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.”