of the quarries, to ensure that Champion’s presence did not give them away.
They’d come into the clearing openly but quietly. He’d immediately seen the slim figure in black poring over something on the opposite side. His feet had taken him in that direction. That was when his problems started.
Even before the lad whirled to face him, sword in hand, he’d been conscious of a quickening of his pulse, an increase in his heartbeat, a tightening of expectation which had nothing to do with the dangers of the night. Being presented with a rapier, wrong end first, only compounded the confusion. His reaction had been instinctive. It was not common practice for men to wear swords, but neither he nor George had yet adjusted to walking abroad without theirs on their hips. His hand had grasped his hilt the instant he’d heard the hiss of steel leaving a scabbard.
The poor light put him at a disadvantage from the first. The young lad was an outline, nothing more. Straining into the gloom, he’d moved cautiously, testing his opponent, despite the likelihood he could walk over the lad without difficulty. His opening move had been tentative. The lad’s response had been another revelation—who’d have expected Italian ripostes from a smuggler? But the following moves left him wondering what was wrong with the lad. The arm wielding the rapier had no strength in it.
He’d peered hard at the boy then, and the impulse to shake his head grew. Something was damnably wrong somewhere. Despite not being able to see the lad’s eyes, he could feel the boy’s gaze and knew he was staring. At him. It was the effect of that stare that totally threw him. Never before had his body reacted so definitely, certainly never in response to a stare from a male.
The lad’s point had wavered, and he’d pressed forward, without any real aim, more a matter of keeping up pretenses while he decided what to do. The lack of response made his mind up for him. He didn’t know enough about the gang, and about this strange boy, to make forcing a submission wise. The lad was no fool; he’d know a fight between them could have only one end; they both knew that now. He stepped back and lowered his sword.
The boy’s head came up.
A moment passed, pregnant with expectation. Then the rapier lowered. Inwardly, Jack sighed with relief.
“Who are you?” Fear had tightened Kit’s throat; her voice came out gravelly and, if anything, even deeper than usual. Her eyes remained fixed on the man before her. His head turned slightly, as if to catch some half-heard sound, yet she’d spoken clearly. His unnerving frown didn’t waver.
Jack heard the question but couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. His senses registered not the fear, but the underlying quality in the husky voice. He’d heard voices like that before; they didn’t belong to striplings. Yet what his senses kept telling him, his rational mind knew to be impossible. It had to be some peculiar effect of the moonlight. “I’m Captain Jack, leader of the Hunstanton Gang. We want to talk, nothing more.”
The lad stood perfectly still, shrouded in shadow, his face invisible. “We’re listening.”
Moving slowly, deliberately, Jack sheathed his sword. The tension eased, but he noted that the stripling kept his rapier in his hand. His lips quirked. The lad had his wits about him—if their situations had been reversed, he’d have done the same.
Kit felt much safer when the long sword settled back into its scabbard and felt no compulsion whatever to sheathe hers. The man was more than dangerous, particularly when his features eased, as they’d just done. The slight smile, if it was even that, drew her eyes to his lips. What would they feel like against hers? Would they make her feel…Kit dragged her errant thoughts from the brink of certain confusion. Then another thought struck, out of the blue. What would she feel if he smiled?
But he was talking. Kit struggled to concentrate on his
They’d come into the clearing openly but quietly. He’d immediately seen the slim figure in black poring over something on the opposite side. His feet had taken him in that direction. That was when his problems started.
Even before the lad whirled to face him, sword in hand, he’d been conscious of a quickening of his pulse, an increase in his heartbeat, a tightening of expectation which had nothing to do with the dangers of the night. Being presented with a rapier, wrong end first, only compounded the confusion. His reaction had been instinctive. It was not common practice for men to wear swords, but neither he nor George had yet adjusted to walking abroad without theirs on their hips. His hand had grasped his hilt the instant he’d heard the hiss of steel leaving a scabbard.
The poor light put him at a disadvantage from the first. The young lad was an outline, nothing more. Straining into the gloom, he’d moved cautiously, testing his opponent, despite the likelihood he could walk over the lad without difficulty. His opening move had been tentative. The lad’s response had been another revelation—who’d have expected Italian ripostes from a smuggler? But the following moves left him wondering what was wrong with the lad. The arm wielding the rapier had no strength in it.
He’d peered hard at the boy then, and the impulse to shake his head grew. Something was damnably wrong somewhere. Despite not being able to see the lad’s eyes, he could feel the boy’s gaze and knew he was staring. At him. It was the effect of that stare that totally threw him. Never before had his body reacted so definitely, certainly never in response to a stare from a male.
The lad’s point had wavered, and he’d pressed forward, without any real aim, more a matter of keeping up pretenses while he decided what to do. The lack of response made his mind up for him. He didn’t know enough about the gang, and about this strange boy, to make forcing a submission wise. The lad was no fool; he’d know a fight between them could have only one end; they both knew that now. He stepped back and lowered his sword.
The boy’s head came up.
A moment passed, pregnant with expectation. Then the rapier lowered. Inwardly, Jack sighed with relief.
“Who are you?” Fear had tightened Kit’s throat; her voice came out gravelly and, if anything, even deeper than usual. Her eyes remained fixed on the man before her. His head turned slightly, as if to catch some half-heard sound, yet she’d spoken clearly. His unnerving frown didn’t waver.
Jack heard the question but couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. His senses registered not the fear, but the underlying quality in the husky voice. He’d heard voices like that before; they didn’t belong to striplings. Yet what his senses kept telling him, his rational mind knew to be impossible. It had to be some peculiar effect of the moonlight. “I’m Captain Jack, leader of the Hunstanton Gang. We want to talk, nothing more.”
The lad stood perfectly still, shrouded in shadow, his face invisible. “We’re listening.”
Moving slowly, deliberately, Jack sheathed his sword. The tension eased, but he noted that the stripling kept his rapier in his hand. His lips quirked. The lad had his wits about him—if their situations had been reversed, he’d have done the same.
Kit felt much safer when the long sword settled back into its scabbard and felt no compulsion whatever to sheathe hers. The man was more than dangerous, particularly when his features eased, as they’d just done. The slight smile, if it was even that, drew her eyes to his lips. What would they feel like against hers? Would they make her feel…Kit dragged her errant thoughts from the brink of certain confusion. Then another thought struck, out of the blue. What would she feel if he smiled?
But he was talking. Kit struggled to concentrate on his
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