Captain Jack's Woman (28 page)

Tonkin blinked, then nodded eagerly. “Yessir, your lordship. A woman’s face, it was.”

Spencer frowned, then shook his head. “Can’t think of any male Cranmer with effeminate looks.”

“I hesitate to suggest it,” Jack said, “but could it possibly have been a female relative?” He could almost hear Tonkin’s satisfied sigh.

“Aren’t any,” Spencer decisively replied. “Only girl in the family’s Kathryn and stands to reason couldn’t be her.”

With a fleeting smile, Jack nodded in agreement.

Tonkin’s face was a study in dismay. “Pardon me, your lordship, but why’s that?”

Spencer frowned at him. “Why’s what, Sergeant?”

Tonkin gritted his teeth. “Why
couldn’t
it be Miss Cranmer, m’lord?”

As one, Jack and Spencer stared at him, then both erupted into laughter. Tonkin reddened; he looked from one to the other, ugly suspicion gathering in his eyes.

Spencer recovered first, waving his hand to and fro. “A rich jest, Sergeant, but I can assure you my granddaughter does not consort with smugglers.”

Tonkin reacted as if slapped.

“I think, perhaps,” put in Jack, sensing Tonkin’s swelling belligerence, “that the Sergeant might as well know—just so he can accept Miss Cranmer’s innocence as proven fact, my lord—that Miss Cranmer had dinner with both you and myself last night. We sat late, Miss Cranmer with us, discussing the details of our impending nuptials.”

Jack smiled at Tonkin, the very picture of helpful assurance.

“Nuptials?” Tonkin stared.

“Precisely.” Jack adjusted the cuff of one sleeve. “Miss Cranmer and I will shortly be married. The announcement will be made in the next day or so.” Jack smiled again, openly confident. “You can be one of the first to wish us happy, Tonkin.”

“Er…yes, of course. That is…I hope you’ll be very happy, sir…” Tonkin faltered to a halt.

The door behind him opened.

The three men turned. Three pairs of eyes fastened on the slim grey figure who appeared in the doorway; shock registered, in equal measure, on all three faces.

Kit saw it and glided forward, filling the telltale void. “Good morning, Grandfather.” She crossed to Spencer’s side. Placing her right hand on his shoulder, she planted a dutiful kiss on his cheek, grateful that impassivity had dropped like a veil over his features. Straightening, denying the wave of dizzying pain that threatened to engulf her, she looked directly at Tonkin. “I heard Sergeant Tonkin was asking after me. How can I help you, Sergeant?”

It was a bold move. Jack held his breath, wondering if Tonkin could see how pale she was. To him, her condition was obvious, but apparently Tonkin had never set eyes on Kit before last night. His heart in his mouth, Jack willed his muscles to relax. He’d shot to his feet the instant Kit had appeared; only by the most supreme effort had he stifled the overwhelming urge to go to her side. How on earth she’d got dressed and downstairs was a wonder; how long she’d remain on her feet was a major concern. She’d seen him as she’d entered. As her gaze had passed over him, he’d seen the shock of recognition flare beneath the haze of pain.

Sergeant Tonkin simply stared, speechless. His gaze flicked to Jack, then to Spencer, then, surreptitiously, he darted a glance at Kit, dwelling on her left shoulder.

Aware of his scrutiny, Kit held herself erect, her expression relaxed and open, waiting for Tonkin to state his business. Her grasp on Spencer’s shoulder was nothing less than a death grip; luckily, Spencer had put up his hand to cover hers, the warmth of his large palm imparting strength and support enough to anchor her to consciousness. Kit drew on it unashamedly.

From where she stood, Kit could see Spencer’s expression, arrogantly supercilious as he stared at Tonkin. A peculiar hiatus held them all.

Jack broke it, strolling casually forward to Kit’s side.

The instant he moved, he drew Kit’s gaze. Lips slightly parted to ease her increasingly painful breathing, Kit watched him approach. Her wits were slowing, becoming more sluggish. They’d said Lord Hendon was with Spencer. There was no one else in the room except Jack. And it
was
Jack, for all that he was far more elegantly dressed than she’d ever seen him, moving with a languid grace she recognized instantly. The man approaching her was a rake of the first order, one who’d learned his recreational habits in the hothouse of the
ton.
The man approaching her was Jack. Confusion welled; Kit resisted the urge to close her eyes against it.

Jack stopped by her side; she looked into his eyes and saw his concern and his strength. He reached for her right hand, lifting it from Spencer’s shoulder. She let him, relief spreading through her at the comfort in his touch. His other arm slid about her waist, a very real support.

