“The ball’s over for you, Kit. Time to go home.”

Kit took a third step back, then judged the distance between them sufficient to allow her to say: “I’ve no intention of leaving yet. The person-”

Her words were cut off when Jack’s hand clamped over her mouth. In the same instant, his other arm wrapped about her waist and lifted her from her feet. She hadn’t even seen him move yet he was now behind her, carrying her to the balustrade. Kit struggled frantically to no effect.

Jack sat on the balustrade, Kit held on his lap, then rolled over the edge. He landed upright in the flower bed six feet below the terrace, Kit safe before him.

Seething with fury, Kit waited for him to release her. When he did, she spun on him. “You misbegotten oaf! How dare you-”

To her surprise, a large hand helped her spin until she was facing away from him again. Her words were cut off again, this time by her own mask, untied, folded then retied over her mouth. Kit’s scream of rage was muffled by the black felt. She turned about again, her hands automatically reaching for the mask to drag it away, but Jack moved with her, remaining behind her. He caught her hands in his, his long fingers closing viselike about her wrists, pulling them down and behind her. In stunned disbelief, Kit felt material, Jack’s neckerchief most probably, tighten about her wrists, securing them behind her back. Her temper exploded in a series of protests, none of which made it past the gag.

Jack appeared before her. Through the slits in his mask, his eyes gleamed. “You should be on your most ladylike behavior at a ball, you know.”

Another volley of muffled protests greeted the sally. With a chuckle, Jack stooped; suddenly, Kit found herself looking down on Lady Marchmont’s ruined petunias from a height of four feet. With Kit hoisted over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, her legs secured under one muscular arm, Jack headed away from the house. Kit’s muffled grumbles ceased abruptly when he ran his free hand over the ripe curves of her bottom, nicely positioned for his attentions. A fraught silence ensued. Giving the firm mounds a fond pat, Jack grinned and strode on.

He headed into the shrubbery at the end of the lawn. Taking a path enclosed by high hedges, he cast about for a niche to stow his booty. The walk ended in a fan-shaped bay just beyond the intersection with two other paths. A stone bench with a carved back stood in the bay. Behind it, between the curved hedge and the bench back, Jack found the perfect place to leave his unwilling companion.

Before he lowered Kit, he undid his belt, wrapped it about her knees, and cinched it tight. Then he shrugged her off his shoulder and into his arms.

Kit glared up into his face, silently fuming, her brain seething with the epithets she wished she could hurl at him.

Jack grinned and sat her on the bench. He pulled off his mask and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll have to leave you while I arrange our transportation. How did you get here? You may as well tell me-I’ll find out soon enough.”

Kit stared back at him.

Jack guessed. “Delia?”

Reluctantly, Kit nodded. A look in the stable would tell him as much.

“Right.”

Jack picked her up, and Kit realized just where he was going to leave her. She struggled and shook her head violently, but Jack took no notice. Then she was laid out, full-length on her side, in the shadowy recess behind the bench.

Jack leaned over her. “If you keep quiet, no one will disturb you.”

What about spiders? was Kit’s agonized thought. She put every ounce of pleading she possessed into her eyes, but Jack didn’t notice.

Unperturbed, he added: “I’ll be back soon.” Then he disappeared from sight.

Kit lay still and pondered her state. Disbelief was her predominant emotion. She was being kidnapped! Kidnapped from the Lord Lieutenant’s ball by a man she wasn’t at all sure she could trust. He thought she’d muff her lines and bring disaster on her head and, in typically high-handed fashion, had decided to remove her for her own good. There was no doubt in her mind that was how Jack saw it; his actions didn’t really surprise her. What did worry her, what was looming as a potential source of panic in her brain, was what he intended doing with her.

Where was he taking her? And what would he do when they got there?

Such questions were not conducive to lying calmly in the dark while being kidnapped. That knowing hand on her bottom had sent a most peculiar thrill all the way to her toes.

In an effort to quell her rising hysteria, Kit forced herself to consider why Jack had been present at the ball. He’d said for the same reason as she. Presumably he’d meant he was here for a lark, just to see how the nobs lived. She could imagine he might do that, just for a laugh-the smugglers’ leader at the Lord Lieutenant’s ball.

