With an effort, Kit shook free of Jack’s intimidating stare and glared back. Setting her hands on her hips, she opened her mouth to put him right on the role of women.

Jack got in first, one long finger stabbing the air for emphasis. “You’re a woman. You’re not the leader of a gang of smugglers-you played at being a lad in charge of a small group, but that’s all.” His empty glass hit the table. He placed both hands beside it and leaned forward. “If I hadn’t come along and relieved you of command, you’d have sunk without trace long since. You know nothing-nothing-of leading men.”

Kit’s eyes sparked violet daggers; her lips parted on words of rebuttal.

Jack was in no mood to give her a chance. “And if you’ve any notion on lecturing me on the matter, I suggest you keep your ill-advised opinions to yourself!”

Fury surged through Kit’s veins, cindering her innate caution. Her eyes narrowed. “I see.” She studied the large form, bent intimidatingly over the table, the very table where she’d lain, sprawled in wanton abandon, five nights before, with him, erect, engorged, between her wide-spread thighs.

Kit blinked and shook aside the unhelpful memory. She rushed into speech. “In that case, I’ll have to take…” Some sixth sense made her pause. She looked into the grey eyes watching her. Caution caught her tongue.

“Have to take…?”

Jack’s soft prompt rang alarm bells in Kit’s brain. Desperation came to her rescue. She put up her chin, cloaking her sudden uncertainty in truculence. “Take what steps I can to see that you don’t get caught.” Racked by nerves, she resettled her muffler. It was time for her to leave.

A cold calm descended on Jack, leaving little room for emotion. He saw straight through her obfuscation. “You mean to warn the authorities of our activities.”

The statement brought Kit’s head up so fast, she’d no time to wipe the truth from her eyes. The moment hung suspended between them, her silence confirming his conjecture more completely than any confession.

Realizing the trap she’d fallen into, Kit blushed. Denial was pointless, so she took the other tack. “If you continue to run spies, you leave me little choice.”

“Whom do you plan to convince? Spencer?” Jack moved, smoothly, to come around the table.

Her mind on his words, Kit shrugged, raising her brows noncommittally. “Perhaps. Maybe I’ll look up Lord Hendon-it’s his responsibility, after all.”

She swung to face Jack. And found him on the same side of the table and advancing slowly. Her heart leapt to her throat. She recalled the time on the Marchmont Hall terrace when she’d underestimated his speed. Cautiously, she backed away.

Her eyes rose to meet his. She read his intent in the darkened grey that had swallowed all trace of silver. “What do you think you’re doing?” Irritation colored her tone. How like him to decide to play physical just now.

Despite his years of training, Jack couldn’t stop himself from admiring the threat she posed. Satisfied he could reach the door before she could, he stopped with two yards between them and met her aggravated amethyst gaze. “I’m afraid, sweetheart, that you can’t expect to leave just yet. Not after this little talk of ours.” Jack couldn’t keep a smile from twisting his lips as his mind assembled the rest of his plan. “You must see that I can’t have you scurrying off to Lord Hendon.” Heaven help him if she did!

Warily, Kit eyed the distance between them and decided it was enough. Despite his words, there was no overt threat in his tone or his stance. “And how were you planning to stop me? Wouldn’t it be easier to just stop running spies?”

Jack’s gilded head shook a decided negative. “As far as I can see,’ he said, “the best thing I can do is keep you here.”

“I won’t stay, and you know you sleep soundly.”

Jack raised a brow but didn’t attempt to deny it. “You’ll stay if I tie your hands to the headboard.” When Kit’s eyes widened, he added: “Remember the last time I had you with your hands tied? This time, I’ll have you flat on your back in the middle of my bed.”

Desire flickered hungrily in Kit’s belly. She ignored it, blinking to dispel the images conjured up by his words, by his deepening tones. “There’ll be a fuss if I disappear. They’ll search the county.”

“Perhaps. But I can assure you they won’t search here.”

His glib certainty struck Kit between the eyes. A conglomeration of disjointed facts fell into place. She stared at Jack. “You’re in league with Lord Hendon.”

Her tone of amazed discovery halted Jack; her words sent a thrill of expectation through him. She was so close to the truth. Would she guess the rest? If she did, what would she think?

