Captain Jack’s Woman / A Gentleman's Honor

by Stephanie Laurens

The sight that met her eyes tensed every muscle. Delia, alerted, lifted her head to stare at a small troop of Revenue Officers picking their way along the cliffs. Another hundred yards and they’d see the activity on the beach.

  Strangling her curses, Kit swung to stare at Jack’s lookout. Surely he could see them? A small spurt of flame was her answer, followed by the noise of a shot, instantly drowned by the waves’ roar. She heard the shot, but it was immediately apparent that neither Jack and his men, nor the Revenue troop, had. Both parties proceeded as before, unperturbed.

  “Oh, God.” Kit sat Delia in an agony of indecision. There was no way the lookout, scrambling from his perch, could get close enough to warn the men on the beach before the Revenue were upon them. Men on foot stood no chance against mounted troops armed with sabers and pistols. Her choice was clear. She could warn the Gang, or sit and watch their destruction.

  Delia broke from the cover of the trees and went straight to the head of the nearest cliff path. In seconds, they were down, then flying over the sands toward the men by the boats.

  Jack took another keg from Noah and waded slowly ashore. The tide was running high, the sands shifting underfoot. Spray and spume blotted out the cliffs; the roar of the waves drowned all other sounds. But the frown on Jack’s face was not due to the conditions. He was worried about Kit.

  Not even George knew of her threat to disrupt the Gang’s activities; that information put her life in too much danger to be shared, even with his closest friend. But the sense that a storm was edging closer, that fate was closing in, on him and on her, was intensifying with each passing hour. And he didn’t know where she was, much less what she was doing.

  Matthew had arrived from the Castle with the disturbing news that she’d been there, but slipped through his net. The fact that she’d had the strength of purpose to try to see Lord Hendon was causing him grave concern. Unable to see the High Commissioner, would she take her information elsewhere? Jack hefted the keg to the back of a pony, wishing he could shrug off his worries as easily.

  A black blur at the edge of his vision had him swinging around. He recognized Kit instantly. Equally instant came recognition of the reason for her speed. The storm was about to break.

  His bellowed command saw all hands double pace, securing the last of the kegs, men scrambling aboard the lead ponies. The desperate struggle to clear the beach was already under way as he and George ran to the end of the line, to where Kit would pull up.

  Kit saw them waiting, Jack’s hands open at his sides, ready to catch Delia’s bridle and quiet the excited mare. Abruptly, she pulled up ten yards away, out of their reach.

  Jack swore and stepped forward.

  Instantly, Kit pulled Delia back on her haunches, sharp black hooves flailing the air. When Jack stopped, she let Delia down but kept the reins tight. “Revenue. Only six. They’ll be around the bluff any minute!” She had to scream over the sound of the waves.

  Jack nodded curtly. “Go east!”

  If there was any question as to the absolute nature of the bellowed command, his arm, pointing toward Brancaster, dispelled it. But Kit could see they’d never make it off the beach in time; the Revenue were too close.

  A cry on the wind drew all eyes to the bluff. The troopers came tumbling over the ridge, their horses slithering through the sand dunes.

  Kit looked back at the smugglers. The boats were pulling out; the ponies were almost ready to go. Matthew had left to get the horses. Five minutes would see them all safe. Her eyes locked with Jack’s. He read her decision in that instant and lunged for her reins. Kit moved faster. She sprang Delia. West.

  “Christ!” George joined Jack, staring aghast at Kit’s dwindling figure. “She’ll never make it!”

  “She will,” Jack ground out. “She has to,” he added, under his breath.

  The black streak that was Kit hugged the line of the waves, as far from the cliff as possible. The troopers saw her flying toward them and checked at the cliff foot. When it became clear she would pass them by, they milled uncertainly, then, with a bellow to stand, they set off to intercept her. But they’d misjudged Delia’s speed and left it too late. Kit swept past and on toward Holme. With cries and curses, the Revenue charged in pursuit.

  Biting back a curse, Jack swung and roared his orders, setting the men on their way. Soon, he and George were the only ones left standing. Matthew arrived with the horses; vaulting to the saddle, Jack yelled: “She’ll have to go inland before Holme.” Then Champion surged.