Aware of the picture he was creating for Tonkin, Jack raised Kit’s fingers to his lips. “The sergeant thought he saw you last night, my dear. Your grandfather and I were just explaining that he must have been mistaken.” Jack smiled reassuringly into wide amethyst eyes, hazed and dull with pain. “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve given you an alibi. Even one so earnest as Sergeant Tonkin will have to accept that while you were having dinner with me, and later discussing our wedding, you couldn’t possibly have been simultaneously riding the hills.”

“Oh?” It was no effort to infuse the syllable with bewilderment. Kit dragged her eyes from Jack’s to gaze in confusion at Sergeant Tonkin. Dinner?
Wedding?
Her faintness intensified. The arm about her waist tightened possessively, protectively.

Kit’s obvious confusion dispelled the last vestige of Tonkin’s certainty. Jack could see it in his eyes, in the sudden slackness of his features. The pugnacity that had kept him going drained away, leaving him off-balance.

Swallowing, Tonkin half saluted. “I can see as you don’t know nothing about it, miss.” He glanced warily at Jack, then Spencer. “If it’s all right with you, my lords, I’ll be on my way.”

Jack nodded; Spencer simply glared.

With a last salute, Tonkin turned and quickly left the room.

As soon as the door shut, Spencer turned in his chair, anxiety and relief flooding out in a fiercely whispered: “And what’s the meaning of all this, miss?”

Kit didn’t answer. As the door clicked shut, she’d leaned back against Jack’s arm and shut her eyes. The willpower that had kept her going abruptly faded. She felt Jack’s arms close about her. She was safe; they were all safe.

She heard Spencer’s question as if from a distance, muffled by cold mists. With a little sigh, she surrendered to the oblivion that beckoned, beyond pain, beyond confusion.

D
uring the next week, the servants of Cranmer Hall and Castle Hendon struggled to preserve a facade of normality in the absence of their masters. Lord Cranmer was seriously ill and took to his bed. Miss Kathryn Cranmer stayed by his bedside, unable because of the exigencies of her nursing to see anyone. Lord Hendon was as mysteriously elusive as ever.

Behind the scenes, Spencer remained in his rooms, too worried to be of much practical use. Jack spent most of his time with Kit, helping to nurse her. Her shoulder wound healed well, but in her weakened state the cold she’d caught in the quarries rapidly developed into something worse. As the week progressed, Kit’s fever mounted. Only Jack had the strength to hold her easily, to cajole and if necessary force her to drink the drafts the doctor prepared. Only his voice penetrated the fogs Kit wandered through, dazed, weak, and confused.

Dr. Thrushborne called every morning and afternoon, worried by Kit’s state. “It’s the combination of things,” he explained to Jack. “The chill coming on top of a massive loss of blood. All we can do is keep her warm and quiet and let Nature work for us.”

Two grim days later, he answered an exhausted Jack’s unvoiced question: “The fact she’s still with us is the brightest sign. She’s a slip of a thing, but all the Cranmers are as stubborn as hell. I don’t think she plans to leave us just yet.”

Jack couldn’t even summon a smile. His world centered on the room at the end of the wing. Other than an obligatory visit to Hunstanton to follow up Tonkin’s suspicions, and an equally obligatory appearance at the church at Docking on Sunday, he’d not left the Hall. Matthew acted as his go-between, relaying his orders to Castle Hendon and supplying him with clothes, as well as taking messages to George, who’d temporarily assumed the leadership of the Gang. The bed in the room next to Kit’s had been made up, so he could grab a few hours’ sleep whenever exhaustion forced him to yield his place to Elmina.

It wasn’t that he distrusted Elmina; he’d learned she’d been maid to Kit’s mother and had been with her
petite
since her birth. However, like Spencer, she was incapable of exerting any control over her erstwhile charge. On the second night, he’d fallen into exhausted slumber, stretched, fully dressed, on the bed next door. He’d been awoken by a high-pitched altercation. In Kit’s room, he’d come upon the staggering sight of Kit, out of bed, rummaging through her wardrobe, while Elmina remonstrated helplessly. He’d walked in and picked Kit up, ignoring her struggles and the curses she’d laid about his ears. He’d discovered she was fluent in two languages.

Even when he’d put her back in bed, she’d fought him, but eventually yielded to his greater strength. Delirious, she hadn’t known who he was; her confusion that someone existed who could deny her had been obvious. The conviction that his kitten had gone her own way ever since she’d set foot from her cradle took firm root in Jack’s mind.

And when her fever mounted, draining what little strength she still possessed, leaving him to watch, impotent, as death fought to claim her, he made a solemn vow that if she was spared, he’d keep her safe for the rest of her life. Without her, his life would be worthless—he knew that now. His vulnerability angered him, but he couldn’t deny it. Nor could he walk away from his own part in her ill-fated masquerade. When all this was over, she’d be his responsibility—a responsibility he’d take more seriously than any other in his life.