It was his turn to be too slow with his denial to disguise the truth. Instead, he shrugged. “What if I am? There’s no need for you to spend any of your time considering the subject. I’ve much more urgent matters for your attention.” With that growled declaration of intent, Jack stepped forward.

Kit immediately backed away, her eyes wide. He was mad-she’d thought it often enough. “Jack!”

Jack took no notice of her imperious warning.

Kit drew a deep breath. And dashed for the door.

She’d taken no more than two steps before she felt the air at her back stir. With a shriek, she veered away from the door. Jack’s body rushed past her, slamming against the wooden panels. Kit heard the bolt fall home.

Wild-eyed, Kit scanned the room and saw Jack’s sword, propped against the wardrobe. Her heart thudding, she grabbed it up and whirled, wrenching the gleaming blade from the scabbard. She presented it, a lethal silver scythe transcribing a protective arc before her.

Jack froze, well out of her range. Inwardly, he cursed. Matthew had found the sword thrust to the back of the wardrobe. He’d taken it out and cleaned it before grinding the edge to exquisite sharpness. Apparently, he’d left it out in the belief his master should carry it.

Instead, his master, in full possession of his senses, now wished the sword he’d carried for ten years and more at the devil. If it’d been any other woman, he’d have walked calmly forward and taken it. But even though Kit had to use both hands to keep the blade balanced, Jack didn’t make the mistake of thinking she couldn’t use it. He didn’t for a moment believe she’d run him through, but by the time she realized that, her stroke might be too advanced to stop, given her unfamiliarity with that particular blade, weighted for slashing swings, not thrust and parry. She might not kill him, but she could do serious damage. Even more frightening was the possibility she might get hurt herself.

That thought forced Jack to move cautiously. His gaze locked with Kit’s, steadying, trying to will some of his calm into the frightened violet eyes. He wasn’t sure how far she was from real panic, but he didn’t think she’d hand over the sword, not after his threats. Slowly, he edged around the bed, away from her. Her eyes followed, intent on his movement, clearly puzzled by it.

Her breathing was too fast. Kit tried to contain her panic, but she was no longer sure of anything. She frowned when Jack stopped on the opposite side of the bed. What was he up to? She couldn’t make for the door; he was far too fast for that. The corner of the room was just a step away; she’d already backed as far as she could into its protection.

Jack moved so fast Kit barely saw the blur. One moment he was standing still, feet apart, hands relaxed by his sides. The next, he’d grabbed the covers and whipped them over the sword, following them over the bed to wrench the blade from her hands. Over her shriek, Kit heard the muffled thud as the sword hit the ground, flung out of harm’s way. Jack’s arms closed about her, an oddly protective trap.

Struggling made no impression. Her legs were pressed against the bed, then she was toppled onto it. Kit’s breath was knocked out of her when Jack landed on top of her. He used his body to subdue her struggles, his legs trapping hers, his hips weighting hers down, long fingers holding her head, gradually exerting pressure until she kept still. Half-smothered by his chest, Kit had to wait until he shifted to look down at her before opening her mouth to blister his ears. But no sound escaped her. Instead, his mouth found hers and his tongue filled the void with brandy-coated fire.

One by one, Kit felt her muscles give up the fight, relaxing as his intoxicating taste filled her senses, warming her from the inside out. The scandalous idea of being tied to his bedhead took on a rosy glow. As the insidious effect spread, her beleaguered mind summoned its last defenses. It couldn’t happen. But she’d only have one chance to change her fate.

For one long moment, Kit flowed with the tide, then, abruptly, she threw every muscle against him, pushing hard to dislodge him and roll his weight from her.

Jack was taken aback by the force of her shove. But, instead of suppressing it by sheer weight, he decided to roll with her push and bring her up over him. Fully atop her, he couldn’t reach that particular area of her buttocks that always proved so helpfully arousing. Reversing their positions was an excellent idea. He rolled, pulling her with him.

His head hit the bedend, concealed beneath the disarranged sheets.

Kit knew the instant he lost consciousness. His lips left hers; his fingers slid from her hair. She stared down into his face, oddly stripped of emotion, relaxed and at peace. In panic, she wriggled off him. She placed a hand on his chest and breathed a sigh of relief when she felt his heart beating steadily. Puzzled, she felt under his head and found the rounded wood of the bedend. The mystery solved, she sat up and tugged him farther onto the bed, then fetched a pillow to cradle his head.