  Jack leaned over Champion’s neck, holding the grey to a wicked pace, trying, over the pounding of his heart, to take stock. Had Kit tipped off the Revenue, then changed her mind at the last minute?

  The thought twisted through him, a sour serpent sowing seeds of doubt. Abruptly, he shook it aside. Kit had drawn the Revenue off at her own expense and was now in considerable danger. He’d concentrate on saving her satin hide first; learning the truth could come later.

  Jack forced his mind to business. Kit was not well-versed in pursuit and evasion; on the other hand, Delia was the fastest thing on four legs this side of the Channel. But Holme, on its rocky promontory that blocked the beach, was close; Kit could not lose the Revenue before running out of beach. She’d have to go inland, taking to the fields or heading on to the west coast.

  The drizzle intensified. Jack welcomed the sting of rain on his face. He swore, volubly, comprehensively, his gut clenched, the chill of doom in his veins. They’d started well behind the Revenue. When they sighted the promontory, the beach between them was deserted. Jack rode to where a well-worn cliff path led up from the beach. He drew rein where the path narrowed as it turned up the cliff. The sand was freshly and deeply churned. Jack drew his pistol and signaled to George and Matthew before sending Champion quietly up the path. There was no one at the top. Jack dismounted and studied the ground; George and Matthew rode in wide arcs.

  “This way,” George called softly. “Looks like the whole troop.”

  Jack remounted and walked Champion to view the barren stretch of track leading west. When he raised his head, his expression was grim. Kit had taken her pursuers as far from the Hunstanton Gang’s field of operations as possible. She was making for the beach north of Hunstanton, to head south along the wide stretches of pale sand at a pace the Revenue could never match. Doubtless, she thought to come up to the cliffs somewhere near Heacham or Snettisham, to disappear into the fields and coppices of the Cranmer estate.

  It was a good plan, as far as it went. There was just one snag. With his sense of doom pressing blackly upon him, Jack prayed that, for the first time in his life, his premonition would be wrong.

  Without a word, he set his heels to Champion’s sides.

  Far ahead, on the pale swathes of sand lapped by the waves of the Wash, Kit hugged Delia’s neck and flew before the wind. Once she was sure the Revenue had followed her, she’d watched her pace, holding back so they remained in sight, held firm to their purpose by her bobbing figure forever before them. She’d had to pull up on the cliff top near Holme, letting them get close enough to see her clearly. Like obedient puppies, they’d followed, noses glued to her trail as she’d led them onto the beach above Hunstanton. Now that they were too far from Brancaster to give Jack and his crew any trouble, she was intent on losing them and heading for the safety of home.

  Delia’s long stride ate the miles. Kit saw the indentation that marked the track up to Heacham just ahead. She checked Delia and looked behind her.

  There was no sign of her pursuers.

  Kit threw back her head and laughed, exhilaration pumping through her veins. Her laughter echoed back from the cliffs, startling her into silence. Here in the Wash, the waves were far gentler cousins of the surf pounding the north coast. All was relatively silent, relatively serene. Shaking off a shiver of apprehension, Kit sent Delia toward the track to Heacham.

  She’d almost reached the foot of the track when a horde of horsemen broke cover, pouring over the cliff, a
nother group of Revenue men, barking orders she barely heard. A spurt of flame glowed in the night.

  A searing pain tore through her left shoulder.

  Delia reared. Instinctively, Kit wrenched her south. The mare went straight to a gallop; the reins slack, Delia lengthened her stride, quickly travelling beyond pistol range. The Revenue Officers howled in pursuit.

  Kit was deaf to their noise.

  Grimly, she hung on, her fingers laced into Delia’s mane, the stringy black hair whipping her cheek as she laid her head against the glossy neck. Delia’s hooves pounded the sand, carrying her southward.

  Jack, George, and Matthew caught up with the small Revenue troop on the beach south of Hunstanton. The Officers had given up the unequal chase. They milled about, disgruntled and disappointed, then re-formed and headed for the track up from the beach.

  Concealed in the shadows of the cliff, Jack heaved a sigh of relief.

  A shot rang out, echoing eerily over the water.

  Jack’s blood chilled. Under his breath, he swore. Kit had been hit-he was sure of it.

