Gallant Waif

by Anne Gracie

  Bleakly Kate faced the truth: those women in Lisbon were not so wrong about her after all—she was a wanton hussy—she'd just proved it. Miserably she pulled the covers over her head and tried to think pure thoughts. It didn't work. All she could think of was the way she had felt when Jack Carstairs held her. Kate curled herself into a ball in the big bed. The only thing to do was to recite every psalm, prayer and pas­sage from the Bible that she knew and hope they would drive the thoughts from her head. It would take a long time, for she had frequently been made to memorise passages from the Bible as a punishment. And she had been a very naughty child. . .

  At the Bull and Boar Tavern, Jack sat nursing a brandy, staring into the fire, oblivious of the noise of his fellow drink­ers.

  His face softened into a half-smile as he recalled the way she'd boldly faced him down, a stubborn little ragamuffin in her dreadful black hand-me-down dresses, sternly rejecting the clothes she desired so badly. And she did desire them; there was no doubt about it in his mind.

  He could tell by the way she'd touched her cheek to the material, like a child caressing a puppy or kitten, by the way she'd slid her fingers through the silk of that nightgown, as if she'd never even imagined such a garment was possible.

  Only Kate was no child. He'd been unable to resist teasing her, flirting, flustering her. . .

  He tossed down the last of the brandy and signalled to the landlord to bring him another. A buxom tavern wench brought it instead, pressing up against him invitingly as she did so. Jack's eyes automatically went to the gaping neckline that was presented for his enjoyment and he registered that she was both attractive and willing. He glanced up and shook his head, smiling to soften his rejection. No, a tumble with a willing tavern wench would not solve his problems.

  He recalled the dreamy way Kate had draped the fine silk nightgown against her soft skin and felt his body tighten again, imagining her in it.

  Impossible. . . unthinkable. . .

  Perhaps he should take up the tavern wench's offer after all. . . He glanced across at her again, but somehow she seemed too buxom, too willing, too. . . He realised the way his thoughts were heading and tried to quash them firmly.

  Bloody hell! Was that what that scene in her bedroom had been all about? He couldn't deny that he had been aroused by the sight of her with that damned silk thing. Was that what had prompted him to go so far, undoing the very buttons at her back? He recalled the feel of the warm silken skin of her nape and the scent of her body and swore darkly.

  What the hell was he going to do? If he wasn't more care­ful, things with Kate Farleigh would get out of hand. They almost had. Her teasing sense of fun, the wholehearted way she threw herself into a quarrel, her very defiance spurred him to want to push it further with her each time. He felt entirely too stimulated by her very presence. If she'd been a different sort of woman, he'd have no hesitation in making her his mistress—and what a mistress she'd make, he thought. All fire and passion and silky limbs and hair. He felt aroused just thinking about it.

  But Kate was no kitchen maid, nor a tavern wench—she was a respectable lady, and after Julia Davenport he'd for­sworn all dealings with respectable ladies for ever.

  Damn it all to hell and back!

  He wondered how his grandmother was faring with her enquiries into Kate's situation. He hoped it was going well. The sooner she was out of his hair the better—for both of them.

  He called for another drink.

  Chapter Seven

  Kate awoke very early one morning. She slid out of bed, padded across the chilly floor and peered outside. It was al­most dawn, faint shards of morning light dimming the last of the stars. Winter had begun—outside it looked cold, but inviting. For the last week she had worked unceasingly in­doors, and she was feeling stale and housebound. A good brisk walk was what she needed.

  The house seemed deserted as she slipped out of the back door. Her boots crunched across the frosted grass. As the pure, cold air bit into her lungs, Kate felt a surge of exhilar­ation. The rich earthy scent of rotting leaves and the sharp contrast of pine was in the air and it felt good to be alive. Suddenly she felt free of all the constraints of her life—her poverty, her past, her concerns about the future, her problems with Jack Carstairs.

  It had been more difficult than she'd expected, working in such close proximity, feeling as she did about him. Such shameless, entirely inappropriate feelings, too. Every night. Sometimes even during the day. It was dreadful. Kate had done her best to fight them with passages from the Bible, but even that failed to eradicate the problem. It was very low­ering to discover how steeped in depravity she had become.

