Kit stopped breathing. The hand pressed gently, moving in a slow, circular motion, then its orientation shifted. Damp heat spread over her rear. Two long fingers slipped between her thighs.

With an audible gasp, Kit shot to her knees, but that only pressed her bottom more fully into that caressing hand, leaving her more open to those intimately probing fingers.

Too shocked to think, she leaned back on her haunches. The long fingers pressed deep. Kit leapt to her feet, her face flaming.

From behind came a mocking, very male laugh. “Later, sweetheart.”

Two hard hands set her aside, and Jack moved past to check the boom.

Kit escaped Jack’s dangerous presence as soon as she possibly could. Furious, nervous, and shaken, she bided her time until the difficult unloading operation began. Then she sought out Matthew. “I’ll go up on the cliff and keep watch.”

Matthew nodded. Unaided, Kit slipped over the side of the yacht, gently bobbing on the shallow swell, and waded to shore.

On board the yacht, Jack saw her in the surf. He swore and stepped to the rails, hands on hips. “Where the hell’s he going?”

Matthew was passing. “Young Kit?” When Jack nodded, he replied: “Lookout.”

Matthew moved on and so missed the devilish grin that broke across Jack’s face.

Was he supposed to understand she’d rather do lookout duty than stay in his vicinity? Jack felt laughter bubble up. Like hell! He’d felt her heat, even in those few minutes on the deck. She was as hot for him as he was for her, his little kitten. And soon, very soon, he was going to have her purring and arching like she’d never done before.

With an effort, Jack forced his mind back to the mundane but difficult task of unloading bales.

Kit waited only until she saw the first men leave. Then she pressed her heels to Delia’s sleek sides and headed home, her face still several shades too pink. She couldn’t stop dwelling on those few minutes on the deck. And on the promise in Jack’s final words.

Gone was any idea that he wasn’t attracted to her. Instead, her most pressing concern should doubtless be whether it wouldn’t be wise never to see him again.

To Kit’s consternation, her mind flatly refused to consider such an option.

At least now you know a little of what Amy meant.

Oh, God, Kit thought, that’s all I need. I can’t possibly be in love with Jack. He’s a smuggler.

Memories of how she’d felt on the deck crowded her mind. Even now, the skin on her bottom felt feverish as she recalled the play of his hand. Her bruises throbbed. Her memory rolled relentlessly on, to the delicious thrill she’d experienced when his fingers had probed the soft flesh between her thighs. Kit blushed. As her memory replayed his words, her heart accelerated. What if he really meant it?

She considered the implications and swallowed.

What did he actually mean? Was he really intending to…?

Kit’s thighs tightened, and Delia’s stride lengthened alarmingly.

A mile behind Kit, Jack swung up into Champion’s saddle. The last of the men had left, the cargo cleared. He turned to Matthew. “I’m going for a ride. I’ll be in later.”

With that, he set Champion up the cliff track, onto Delia’s trail. Jack was very tired of his nocturnal rides, but he couldn’t have slept, even uneasily as he did, without knowing Kit was safely home. At least he only had less than a week to go before Young Kit left the Hunstanton Gang. When they met at night after that, if she left him at all, it would be at a safer hour-one much closer to dawn.

Afternoon sunlight turned the streaks in Jack’s hair to brightest gold as he sat, lounging elegantly, in the carved chair behind his desk. Huge and heavy, the desk was located before the library windows, its classic lines complementing the uncluttered bookshelves lining the walls.

Bright blue fractured light fell from Jack’s signet ring onto the pristine blotter as his long fingers toyed idly with an ivory letter opener. His attire proclaimed him the gentleman but as always held a hint of the military. No one, seeing him, would find it difficult to credit that this was Lord Hendon, of Castle Hendon, the High Commissioner for North Norfolk.

A distant frown inhabited the High Commissioner’s expressive eyes; his grey gaze was abstracted.

Before the desk, George wandered the room, glancing at the numerous sporting and military publications left lying on the side tables before stopping before the marble mantelpiece. A large gilt-framed mirror reflected the comforting image of a country squire’s son, soberly dressed, with rather less of the striking elegance that characterized Jack, a more easygoing nature discernable in George’s frank brown eyes and gentle smile.

George tweaked a gilt-edged note from the mirror frame. “I see you’ve got an invitation to the Marchmonts’ masquerade. Are you going?”

Jack lifted his head and took a moment to grasp the question. Then he grimaced. “Pretty damned difficult to refuse. I suppose I’ll have to put in an appearance.” His tone accurately reflected his lack of enthusiasm. He wasn’t the least interested in doing the pretty socially-smiling and chatting, careful not to overstep the mark with any of the marriageable misses, partnering them in the dances. It was all a dead bore. And, at present, his mind was engrossed with far more important concerns.

He wasn’t at all sure he hadn’t overstepped the mark with Kit. She hadn’t come to the meeting last night, the first meeting she had missed. He’d turned the event to good account by referring to her grandfather’s influence. But, deep down, he suspected it was his influence that was to blame. Why she would take exception to his caresses, explicit though they’d been, he couldn’t imagine.

She was a mature woman and, although she clearly liked to play games as many women did, her actions, her movements, the strength and wildness of her response, all testified to her knowledge of how such games inevitably ended. After her actions on the yacht, and at the Blackbird, it was difficult to doubt her willingness to pursue that inevitable ending with him. But he couldn’t think of any other reason why she’d have stayed away last night.

The idea that she was a tease who didn’t pay up he discounted; no woman who was as hot as Kit would draw back from the culminating scene. And even if she was that sort, he’d no intention of letting her shortchange him.

“What are you going to wear?”

