e. As her lids drooped, he’d closed his own eyes in satisfaction. Her eyes had gone black.
Sensing that her release had been total, he’d opened her even wider and thrust deeply, seeking his own ticket to heaven in her fire. He’d found it.
When next he’d been able to sense anything, he’d felt her soft breath on his cheek. She’d fallen asleep while he was still inside her, a small, satisfied smile on her lips. Feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, he’d held her close and turned to his side, careful not to disturb their union. He’d surrendered to sleep, feeling her heartbeat in his veins.
He’d woken ten minutes ago. After gathering his wits, he’d carefully unwound their tangled limbs and pulled the sheets over her. Then headed for the brandy.
The intensity of his satisfaction was one thing. What was much more worrying was this other feeling, an irrational emotion which the events of the night had caused to grow alarmingly. Her whispered plea had been his undoing, in more ways than one.
Jack snorted and sipped his brandy, raising his head to listen to the storm as it swept past. The wind was still howling; the rain was still drumming against the shutters. There’d been a number of cracks of thunder; from them, he judged the worst was past. Outside. Inside, he was far from convinced Kit’s seduction was the end of anything. It felt much more like a beginning.
His eyes traced the curves concealed beneath the sheet. If it’d just been lust, all would be well, but what he felt for the damn woman went far beyond that. Jack grimaced. No doubt George could define the emotion for him, but he, of his own volition, wasn’t ready to do so yet. He didn’t trust the feeling—he’d wait to see what came next. Who knew how she’d behave tomorrow—she’d been one surprise after another thus far.
With a sigh, Jack drained the glass and replaced it on the table. He stoked the fire, then joined Kit between the sheets. She stirred and, in her sleep, snuggled closer. Jack smiled and turned on his side, drawing her to him, curving her back into his chest. He heard her contented sigh as she settled under his arm. At least he wouldn’t have to spend any more nights following her home through the dark.
Chapter 18
Dawn was painting the sky when Kit rode up the paddock at the back of the Cranmer Hall stables. She dismounted and led Delia inside, then unsaddled the mare and rubbed her down. Delia had survived the storm, safe in her stall beside Champion. As for herself, Kit wasn’t so sure.
She couldn’t even remember any thunder, let alone the panic that usually attacked her at such times. What she could remember had kept her cheeks rosy all the way home from the cottage.
The weight of Jack’s arm across her waist had penetrated her doze and brought her fully awake. She’d spent minutes in stunned recollection, as the events of the night had replayed in her brain. Jack had been sound asleep beside her. She’d edged from under his arm, conscious of a reluctance to leave his safe warmth yet quite sure she wouldn’t want to be there when he awoke.
With a last pat for Delia, Kit left the stables. The morning-room windows which gave onto the terrace had long been her favored route for clandestine excursions. Minutes later, she was safe in her chamber. She discarded her clothes, a simple matter now that they were dry. She’d dressed in silent haste, petrified lest Jack should hear her and wake up. But he’d slumbered on, a smile she’d long remember on his lips.
She’d remember his lips for a long time, too. Kit blushed and clambered into her bed. Damn the man—she’d wanted to be initiated, but had he needed to go so far? She couldn’t even think of the experience without blushing. She’d have to get over it, or Amy would become suspicious. The idea of confiding in Amy surfaced, only to be discarded. Amy would be horrified. Scandalized by her wildness. But then, Amy was marrying for love. She, Kit, was not marrying at all.
Kit pulled the covers to her chin and turned on her side, conscious of the empty bed behind her and annoyed at herself for it. She’d have to put the entire episode from her mind or even Spencer would notice. She wasn’t up to analyzing how she felt and what her conclusions on the activity were—she’d do that some other time, when she could think straight again.
She closed her eyes, determined to find slumber. She’d learned what she’d wanted to know—Jack had been a thorough teacher. Her curiosity had been well and truly satisfied. She was free and unfettered. She was no longer in charge of smugglers; she no longer needed to appear at their runs to be a redundant lookout. All was well in the world.
Why couldn’t she sleep?
Seven miles to the north, Jack came awake and instantly knew he was alone. He sat up and scanned the room, then, his privacy confirmed, fell back to the pillows, a puzzled frown on his face. Had he dreamed it?
A glance to the left revealed two bright strands of curling red hair, lying in an indentation in the pillow. Jack picked them up; the dim light filtering through the shutters struck red glints from their surface. Memories flooded him. One brow quirked upward. He lifted the sheet and looked down to where a few flecks of reddish brown stained the cream sheets.
No, he hadn’t dreamed it. Once his mission was complete, he’d build on the start he’d made last night.
Jack groaned. Who was he fooling? His mission might take months. He couldn’t possibly wait that long; after last night, he sincerely doubted she could. Not that she’d know that, but she’d find out soon enough. He might as well face it—for good or ill, Kit Cranmer and his mission looked set to stay entangled, certainly for the forseeable future.
His glance strayed to the bright strands wrapped around his fingers. He should, of course, feel irritated. But irritation was not what he felt.
Four days later, irritation was very close to his surface. He’d spent his Saturday and Sunday in a peculiar daze. On both nights, he’d gone to the cottage, but Kit hadn’t shown up. He’d relieved his frustrations by visiting the Revenue Office at Hunstanton on Monday and making Sergeant Tonkin’s life miserable. His questions had been phrased in an idle way, concealing the fact that he was intimately acquainted with Tonkin’s unsuccessful attempt to trap his “big gang.” He’d made Tonkin squirm, then later felt guilty. The man was a blot on the landscape, but in this instance he’d only been doing his job.
Jack had ridden to the Monday meeting at the Old Barn, silently rehearsing the words he intended to burn Kit’s ears with, when they repaired to the cottage afterward. She hadn’t shown her face.
What annoyed him most was that he actually felt hurt by her nonappearance. And the emotional hurt was much worse than the physical manifestation. At least, thanks to her earlier antics, he’d got used to that.
Now, he stood on the sands in the lee of the cliff and waited for his first “human cargo” to come ashore. He forced his mind back to the present, slamming a mental door against all thoughts of a redheaded houri in breeches. He glanced up at the cliff. Joe was on watch, but Jack doubted Sergeant Tonkin would try his luck quite so soon after his last dismal failure.
The first boat came in, swiftly followed by three more. A cargo of kegs and one man. He was in the first boat, a slight figure muffled to the eyes in an old greatcoat. Matthew, beside Jack, snorted at the sight.
Jack grimaced. “I know, you old warhorse—I’d like to get my hands around his throat, too. But he won’t escape.”
Matthew shifted, checking their surroundings. “D’ye think Major Smeaton’ll have reached London by now?”
“George won’t have dallied on the road. He should have passed the news on by now. There will be a welcome awaiting this one when he gets to London. A welcome he wasn’t counting on.”