In the shadows before the stable, Jack paused to take stock. Only two grooms sat in the puddle of light thrown by a lamp just inside the open door. The visiting coachmen, his own thankfully included, would be in the kitchen, enjoying themselves. All he had to do was pray that the groom who’d relieved Kit of Delia wasn’t one of the two left to mind the stables.

“You two! My horse, quickly.” Jack strode forward, habitual command coloring his words.

“Your horse, sir?” The men rose to their feet uncertainly.

“Yes, my horse, dammit! The black Arab.”

“Yes sir. Right away, sir.”

The alacrity with which the two scrambled up and made their way down the boxes told Jack his prayers had been answered. Delia, however, did not approve of the fumbling attempts of the grooms to saddle her. Jack pushed past them. “Here. Let me.”

He’d handled Delia often enough for her to accept his ministrations. As soon as she was saddled, Jack led her to the yard. With a last prayer that Delia would not balk at carrying his weight and the grooms would not notice the stirrups were too short for him, Jack swung into the saddle.

The gods were smiling. Delia sidled and snorted but responded to the rein. With a dismissive nod to the grooms, Jack cantered her out of the yard. As soon as he was out of sight of the stables, he turned the mare toward the shrubbery.

The first intimation Kit had that she was not alone was a soft giggle, followed by a low, feminine moan. She froze. An instant later, silk skirts rustled as a woman sank onto the stone bench.

“Darling! You really are too impetuous.” The unknown female was a shady figure, the moonlight fitfully glinting on blond curls and bare shoulders.

“Impetuous?” A man sat beside the woman. His tone suggested pique, rather than pride. “How would you describe your own behavior, making sheep’s eyes at that devil Hendon?”

Kit’s brows rose. Devil?

“Really, Harold! How common. I was doing no such thing. You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous?” Harold’s voice rose.

“Yes, jealous,” came the reply. “Just because Lord Hendon’s got the most wonderful shoulders.”

“I don’t think it was the man’s shoulders that impressed you, my dear.”

“Don’t be crude, Harold.” A pause ensued, broken by the woman. “Mind you, I daresay Lord Hendon’s equally impressive in other departments.”

A growl of frustration came from Harold, and the two silhouettes above Kit fused.

Kit lay in her nook and tried to ignore the snuffles and slurps and funny little moans that came from the couple on the bench. It was enough to put anyone off the business for life. She turned to a contemplation of the new vision of Lord Hendon that was forming in her mind. Perhaps she’d been hasty in thinking him a fusty old crock. Certainly, a devil with impressive shoulders and equally impressive other parts did not fit the image she’d constructed. And the woman on the bench sounded as if she had the experience to know of what she spoke.

Perhaps she should give Lord Hendon a closer look. That had, after all, been her aim in coming to the ball, even if she hadn’t had much hope of him then. Now-who knew? But Jack would soon be back, determined to take her away.

Recalling that she’d yet to satisfy herself as to where Jack was taking her, Kit tested the bonds at her wrists. They gave not at all. She could moan and attract the attention of the couple on the bench, assuming she could make them understand it was not them doing the moaning, but the idea of the explanations she’d face defeated that thought.

Really, if there was any justice in the world, Lord Hendon would stumble upon her and rescue her from Jack and his altogether frightening propensities. Resigned, Kit stared at the small section of sky she could see and wished the couple on the bench would go away.

“Who’s that coming?” The woman’s voice held a note of panic.

“Where?” The same panic echoed in Harold’s tone.

“From the side. See-there.”

A long pause ensued. All three figures in the alcove held their breath. Then, “Dammit! It’s Hendon.” Harold rose and drew the woman to her feet.

“Perhaps we ought to wait for him-he might be lost.”

Harold snorted in disgust. “All you females are the same. You’d crawl all over him if he gave you half a chance. But we can’t let him catch us together, and how would you explain being here alone? Come on!”

The two figures departed, and Kit was alone.

Lord Hendon was close, but she couldn’t even get to her feet. The chances of anyone walking up and looking over the back of the bench to find her were negligible. Kit closed her eyes in exasperation and swore beneath her gag.

Two minutes later, the hedge rustled. Kit opened her eyes to see Jack leaning over her. He lifted her from her bed, then propped her against his hip and bent down to undo his belt. Her legs free, Kit sank onto the bench.