Slamming into the bale knocked the breath out of Kit. She waited, but Jack made no move to pull back. His breath wafted the curls above her left ear.

Jack was content to remain where they were. He’d no intention of giving her the leeway to continue her little game. He considered whispering a few carefully worded threats but couldn’t think of anything appropriate. He’d a nasty suspicion his voice would betray him if he tried to speak at all. He set his jaw and endured, cataloging every little move she made into his ledger of account against the time, almost a week distant, when payment would fall due. He’d every intention of making sure she paid. In full. With interest.

The sight of the beach was more welcome than the cliffs of Dover had ever been. Jack saw the helmsman wave. “Let go of the rope. Slowly.”

Kit did as she was told, wary of the wind-whipped sail. Jack held on until he was sure her hands were free, then he let go as well. The boom swung away, but the wheel was also swung; the yacht slewed and slowed as the wind emptied from the sail. The boom swung inboard.

Jack was watching it. He ducked, taking Kit to the deck with him. She sprawled full-length beside him.

A quick glance showed Jack that the helmsman was concentrating on his yacht while the other men, including Matthew, were busy securing the boom. The moment was too tempting to pass up.

Kit had seen the boom returning but had not been expecting Jack’s hands to close so abruptly on her shoulders. The deck was hard and uncomfortable, but it was doubtless better than a broken head. She saw the men struggling to tie the wretched boom back into position and placed her hands palm down on the deck. She braced herself to rise. Instead, she froze as a large hand splayed across her bottom.

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.”