  The Revenue troop also heard the shot. Instead of heading for home, they wheeled and cantered along the sands. Once they gained sufficient lead, Jack gave the signal to follow.

  Battling faintness and a white haze of pain, Kit struggled to focus on what she should do. The hot agony in her shoulder was draining her strength. If she stayed on the sands, Delia would keep on until she fell from the saddle. As each stride the mare took pushed fiery needles into her shoulder, that wouldn’t be long delayed. And then the Revenue would have her.

  Spencer’s image rose in her mind; Kit gritted her teeth. She had to get off the beach.

  As if in answer to her prayer, the small track leading up the cliffs to Snettisham appeared before her. Gasping with the effort, Kit turned Delia into the narrow opening. The mare took the climb without further direction.

  Waves of cold darkness welled about her; Kit fought them back. She rode with knees and hands, the reins dangling uselessly about Delia’s neck. It was all Kit could do to discern the direction of the quarries and head Delia toward them.

  In her wake, her pursuers came on, noisily clamoring for her blood, all but baying their enthusiasm.

  A cold, shrouding mist closed in. Kit hugged Delia’s glossy neck, her cheek against the warm wet hide. She tugged her muffler away from her dry lips and struggled to draw breath. Even that hurt.

  The mouth of the quarries loomed out of the dark. Obedient to her weak tug, Delia slowed. Using her knees, Kit guided the mare into the quarries. If she could rest for a while and gather her strength, then Cranmer was not far away.

  Delia walked among the jumbled rocks, hoofbeats muffled by the matted grass covering the disused tracks. Kit’s cheek rose and fell with each stride. There was blackness all around, cold and deep, empty and painless. She could feel it enshrouding her. Kit focused on the black gloss of Delia’s hide. Black rushed in and filled her senses. Black engulfed her. Black.

  The scene Jack, George, and Matthew finally came upon was farcical. The Revenue troop had kept to the beach as far as the Heacham trail, then had gone up to the cliff top and continued south; they had followed quietly. The noise emanating from Snettisham drove them to pull away and enter the tiny village from the east, keeping within cover.

  The place was in an uproar. The villagers had been woken and turned out of their houses; a large troop of Revenue men was searching the premises.

  Jack, George and Matthew sat their mounts in stunned disbelief. One glance was enough to convince them that Kit and Delia were not present. With a contemptuous snort, Jack pulled Champion about. They retreated to a shadowy coppice separated by a field from the activity around Snettisham.

  George drew his chestnut up beside Champion. “She must have got away.”

  Jack sat still and tried to believe it, waiting for the explanation to unlock the vise that fear had clamped about his heart. Finally, he sighed. “Possibly. You two go home. I’ll check if she’s got back to Cranmer.”

  George shook his head. “No. We’ll stick with you until all’s clear. How will you know if she’s already got in?”

  “There’s a way into the stables. If Delia’s there, Kit’s home.” The memory of how the mare had stayed by Kit when he’d brought her down on the sands so many moons ago was reassuring. “Delia won’t leave Kit.”

  George grunted, turning his horse toward Cranmer Hall.

  Reaching the stables was no problem; ascertaining Delia’s presence in the dark took much longer. Twenty minutes after he’d left them, Jack rejoined George and Matthew outside the stable paddock, his grim face telling them his news.

  “Not there?” George asked.

  Jack shook his head.

  “You think she’s been shot?” It was Matthew, lugubrious as ever, who put their thoughts into words.

  Jack drew a tense breath, then let out a short sigh. “Yes. If not, she’d be here.”

  “She lost them at Snettisham, so presumably she’s somewhere between there and here.”

  George jumped when Jack thumped his shoulder.

  “That’s it!” Jack hissed. “Snettisham quarries. That’s where she’ll have gone to earth.”

  As they swung up to their saddles, George grimaced. Snettisham quarries were enormous, new digs jostling with old. Neither he nor Jack knew them well; Snettisham was too far from Castle Hendon to have been one of their playgrounds. Not so for the Cranmers; Snettisham was on their doorstep. Finding an injured Cranmer in the quarries was going to take time, time Kit might not have.

