt from his breeches, tugging his arms from behind his head, eventually tugging him into a half-sit to drag the shirt off over his head.
Freed of his shirt, Jack fell back on the pillows, in pain, but eager to see how she’d manage the rest.
Flinging the shirt aside, Kit turned her attention to his waistband. It was the work of a moment to wriggle the buttons free. She laid the flap open and gazed down in awe at the prize revealed. Thick as her wrist, engorged and empurpled, Jack’s staff pulsed against the hair curling over the solid wall of his abdomen. Without thinking, Kit’s fingers moved to touch it, to caress it.
Jack groaned, unable to keep the sound back. He shut his eyes, not wanting to see what she might do next. The soft caress of her lips sent him rigid; the wet sweep of her tongue, inexpert but guided by unerring instinct, broke his control. It was impossible to lie still in the face of such provocation. But he managed to keep his hands from tangling in her curls and guiding her lips to where his throbbing flesh most wanted to feel them. Instead, he forced his hands to his hips, easing his breeches down. With his help, she managed the task efficiently, sliding down the bed to pull off his boots and free his legs.
Kit slipped from the bed, Jack’s breeches in her fingers, and turned to survey her handiwork. Naked, displayed for her delectation, Jack was nothing short of magnificent. Not for the life of her could she keep the smile from her face.
“Come back here.”
Kit’s eyes flew to Jack’s. What she saw in the silvered depths sent a thrill of sheer desire streaking through her. With unfeigned eagerness, she resumed her position at his side, gently simmering, intrigued to discover what next he had in mind.
Jack’s mind wasn’t functioning with its customary clarity. It was overheated. He watched Kit climb back on the bed, her bright eyes drifting down his torso. She knelt on her shirt and it drew taut, outlining the tight crescents of her nipples before she pulled it free. It would be easy enough to roll her beneath him and sheath himself in her heat, but in the past seventy-two hours, his imagination had been working overtime; he’d an ambition to turn some of his dreams to reality. But did he have sufficient willpower to do it?
“Ride me.”
<
br /> The command jerked Kit from her rapt contemplation. Ride him?
Jack read her question in her startled eyes, deep-hued violet and darkening rapidly. Despite the effort it cost him, he smiled. “When I mount you, I do all the hard work. This time, it’s your turn.”
Kit simply stared, trying to make sense of his words. Then she glanced down to where his member angled upward from its curly nest.
“Here. I’ll show you.” Jack caught her hands and drew her over him. “Straddle me like before.”
Kit did, and nearly shot from the bed when she felt his staff leap under her. She froze, her weight steady against him, her thighs spread, her knees on either side of his hips. Breathless, she waited, stunned by the sense of vulnerability that washed over her.
Rigid with effort, Jack forced every muscle in his body to absolute obedience. A single upward thrust would sink his staff into her, hard against the source of the heat pouring over him from between her widespread thighs. But aside from the fact that he knew he might hurt her by such an aggressive entry in this position, she’d tensed and was probably dry.
He drew a ragged breath and avoided looking at the juncture of her thighs, where the head of his manhood nestled amidst her flaming curls. He eased his convulsive grip on her hands and raised them, placing them on the pillow, one above each of his shoulders. Another deep breath allowed him to run his hands back along her arms to curve about her shoulders. “Lean forward and kiss me.”
Kit did as she was told, intrigued by this latest twist in his game. It started off as he’d said, with her kissing him, but he quickly took over, his fingers tangling in her curls, holding her head steady while his tongue plundered the soft cavern of her mouth. She made no protest at the change. Her furnace was alight; she needed to find the path to his flame.
Jack lowered his hands from Kit’s head to her shoulders, then set them to mold her body as he wished, bringing her up on her hands and knees over him. He drew his lips from hers and urged her forward so he could take one shirt-veiled nipple into his mouth. Kit’s gasp urged him on. He licked the material until it clung to the ripe peak, then drew the turgid flesh deep into his mouth. He suckled and Kit moaned, her body spasming in response. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted. Jack switched to her other breast and repeated the exercise.