It would be even more wonderful if her hideously handsome husband was here to enjoy it with her—only he wasn’t. Kit pushed that thought, and the annoyance it brought, aside. She cast about for a cliff path.
She rode eastward along the sands, then came up to the cliffs to make her way onto the anvil-shaped headland above Brancaster. Kit let Delia have her head along the pale sands where the Hunstanton Gang had run so many cargoes.
She found the body in the last shallow bay before the eastern point.
Pulling Delia up a few yards away, Kit stared at the sprawled figure at the water’s edge. Waves washed over his legs. He’d been thrown up on the beach by the retreating tide. Not a muscle moved; he was as still as death.
His black hair rang a bell.
Carefully, Kit dismounted and approached the body. When it was clear the man was incapable of proving a threat, she turned him on his back. Recognition was instant. The arrogant black brows and aristocratic features of Jack’s French spy met her wondering gaze. He was deathly pale but still alive—she could see the pulse beating shallowly at the base of his throat.
What had happened? More importantly, what should she do?
With a strangled sigh, Kit bent over her burden and locked her hands about his arms. She tugged him higher up the beach, to where the waves could no longer reach him. Then she sat down to think.
If he was a French spy, she should hand him over to the Revenue. What would Jack think of that? Not much—he wouldn’t be impressed. But surely, as a loyal English-woman, that was her duty? Which took precedence—duty to one’s husband or duty to one’s country? And were they really different, or was that merely an illusion Jack used for his own peculiar ends?
Kit groaned and drove her fingers through her curls. She wished her husband were here, not so he could take control but so she could vent her feelings and give him the piece of her mind he most certainly deserved.
But Jack wasn’t here, and she was alone. And his French friend needed help. His body was chilled; from the look of him, he’d been in the water for some time. He looked strong and healthy enough, but was probably exhausted. She needed to get him warm and dry as soon as possible.
Kit considered her options. It was early yet. If she moved him soon, there’d be less chance of anyone seeing him. The cottage was the closest safe place where he could be tended. She stood and examined her patient. Luckily, he was slighter than Jack. She’d found it easy enough to move him up the beach; she could probably support half his weight if necessary.
It took a moment to work out the details. Kit thanked her stars she’d trained Delia to all sorts of tricks. The mare obediently dropped to her knees beside the Frenchman. Kit tugged and pulled and pushed and strained and eventually got him into her saddle, leaning forward over the pommel, his cheek on Delia’s neck, his hands trailing the sands on either side of the horse. Satisfied, Kit scrambled on behind, drew a deep breath and gave Delia the signal to stand. She nearly lost him, but at the last moment, managed to haul his weight back onto the mare. Delia stood patiently until she’d settled him once more. Then they set off, as fast as she dared.
Dismounting was rather more rough-and-ready. Kit’s arms ached from the strain of holding him on. She slid to the ground, then eased the leaden weight over until, with a swoosh, he left the saddle to end in a sprawled heap before the door. Exasperated with his helplessness, Kit spared a moment to glare at him. She paused to tug him into a more comfortable position before going into the cottage to prepare the bed.
She found an old sheet and spread it on the bed. His clothes would have to come off, but not until she’d used them as handholds to get him up onto the mattress. Returning to her patient, she dragged him inside. Getting him up on the bed was a frustrating struggle, but eventually, he was laid out upon the sheet, long and slim and, Kit had to admit, handsome enough to make her notice.
Jack didn’t leave his knives lying about, but his sword still resided in the back of the wardrobe. Kit put it to good use, slicing the Frenchman’s clothes from him. She tried not to look as she peeled the material away, turning him over on his stomach as she went and pulling the muddy sheet from under him. There were bruises on his shoulders and arms, as if he’d been in a fight, and one purpling blotch on one hip, as if he’d struck something. She flicked the covers over him and tucked them in.
Glowing with pride in a job well-done, she set about lighting the fire and heating some bricks. Later, when her patient was as warm and dry as she could make him, she made some tea and settled down to wait.
It wasn’t long before, thawed by the warmth, he stirred and turned on his back. Kit approached the bed, confidently leaning across to lay a cool hand on his forehead.
Strong fingers encirled her wrist. Heavy lids rose to reveal black eyes, hazed with fever. The man stared wildly up at her, his eyes searching her face. “Qui est-ce vous êtes?” The black eyes raked the cottage, then returned to her face. “Où sont-nous?”
The questions demanded an answer. Kit gave it in French. “You’re quite safe. You must rest.” She tried to ease her hand from his hold, but his fingers tightened instead. Irritated by this show of brute male strength when it was least helpful, Kit added with distinct asperity: “If you bruise the goods, Jack won’t be pleased.”
The mention of her husband’s name saw her instantly released. The black eyes scanned her, more confused than ever. “You are…acquainted with…Captain Jack?”
Kit nodded. “You could say that. I’ll get you something to drink.”
To her relief, her patient behaved himself although he continued to study her. He drank the weak tea without complaint. Almost immediately, he sank back into sleep. But his rest was disturbed.
Kit bit her lip as she watched him twist in the bed. He was muttering in French. She drew closer, to the foot of the bed. In his present state, she wasn’t certain how clear his mind was. Getting too close might not be wise.
Suddenly, he turned on his back and his breathing relaxed. To her surprise, he started speaking quite lucidly in perfect English. “There are only two of them—only two more of the bastards left. But Hardinges drank too fast—the cretin passed out before I could get anything more out of him, blast his ignorant hide.” He paused, a frown dragging the elegant black brows down. “No. Wait. There was one more clue—though God knows it’s not much to go on. Hardinges kept using the phrase ‘the sons of dukes.’ I think it means one of the two we’re after is a duke’s son, but I can’t be sure. However, I wouldn’t have thought Hardinges was given to poetic illusion.” A brief smile flickered over the dark face. “Well, Jack m’lad, I’m afraid that’s all I could learn. So you’d better get on that grey terror of yours and fly the news back to London. Whatever they do, they’ll have to do it fast. The vultures are closing in—they know something’s in the wind our side, and they’re determined to extract the ore by whatever means possible. If there’s a rat still left in our nest, they’ll find him.” The long speech seemed to have drained the man’s strength. After a pause, he asked: “Jack?”
Startled, Kit shook off her daze. “Jack’s on his way.”
The man sighed and sank deeper into the pillows. His lips formed the word “Good.” The next instant he was asleep.
With gentle snores punctuating the stillness, Kit sat and put the latest pieces of the jigsaw of her husband’s activities into place. He was the High Commissioner for North Norfolk—he’d been specifically entrusted with stamping out the smuggling of spies. It now appeared as if, not content with chasing spies on this side of the Channel, Jack had been instrumental in sending some of their own to France.
All of which was very well, but why couldn’t he have told her?
Kit paced before the fire, shooting glances every now and then at her patient. There was no reason why Jack couldn’t have entrusted her with the details of his mission, particularly not after her sterling service to the cause, albeit given in ignorance. It was patently clear that her husband harbored some archaic idea of her place in his life. It was a place she had no intention of being satisfied with.