  George had reckoned without Champion. They returned to Snettisham to find the Revenue gone and the village quiet. At the mouth of the quarries, Jack let Champion have his head. The big grey ambled forward, stopping now and then to snuff the air. George wondered at Jack’s patience, then caught a glimpse of his face. Jack was wound tight, more tense and grim than George had ever seen him.

  Champion led them deep into a section of old diggings. Suddenly, the stallion surged. Jack drew rein, holding the grey back. Sliding to the ground, Jack quieted the great beast and signaled for George and Matthew to dismount. Puzzled, they did, then they heard the muttering coming from around the next bend in the track.

  Matthew took the horses, nodding at Jack’s silent direction to muzzle Champion. George followed Jack to the bend in the track.

  His saddle pistol in one hand, Jack stood in the shadow of a rock and eased forward until he could see the next stretch. Moonlight silvered the hunched shoulders of Sergeant Tonkin, shuffling along, eyes on the ground, his mount ambling disinterestedly behind him.

  “I swear we hit ’im. Can’t be wrong. Must’ve at least winged ’im.”

  Still muttering, Tonkin followed the track on. A large opening to one side drew his attention. Abruptly he stopped muttering and disappeared through it.

  Jack and George slid silently in his wake.

  A clearing lay before them. At the far end, the entrance to an old tunnel loomed like the black mouth of hell. Before it, as black as the blackest shadow, stood Delia, head up, ears pricked. At Delia’s feet lay a rumpled form, stretched out and silent.

  “I knew it!” Tonkin crowed. He dropped his reins and raced forward. Delia shied; Tonkin waved his hands to ward off the skittish animal. Reaching the still figure, he grabbed the old tricorne and tugged it off.

  Moonlight played on a pale face, haloed in red curls.

  Tonkin stared. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  With that, he slipped into peaceful oblivion, rendered insensible by the impact of Jack’s pistol butt on the back of his skull.

  Swearing, Jack shoved Tonkin aside and fell on his knees beside Kit. With fingers that shook, he searched for the pulse at her throat. The beat was there, weak but steady. Jack drew a ragged breath. Briefly, he closed his eyes, opening them as George knelt on Kit’s other side. She was lying on her stomach; with George’s help, Jack turned her onto her back.

  “Christ!
” George blanched. The front of Kit’s shirt was soaked in blood. The hole in her shoulder still bled sluggishly.

  Jack gritted his teeth against the cold spreading through him; chill fingers clutched his heart. His face a stony mask, he lifted Kit’s coat from the wound, fighting to conquer his shock and respond professionally. He had tended wounded soldiers often enough; the wound was serious but not necessarily fatal. However, the ball had lodged deep in Kit’s soft flesh.

  Turning, Jack called Matthew. “Go for Dr. Thrushborne. I don’t care what you have to do but get him to Cranmer Hall as fast as possible.”

  Matthew grunted and went.

  Jack and George packed the wound, padding it with the sleeves torn from their shirts and securing it with their neckerchiefs. Kit had already lost a dangerous amount of blood.

  “What now?” George sat back on his heels.

  “We take her to Cranmer. Thrushborne can be trusted.” Jack rose and clicked his fingers at Delia. The mare hesitated, then slowly approached. “I’ll have to tell Spencer the truth.”

  “All of the truth?” George clambered to his feet. “Is that wise?”

  Jack rubbed a fist across his forehead and tried to think. “Probably not. I’ll tell him as much as I have to. Enough to explain things.” He tied Delia’s reins to Champion’s saddle.

  “What about Tonkin? He saw too much.”

  Jack cast a malevolent glance at the Sergeant’s inanimate form. “Much as I’d like to remove him from this earth, his disappearance would cause too many ripples.” His jaw set. “We’ll have to convince him he was mistaken.”

  George said no more; stooping, he lifted Kit into his arms.

  Jack swung up to Champion’s saddle, then, leaning down, took Kit’s limp form from George. Carefully, he cradled her against his chest, tucking her head into his shoulder. He looked at George, a worried frown on his face. “I’ll need you to get into Cranmer. After that, you’d better go home.” A weak, weary smile, a parody of Captain Jack’s usual ebullience, showed through his concern, then faded. “I’ve enough to answer for without you added to the bill.”