For Kit, the week passed in a peculiar haze, lucid moments submerged in mists of confusion. Her body went from chilled shivering to heated dampness; her brain hurt dreadfully whenever she tried to think. Throughout it all, she was aware of a protective presence at her side, of a rock which remained steady within her whirling world. In the few scattered moments when she was fully conscious, she recognized that presence as Jack. Why he was in her bedroom was beyond her; she could only be grateful.

The end came abruptly.

She opened her eyes in the early dawn and the world had stopped spinning. She saw Jack, sleeping, slumped in an armchair facing the bed. Smiling, she wriggled to turn over, the better to appreciate the unexpected sight. A dull ache in her left shoulder stopped her. Frowning, she relived the night on the beach and her race from the Revenue. She’d been shot but had reached the quarries. After that came—nothing. Jack must have found her and brought her home.

Smiling at his evident concern, for it must have been that which had driven him to stay overnight, braving Spencer’s wrath, Kit stumbled on her first difficulty. How had Jack convinced Spencer to allow him to stay, not just at the Hall, but in her room? She tried to concentrate, but her mind wasn’t up to it. An elusive recollection niggled. Sergeant Tonkin was caught up in it somewhere; perhaps she’d been conscious for a time at the quarries and had overheard the sergeant and his men? Kit frowned, then mentally shrugged. No doubt it would come back to her.

Thoughts of Spencer reminded her she should go and reassure him as soon as possible; she knew how he fretted when she was hurt. Kit flexed her shoulder. She squinted down; all she could see was bandage. She felt nothing more than a mild ache.

Her gaze rested on Jack’s sleeping figure, drinking in the familiar features like a soothing draft. His cheekbones and brow seemed more angular than she recalled. The normally smooth planes of his cheeks were roughened by stubble. He looked thoroughly rumpled, nothing like her last image of him. Kit frowned. Again, that elusive memory flitted past, tantalizingly insubstantial. She grimaced and shook her head. Her lids were heavy. It was too early to get up. Besides, Jack was still sleeping and looked like he needed the rest. Perhaps she should nap, just until he awoke?

Lips curved, she drifted back to sleep.

The sensation of being stared at penetrated Jack’s slumber. Opening his eyes, he looked straight into shocked amethyst. Kit was awake and staring at him as if she’d seen a ghost. The look on her face told him he didn’t need to worry about how to remind her of the scene in Spencer’s library.

“Lord Hendon?” The weakness in her voice owed more to shock than illness. Suddenly, purple flares erupted in her violet eyes. “
You’re Lord Hendon!”

Jack winced at the accusation. He sat up and rubbed his hands over his face. It was just like her to return to the living with a rush. All his notions of gently explaining matters to a meek and confused woman went out the window. Kit was awake, alive and well, and in full command of her senses. And she hadn’t changed one bit.

Kit jumped when Jack’s hands dropped from his face to slap the arms of the chair. He surged to his feet, grinning inanely, his expression a mixture of joy, delight, and unadulterated relief. Before she could gather her wits, she’d been scooped from her bed and, in a tangle of sheets, deposited in his lap. Then he kissed her.

To Jack, Kit’s lips, warm and sweet, tasted better than ambrosia. Stubbornly, she kept them locked against him. She struggled, but it was a weak effort—he felt perfectly justified in ignoring it.

Kit tried to protest, but her mumbles fell on deaf ears. She was confused and angry—and she intended telling him about it before he stole her wits. But it was already too late. A familiar warmth was spreading through her. She clamped her lips tight shut, only to feel her body respond shamefully to his nearness. Of their own volition, her lips parted, eager to yield him the prize he sought. Kit gave up. She wound her arms about his neck and returned his kiss with all the fervor of a woman too long denied.

It felt like heaven to be with him again.

Jack shifted his hold and Kit winced. He raised his head immediately. “Damn! I forgot about your shoulder.”

“Forget my shoulder.” Kit drew his head back to hers, but it was clear she’d unintentionally brought him to his senses. When he drew away again, she let him go.

Jack looked deep into Kit’s eyes and wondered just how much she’d remembered. Whatever the answer, now was the time to tell her of their betrothal. Lifting her, he placed her back on the bed, plumping up the pillows at her back and tucking the coverlet about her. Kit accepted his ministrations, her expression turning suspicious.

Should he return to the formality of the chair? Jack temporized and sat on the bed, one of Kit’s hands in his. He glanced into her eyes and squared his shoulders. Proposing would have been a damn sight easier. “As you’ve realized, I’m Lord Hendon.”

“Not Captain Jack?”

“That, too,” he admitted. “Lord Hendon is Captain Jack.”

“When did you realize who I was?”

