and a mare as he’d supposed. Jack’s eyes narrowed. Surely there’d been too much swing in the lad’s swagger? When on a horse, it was difficult to judge, yet the boy’s legs seemed uncommonly long for his height and more tapered than they ought to be.
With no more than a nod for his men, the lad headed the mare out of the clearing. Jack stared at the black-garbed figure until it merged into the night, leaving him with a headache and, infinitely worse, no proof of the conviction of his senses.
Chapter 7
B y the time they reached the cottage that night, Jack didn’t know what he thought of Young Kit. They’d learned the lad’s name from the smugglers, but it was clear the men knew little else of their leader. They were sensible, solid fishermen, forced into the trade. It seemed unlikely such men, many fathers themselves, rigidly conservative as only the ignorant could be, would give loyalty and unquestioning obedience to Young Kit if he was other than he pretended to be.
Leaving Matthew to see to the horses, Jack strode into the cottage. George followed. Halting by the table, Jack unbuckled his sword belt and scabbard. Turning, he went to the wardrobe, opened it, and thrust the scabbard to the very back, then shut the door firmly. “That’s the end of that little conceit.” Hinging himself into a chair, Jack rested both elbows on the table and ran his hands over his face. “God! I might have killed the whelp.”
“Or he might have killed you.” George slumped into another chair. “He seemed to know what he was about.”
Jack waved dismissively. “He’s been taught well enough, but he’d no strength to him.”
George chuckled. “We can’t all be six-foot-two and strong enough to run up cathedral belltowers with a wench under each arm.”
Jack snorted at the reminder of one of his more outrageous exploits.
When he remained silent, George ventured, “What made you think of a merger? I thought we were just there to spy out the opposition.”
“The opposition proved devilishly well organized. If it hadn’t been for Champion, we wouldn’t have found them. There didn’t seem much point in walking away again. And I’ve no taste for killing wet-behind-the-ear whelps.”
A short silence descended. Jack’s gaze remained fixed in space. “Who do you think he is?”
“Young Kit?” George blinked sleepily. “One of our neighbors’ sons, I should think. Where else the horse?”
Jack nodded. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t know of any such whelp hereabouts. Morgan’s sons are too old—they’d be nearer thirty, surely? And Henry Fair-clough’s boys are too young. Kit must be about sixteen.”
George frowned. “I can’t recall anyone that fits, either. But perhaps he’s a nephew come to spend time on the family acres? Who knows?” He shrugged. “Could be anyone.”
“ Can’t be just anyone. Young Kit knows this district like the back of his hand. Think of the chase he led us, the way he rode across those fields. He knew every fence, every tree. And according to Noah, Kit was the one who knew about the quarries.”
George yawned. “Well, we knew about the quarries, too. We just hadn’t thought of using them.”
Jack looked disgusted. “Lack of sleep has addled your wits. That’s precisely what I mean. We know the area because we grew up here. Kit’s grown up here, too. Which means he should be easy enough to track down.”
“And then what?” mumbled George, around another yawn.
“And then,” Jack replied, getting to his feet and hauling George to his, “we’ll have to decide what to do with the whelp. Because if he is someone’s son, the chances are he’ll recognize me, if not both of us.” Propelling George to the door, he added: “And we can’t trust Young Kit with that information.”
What with seeing the somnolent George on his way before riding home with Matthew and stabling Champion, it was close to dawn before Jack finally lay between cool sheets
With no more than a nod for his men, the lad headed the mare out of the clearing. Jack stared at the black-garbed figure until it merged into the night, leaving him with a headache and, infinitely worse, no proof of the conviction of his senses.
Chapter 7
B y the time they reached the cottage that night, Jack didn’t know what he thought of Young Kit. They’d learned the lad’s name from the smugglers, but it was clear the men knew little else of their leader. They were sensible, solid fishermen, forced into the trade. It seemed unlikely such men, many fathers themselves, rigidly conservative as only the ignorant could be, would give loyalty and unquestioning obedience to Young Kit if he was other than he pretended to be.
Leaving Matthew to see to the horses, Jack strode into the cottage. George followed. Halting by the table, Jack unbuckled his sword belt and scabbard. Turning, he went to the wardrobe, opened it, and thrust the scabbard to the very back, then shut the door firmly. “That’s the end of that little conceit.” Hinging himself into a chair, Jack rested both elbows on the table and ran his hands over his face. “God! I might have killed the whelp.”
“Or he might have killed you.” George slumped into another chair. “He seemed to know what he was about.”
Jack waved dismissively. “He’s been taught well enough, but he’d no strength to him.”
George chuckled. “We can’t all be six-foot-two and strong enough to run up cathedral belltowers with a wench under each arm.”
Jack snorted at the reminder of one of his more outrageous exploits.
When he remained silent, George ventured, “What made you think of a merger? I thought we were just there to spy out the opposition.”
“The opposition proved devilishly well organized. If it hadn’t been for Champion, we wouldn’t have found them. There didn’t seem much point in walking away again. And I’ve no taste for killing wet-behind-the-ear whelps.”
A short silence descended. Jack’s gaze remained fixed in space. “Who do you think he is?”
“Young Kit?” George blinked sleepily. “One of our neighbors’ sons, I should think. Where else the horse?”
Jack nodded. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t know of any such whelp hereabouts. Morgan’s sons are too old—they’d be nearer thirty, surely? And Henry Fair-clough’s boys are too young. Kit must be about sixteen.”
George frowned. “I can’t recall anyone that fits, either. But perhaps he’s a nephew come to spend time on the family acres? Who knows?” He shrugged. “Could be anyone.”
“ Can’t be just anyone. Young Kit knows this district like the back of his hand. Think of the chase he led us, the way he rode across those fields. He knew every fence, every tree. And according to Noah, Kit was the one who knew about the quarries.”
George yawned. “Well, we knew about the quarries, too. We just hadn’t thought of using them.”
Jack looked disgusted. “Lack of sleep has addled your wits. That’s precisely what I mean. We know the area because we grew up here. Kit’s grown up here, too. Which means he should be easy enough to track down.”
“And then what?” mumbled George, around another yawn.
“And then,” Jack replied, getting to his feet and hauling George to his, “we’ll have to decide what to do with the whelp. Because if he is someone’s son, the chances are he’ll recognize me, if not both of us.” Propelling George to the door, he added: “And we can’t trust Young Kit with that information.”
What with seeing the somnolent George on his way before riding home with Matthew and stabling Champion, it was close to dawn before Jack finally lay between cool sheets
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