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.”