He was woken by Kit scrambling over the bed. “My dress,” she said, catching hold of the garment and kneeling on the bed to inspect it. “You’ve ripped it.” She turned to throw an accusing stare his way. Then she glanced at the large armoire against one wall. “I don’t suppose that contains any dresses?”
Jack grinned and shook his head. Then he frowned. “Haven’t you got another in that bag of yours?” Her black bag had been left near the door.
Kit shook her head. “I didn’t expect to be away from home for long, remember?”
“What’s in there?”
Warily, Kit eyed the long muscled length stretched, relaxed, on the bed. “My breeches. Both pairs.”
Jack’s head came up; his eyes found hers. Then, to her relief, he chuckled and dropped his head back on the pillow. “Actually, I’d hoped you’d be reduced to wearing them when I found you at Jenny’s. I spent the entire trip down from London fantasizing about your punishment.”
Kit stared at him. Fantasizing? She licked her lips. “You never did say what my punishment would be.”
“Didn’t I?” Jack raised his head. One brow rose; his eyes glinted wickedly. “But that’s half the delight. Your imagination running riot in anticipation.”
“Jack!” Kit frowned and shifted on the bed, drawing the counterpane about her. Her imagination was stimulated enough already.
He dropped his head back again, then she felt the bed rock with his deep laughter. “I just had a thought.”
She could see the smile on his face. It grew. He came up on one elbow, the look on his face growing more wicked with every passing second.
“If your breeches are all you’ve got to wear, then perhaps you’d better put them on now. Then we can get your punishment over and done with and you can wear them in Lisbon, until we can buy you some new clothes.”
Kit stared as one arrogant brow rose, sending delicious shivers skittering through her. His gaze held Hers steadily, as if what he was suggesting was the most straightforward proposition in the world. Dazed, Kit reflected that if she had a single proper bone in her body, she would tell him that married women did not indulge in realizing fantasies. Particularly not his fantasies. She concluded she didn’t have a proper bone to her name.
She ran the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. “What sort of punishment did you have in mind?”
Jack smiled. “Nothing too drastic. Nothing that would hurt. I’d intended it as a purely educational exercise.” He sat up in bed and leaned back to study her, his arms crossed behind his head. “I thought I should widen your experience by showing you what could happen should you be caught by a man while wearing breeches. But you’d have to promise not to squeal.”
Squeal? Kit blinked. This was madness. But she’d never be able to sleep without knowing what he’d planned. Now he’d told her that much, and no more, sometime, somewhere, she’d wear her breeches again just to learn the rest. Why not now?
Jack knew she’d never be able to refuse, to walk away without knowing. Curiosity was something his kitten possessed in abundance. He sat back, entirely confident, and waited for her agreement.
“Perhaps-”
A knock on the stateroom door interrupted Kit’s tentative acceptance.
“Lord Hendon?”
Jack got up and reached for his breeches, a smile still on his lips. “I’ll take care of whatever it is. Why don’t you get dressed?”
Buttoning his breeches, he went out.
Kit stared at the door through which he’d disappeared. She could hear talk in the next room, the voices muffled by the panels. Her gaze dropped to her small black bag, resting where Jack had dropped it, just inside the door.
She was buttoning up the flap of her riding breeches, her back to the door, when she heard Jack enter.
He saw her and, with a half-suppressed whoop, swooped down on her, one arm slipping around her waist to drag her up hard against him, her back to his chest. Without effort, he lifted her feet clear of the floor.
“Jack!” Kit struggled, keeping her voice down, remembering that she mustn’t squeal. She assumed his surprise attack was what he’d meant. He’d certainly startled her. Her hands fastened on the muscled arm about her waist. “Put me down.”
A rumbling chuckle ruffled her curls. Then his lips nuzzled her ear. “Remember, this is your punishment, love. Not something you have any say in. Just something you feel.”
Kit closed her eyes. She wished she hadn’t heard that. Her nerves were in turmoil. What fiendishly arousing act had he planned? She hadn’t a single doubt as to its nature. His shaft was already hard and throbbing, pressed between the firm hemispheres of her bottom.
She didn’t have to wait long to learn her punishment.
“I really don’t think,” her husband continued conversationally, his fingers rapidly undoing the buttons she’d just done up, “that you appreciate just how fast a man can have at you when you’re dressed in breeches.”
With that, he pulled the offending garment down, letting it slip from her thighs to hang from the closures above her calves.
“And given that you’re so easily aroused,” he went on, moving closer to a chair which was facing away from them. He let Kit slide down until her toes touched the ground. With a gasp, she grabbed the back of the chair with both hands as she felt Jack’s fingers slide effortlessly into her. They withdrew and returned, delving deep, then left her.
“It takes but a second before you’ve…”
She felt him, hard and hot, behind her.
“Been…”
He lifted her hips slightly, the head of his swollen shaft nudging into her.
“Had.” Then he drove home.
The young cabin boy was leaving the Master’s cabin when he heard a very feminine “Oo-oh!” emanate from behind the oak door at the end of the corridor. His eyes widened. He cast a glance at the stairs but there was no one about. Quickly, he put down his tray and hurried to press his ear against the door to the bedroom.
At first, he heard nothing. Then his sharp ears caught a low moan, followed by another. One particularly long-drawn moan made his toes curl. Then he heard, quite distinctly, a definitely feminine voice sigh, “Oh, Jack!”
Epilogue
November 1811
The Old Barn near Brancaster
The wind whistled in the eaves of the Old Barn. It sent cold fingers sneaking through the crevices between the boards to set the lamp hung from the rafters wobbling. Shadows dipped and swayed eerily, ignored by the men gathered under the derelict roof. They were waiting. Waiting for their leader to return.
Captain Jack had led them to success after success. Under him, they’d enjoyed stability and strong leadership; he’d welded them into an efficient force, one they all felt proud to be a part of. They’d steered clear of the Revenue and of any more heinous crimes. They’d suffered no losses, other than poor Joe. And, thanks to Captain Jack, his family had been well taken care of.
All in all, Captain Jack’s reign had been one of prosperity. The news that he’d been forced to retire had hit them hard. George, Jack’s friend, had brought the news, more than a month ago. Since then, they’d done little, too demoralized to reorganize.
Then, last week, the message had gone around. Captain Jack was back. They’d gathered this foggy Monday night in the expectation of seeing their leader return.
George and Matthew had arrived. As ever, they’d taken up positions on either side of the door. The men chatted quietly, anticipation riding high.
A sudden gust howled about the roof; fingers of fog wreathed about the rickety door. Then the doors opened and a man strode in, fog clinging like a cloak to his broad shoulders. He walked in as Jack had always walked, to stand directly under the lamp, swinging high above.