It wasn’t fair.
She still had very few clues as to his purpose, but her suspicions were mounting. She’d helped him gain control over all the smugglers in the area-she didn’t know why he’d needed that but was sure it had been his objective in joining his Gang with her small outfit. Despite her constant requests, he’d refused to divulge his plans. Even when she’d threatened him with exposure, he’d stood firm. Then she’d saved them from the Revenue, nearly dying in the process. Had he weakened? Not a bit!
Kit snorted and shifted in her chair, slipping her feet from her slippers and tucking her cold toes beneath her skirts.
His reaction to the latest developments was all of a piece. He’d hied off to London, to smooth things over regarding Belville’s death, so he’d said. Kit’s eyes narrowed, her lips twisted cynically. He’d slipped up there. Their story for public consumption was that Belville had disappeared, presumed a victim of the treacherous currents. She wished she knew who Jack was seeing in the capital. Doubtless, they were getting the explanation she’d been denied.
Kit sighed and stretched. The lamps were burning low. She might as well go up to her empty bed. There was no getting away from the fact that her husband simply didn’t trust her, was apparently incapable of trusting her.
Full lips drew into a line; amethyst eyes gleamed. Kit put her feet back into her slippers and stood.
Somehow, she was going to have to make clear to her aggravating spouse that his attitude was simply not good enough.
With a determined tread, she headed for bed.
When Sunday dawned, Kit found herself both husbandless and filled with restless energy-the latter a natural consequence of the former. Flinging back the curtains, she looked out on a fairy-tale scene. The green of the fields was dew-drenched, each jeweled blade sparkling under a benevolent sun. There was not a cloud to be seen; the birds sang a serenade of joy to the bluest of skies. A glint appeared in Kit’s eye. She hurried to the wardrobe. It would have to be her inexpressibles; Jack had been overly hasty in divesting her of her riding breeches and Elmina had yet to mend them.
Clad as a boy, she slipped from the still sleeping mansion. Saddling the chestnut with her convertible sidesaddle was easy enough. Then she was riding out, quickly, lest the grooms see her, heading south. She reached the paddock where Delia was held. The black mare came racing at her whistle. It was the work of a few minutes to transfer the saddle, then she turned the chestnut loose to graze in unwonted luxury, while she and Delia enjoyed themselves.
She rode straight for the north coast, passing close by the cottage, a black arrow speeding onward. When they pulled up on the cliffs, exhilaration pounded in her veins. She was breathing hard. Laughter bubbled in her throat. Kit held up her hands to the sun and stretched. It was wonderful to be alive.
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?”