“The evening before you were shot.” Memory stirred and Jack rose to pace the room. “I recognized you as a Cranmer at the outset, but I thought you one of the family’s by-blows—as you well know.” He shot an accusing glance at Kit. She met it with bland innocence. “That afternoon, George came to see me. He’d been visiting Amy—”

“Amy?” Kit stared.

Jack stopped and considered, but Kit’s mind made the jump without further assistance.

“George is George Smeaton?”

Jack nodded. “We grew up together.”

Kit tried to juggle the pieces of the jigsaw that were falling into her hands.

“The Greshams’ groom told George who the black Arab mare belonged to. George came and told me.”

Kit’s mind was racing, filling in gaps, recalling snippets here and there. One particularly disturbing fragment was rapidly growing in importance. “My memory is still a little hazy,” she began, “but I seem to recall some mention of a wedding?” She tried to make the question as innocuous as such a question could be. When Jack’s brows rose arrogantly, her heart stood still.

“Naturally, in the circumstances, we’ll be married.” Neither his tone nor the glint in his grey eyes suggested there was any alternative.

Kit blinked. “Married?” Just like that? To a man like Jack? Worse—to a
lord
like Jack. Merciful heavens! She’d never be able to call her soul her own. “Just a minute.” She tried to keep her voice even. “I’m not quite clear on what happened. When did we become betrothed?”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Jack growled, his eyes gleaming, “we became betrothed when you begged me to take your maidenhead.”

“Ah.” Kit’s eyes glazed. Arguing that point was impossible. She tried a different tack. “When did this idea of marriage enter your head?”

Frowning, Jack tried to gauge her direction, wary of answering in the wrong way.

“After you’d found out who I was?”

Jack scowled.

Which was answer enough for Kit. “If you’ve determined on marriage purely to save my reputation, you can forget it.” She sat up. “I’d already decided not to marry, so there’s really no need for any charade.”

The idea that she was rejecting him held Jack speechless for all of ten seconds. “Charade?” he growled. “Charade be damned! If you’ve a dislike of marriage—though what you can know of the matter defies me—you should have remembered that
before
you gave yourself to me.
You
offered—
I
accepted. It’s too late for second thoughts.” Hands on hips, he glowered at Kit. “And in case it hasn’t sunk in yet, let me tell you that women of your station can’t go about giving themselves to men like me and expect to get let off the hook!”

Kit’s eyes blazed. “Dammit! There’s no sense in marrying me if you don’t want to!”

Jack nearly choked. “What’s wanting got to do with it? Of course I want to marry you!”

The statement, uttered at half bellow, stopped them both in their tracks.

Turning it over in his mind, Jack decided there was nothing he wished to add. He had to marry. He wanted to marry Kit. In fact, as far as he was concerned, they were married already. He just had to get her to agree.

Kit watched him, a considering frown on her face. Lord Hendon was fast becoming a far greater threat to her future than Captain Jack had ever been. Jack was an arrogant rogue, who could send her senses spinning with a single caress and was quite prepared to tie her up and carry her off if she didn’t obey his orders. But she’d been in no danger of having to marry Captain Jack. Lord Hendon had all Jack’s attributes, if anything, in greater measure. While Jack might bellow to overcome any resistance, Lord Hendon, she suspected, would simply raise one of those supercilious eyebrows and people would fall over themselves to obey. Kit swallowed a snort. And he expected her to marry him?

She glanced up, into his silver-grey eyes, and saw something in their shimmering depths which made her throat contract. The implication of his watchful silence broke over her.

He wanted her to marry him. He wanted her.

Abruptly, Kit threw off the bedclothes and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She’d forgotten that curious sense of being stalked. Right now, she’d prefer to be a moving target.

“Stay in bed, Kit.”

The undisguised command flicked Kit on the raw. She threw Jack a fulminating glance, but before she could take up her verbal cudgels, he was speaking again. “Dr. Thrushborne will be here soon, as he has been every morning for the past week.”

“Week?” Kit stared. It couldn’t have been that long. “What day is it?”

Jack had to think before answering: “Tuesday.”

“God lord! I’ve lost a week!”

“You nearly lost your
life.”

The deliberate tones jerked Kit back to full awareness. Jack had drawn closer. He stooped and scooped her legs in one arm and toppled her back on her pillows, tucking her legs under the covers.

“No more games, Kit. For God’s sake, stay in bed and do whatever Thrushborne says. The story we’ve put about—”

While Jack sat beside her and filled her in on their tale, Kit struggled to regain some sense of reality, some semblance of normality. But nothing seemed the same anymore.

Jack came to the end of his tale. “Elmina will be here soon, and I should return to Castle Hendon. I’ll be back this evening.” He rose, wondering what more he could say. He wasn’t sure if she’d accepted their marriage as inescapable fact; he hadn’t yet told her how soon it would be. But it was high time someone took charge of Kit Cranmer; he was that someone.