Proper? Jack closed his eyes in frustration. Neither he nor Kit possessed a proper bone in their bodies. He opened his eyes. “Damnation, woman! I’ve seen every square inch of skin your pauvre petite possesses. Right now, I’m trying to ensure that she lives. The proprieties be damned!”
He’d spoken in English. Elmina took a moment or two to catch up. By then, Jack had expertly slid the knife between Kit’s breasts and slit the bands.
Elmina’s “Sacre Dieu!” was a weak effort as, grudgingly, she gave up her fight. Muttered references to the madness of the English, and the shocking want of delicacy displayed by unnamed peers, punctuated the next ten minutes.
The hot water and bandages arrived. Jack watched Elmina bathe the wound. The maid’s hands were steady, her touch sure. When the ugly hole had been cleansed, he helped her tie a wad of torn sheeting over it. Kit’s breathing had improved, but her complexion remained alarmingly pallid.
Jack left Elmina in charge with strict instructions to be called immediately should Kit regain consciousness or Dr. Thrushborne appear. In the corridor outside Kit’s room, he slumped against the wall and shut his eyes. For one instant, despair overwhelmed him—Kit lay so very still, her skin so very cold. Her breathing was the only sign of life. Even if the wound didn’t kill her, in her weakened state, an inflammation of the lungs might.
He tried to imagine his life without her—and couldn’t. Abruptly, he opened his eyes and pushed away from the wall. Kit wasn’t dead yet. If she could fight, he’d be by her side.
His face grave, Jack went to face Spencer.
Jenkins was waiting at the top of the stairs. “Lord Cranmer’s in his chamber, m’lord. If you’ll follow me?”
A weary grin twisted Jack’s lips. The formal phrasing seemed out of place. He suspected he looked like a disreputable gypsy. And he was on his way to tell one of his father’s closest friends that he’d seduced his granddaughter.
Spencer’s rooms were in the opposite wing. Jenkins knocked, then held the door wide. Jack drew a deep breath and entered.
The dark was dispelled by a single lamp, turned low, set on a table in the center of the large room. In the uncertain light beyond, Jack saw the man he’d met in King’s Lynn months before. Swathed in a dressing robe, Spencer sat in an armchair. The mane of white hair was the same; the shaggy brows overhanging his deep-set eyes had not changed. But the anxiety in the pale eyes was new, etching lines about the firm lips, deepening the shadows in the sunken cheeks.
Held by Spencer’s gaze, Jack paused just inside the pool of lamplight, aware of Spencer stiffening as he took in his odd attire. Abruptly, Spencer raised a hand and dismissed the small man hovering at his side.
As the door closed, Spencer lifted his chin aggressively. “Well? What have Kathryn—and you—been up to?”
Feeling as if he was facing a court-martial, Jack clamped a lid on his natural arrogance and replied simply and straightforwardly. “I’m afraid Kit and I have become rather closer than is acceptable. In short, I seduced her. The only fact I can proffer in my defense is that I didn’t know at the time she was your granddaughter.”
Spencer snorted incredulously. “You didn’t recognize the coloring?”
Jack inclined his head. “I knew she was a Cranmer but…” He shrugged. “There were other possibilities.”
Spencer’s gaze was sharp. “Led you to believe she was something she’s not, did she?”
Jack hesitated.
“You may as well give me the whole of it,” declared Spencer. “I’m not likely to faint from the shock. Told you she was illegitimate, did she?”
Jack grimaced, remembering that first night, so long ago. “Let’s just say that when I made my supposition plain, she didn’t correct me. I’d hardly expected your granddaughter to be riding the countryside alone at night in breeches.”
Spencer sighed deeply. Slowly, his head sank. For a long moment, he stared into space, then in a gruff voice he muttered: “My fault—no denying it. I should never have let her grow so damned wild.”
Minutes ticked by; Spencer seemed sunk in abstracted gloom. Jack waited, not sure what was going through the old man’s mind. Then Spencer shook his head and looked him straight in the eye. “No sense in wailing over past history. You say you seduced her. What do you plan to do about it, hen?”
Jack’s lips twisted wryly. “I’ll marry her, of course.”
“Damn right you will!” Spencer’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “Think you’ll enjoy it—being married to a wildcat?”
Briefly, Jack smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Spencer snorted and waved him to a chair. “You don’t seem overly put out by the fall of the cards. But Jenkins said something about Kit’s being hurt. What’s happened?”
Jack drew an armchair to the table and sat, using the moments to assemble the essential elements of his tale. “Kit and I have been meeting by night at the old fishing cottage on the north boundary of my land.”
Spencer nodded. “Aye. I know it. Used to go fishing with your father from there.”
“I was on my way there tonight when I heard a commotion. Shots and horsemen. I went to investigate. From the cliffs I saw a chase on the sands—the Revenue following a horseman. Only the horseman was Kit.”
“They shot her?” Spencer?