George’s question dragged Jack’s mind from his preoccupation. “Wear?” He frowned. “I must have a domino lying about somewhere.”

“You haven’t read this, have you?” George dropped the invitation onto the desk. “It clearly states a proper costume is mandatory. No dominos allowed.”

“Damn!” Jack read the invitation, his lip curling in disgust. “You know what this means? A string of shepherdesses and Dresden milkmaids, all either hitting you over the head with their crooks or knocking your shins with their pails.”

George laughed and settled in a chair opposite the desk. “It won’t be that bad.”

Jack raised a cynical brow. “What are you going as?”

George flushed. “Harlequin.” Jack laughed. George looked pained. “I’m told it’s one of the sacrifices I must make in light of my soon-to-be-wedded state.”

“Thank God I’m not engaged!” Jack stared at the invitation again. Then a slow smile, one George was well acquainted with, broke across his face.

“What are you going to do?” George asked, trepidation shading his tone.

“Well-it’s perfectly obvious, isn’t it?” Jack sat back, pleasurable anticipation gleaming in his eyes. “They’re expecting me to turn up, disguised but still recognizable, prime fodder for their matrimonial cannons, right?”

George nodded.

“Did I tell you I’ve heard, from an unimpeachable source, that Lady Marchmont herself has me in her sights, for some nameless protégé?”

George shook his head.

“Well, she has. It occurs to me that if I’m to attend this event at all, it had best be in a disguise which will not be readily penetrated. If I can pull that off, I’ll be able to reconnoiter the field without giving away my dispositions. I’ll go as Captain Jack, pirate and smuggler, leader of the Hunstanton Gang.”

George appeared skeptical. “What about your hair?”

“There’s a wig of my grandfather’s about somewhere. With that taken care of, I should be able to pass muster undetected, don’t you think?”

At Jack’s inquiring look, George nodded dully. With his hair covered, Jack’s height was unusual but not distinctive. However…George eyed the figure behind the desk. There weren’t many men in North Norfolk built like Jack, but he knew better than to quibble. Jack would do what Jack would do, regardless of such minor difficulties. The success of his disguise would depend on how observant the females of the district were. And most hadn’t seen Jack in ten and more years.

“Who knows?” Jack mused. “One of these females might actually suit me.”

George stared. “You mean you’re seriously considering marrying?” His tone was several degrees past incredulous.

Jack waved one hand languidly, as if the subject was not of much importance. “I’ll have to sometime, for an heir if nothing else. But don’t get the idea I’m all that keen to follow your lead. A dashed risky business, marriage, by all accounts.”

George relaxed, then took the opportunity provided by this rare allusion to a topic that Jack more normally eschewed to ask: “What sort of wife are you imagining for yourself?”

“Me?” Jack’s eyes flew wide. He considered. “She’d have to be able to support the position-be acceptable as Lady Hendon and the mother of my heir and all that.”

“Naturally.”

“Beyond that…” Jack shrugged, then grinned. “I suppose it’d make life easier if she was at least passably good-looking and could string a conversation along over the breakfast cups. Aside from that, all I’d ask is that she keep out of what are purely my concerns.”

“Ah,” said George, looking skeptical. “Which concerns are those?”

“If you imagine I’m going to settle to monogamous wedded bliss with a woman who’s only passably good-looking, you’re wrong.” Jack’s acerbity was marked. “I’ve never understood all the fuss about fidelity and marriage. As far as I can see, the two don’t necessarily connect.”

George’s lips thinned, but he knew better than to lecture Jack on that subject. “But you don’t have a mistress at present.”

Jack’s smile was blinding. “Not just at the moment, no. But I’ve a candidate in mind who’ll fill the position admirably.” His silver-grey gaze grew distant as his thoughts dwelled on Kit’s delicate curves.

George humphed and fell silent.

“Anyway,” Jack said, shaking free of his reverie, “any wife of mine would have to understand she’d have no influence in such areas of my life.” With Kit as his mistress, he couldn’t imagine even wanting a wife. He certainly wouldn’t want one to warm his bed-Kit would do that very nicely.

Chapter 14

Noise, laughter, and the distant scrape of a violin greeted Kit as she strolled up the steps of Marchmont Hall. At the door, the butler stood, sharp eyes searching each guest for the required sprig of laurel. Drawing abreast of him, Kit smiled and raised her gloved fingers to the leaves thrust through the buttonhole in her lapel.

The butler bowed. Kit inclined her head, pleased that the retainer had not recognized her. He’d seen her frequently enough in her skirts to be a reasonable test case. Confidence brimming, she sauntered to the wide double doors that gave onto the ballroom, pausing at the last to check that her plain black mask was in place, shading her eyes as well as covering her telltale mouth and chin.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, she was conscious of being examined by a large number of eyes. Her confidence wavered, then surged when no one looked more than puzzled. They couldn’t place the elegant stripling, of course. Calmly, as if considering the attention only her due, Kit strolled into the crowd milling about the dance floor. She’d had Elmina recut a cast-off evening coat belonging to her cousin Geoffrey, deepest midnight blue, and had bullied her elderly maid into creating a pair of buff inexpressibles that clung to her long limbs as if molded to them. Her blue-and-gold waistcoat had once been a brocaded underskirt; it was cut long to cover the anatomical inadequacies otherwise revealed by the tight breeches. Her snowy white cravat, borrowed from Spencer’s collection, was tied in a fair imitation of the Oriental style. The brown wig had been the biggest challenge; she’d found a whole trunk of them in the attic and had spent hours making her selection, then recutting the curls to a more modern style. All in all, she felt no little pride in her disguise.