  She told herself a thousand times a day that such dreams were foolish, as well as wicked. She was a disgraced woman. She could never enter his world. He would be disgusted if he ever found out about Henri.

  Such dreams were impractical, too—even had she been as pure as the day she was born, she was still poor and Jack needed to marry an heiress to make up for the fortune he had lost when his father had disinherited him.

  In fact, she told herself severely, Kate Farleigh had no business to be thinking anything at all about Jack Carstairs except what she would cook him for dinner. She knew the correct behaviour for a woman in her position and, even if she couldn't make her feelings behave, she could try.

  So she'd tried to keep out of his way, tried to keep a formal barrier between them, tried to follow Lady Cahill's instruc­tions to ensure her grandson lived in a civilised fashion, tried in all ways to be the perfect, invisible housekeeper.

  But all her good resolutions had been ruthlessly under­mined by Jack Carstairs himself. He always seemed to be watching her—appearing from nowhere, opening doors, seat­ing her at table as if she were a fine lady. Glaring gimlet-eyed if he found her doing anything he deemed "inappro­priate", storming off in a temper when she pointed out in the most reasonable of tones that she knew what she was doing.

  And she'd tried, so very hard, to resent it.

  He was being ridiculous, she'd told herself. What did a man know about housekeeping anyway? He had no business interfering with things which were none of his domain. He was a bossy, meddlesome, arrogant pest!

  But it was more difficult than she'd imagined. Her strength of mind was weakened by the realisation that he was con­cerned for her welfare, that he cared whether she was com­fortable, that he wished to shelter her from the harshness of her everyday life. Even if he was just being gentlemanly and polite, even if he treated all his housekeepers like this, it was still very. . . weakening.

  And that, combined with her own wanton tendencies, made life with Jack Carstairs very dangerous.

  Kate sighed, then rallied herself—listing his character de­fects was a useful strategy. She did so as she marched down the garden path, enjoying the cold air, the droplets of dew still shivering on the plants as she passed. He was frightfully bossy, even for a major in His Majesty's Coldstream Guards. And arrogant. Stubborn. Yes, indeed—worse than any mule she had wrangled with on the Peninsula. And infuriating, especially when he had trapped her in some misdeed, then laughed at her with those wicked blue eyes.

  And moody. Some days he would be warm and friendly, then, from out of nowhere, a blaze of intensity would ema­nate from him. His blue gaze would seem to burn right into her, then just as suddenly he'd turn away and storm out of the room in cold, bitter withdrawal.

  Mornings were the worst; he usually slammed into the kitchen from outside, flinging himself down at the table, surly and uncommunicative for some time, drinking cup after cup of her coffee. Sometimes he would refuse to eat the breakfast she'd cooked, and limp straight through the kitchen, grey-faced and grim. On those days he would retire upstairs to his private parlour where, Kate gathered, he quietly drank him­self into oblivion, preferring to drown his demons rather than face them.

  On those days his unhappiness ate away at her, burning away all her good resolutions like acid. On those days it was hardest of all to
remember that she was only his housekeeper, there on sufferance. . .she wanted to be so much more. . . She longed to have the right to put her arms around him, to com­fort him and to coax and tease him out of his black depres­sions. But she had no right.

  On those days she threw herself into the jobs she hated most, the hard, dirty, filthy jobs—rendering mutton fat, clean­ing and black-leading the grates, sifting wood ash and boiling it up to make lye. Boiling the cottons and linens in a big copper boiler, filling the laundry with steam. Tossing other clothes in flour and then beating them until clouds of flour flew, leaving them clean and sweet-smelling but her hair and nostrils clogged.

  In spite of it all, Kate found herself dreaming about him day and night—even when making soap, when the stink of the sheep fat and home-made lye made her eyes water! He was so impossibly attractive, particularly when he looked at her with that smile lurking wickedly in his eyes, inviting her to share his amusement. And when his voice deepened and took on that low resonance it shivered though her bones, turning them to honey. . .

  Kate headed towards the forest. It was magical. Dawn was stealing over the hushed landscape, highlighting the purity of the bare, frost-etched branches. Her breath escaped in misty tendrils and hung in the motionless chill. Far away she could hear a cockerel crowing, and beyond that a dog barking. It was as if she was the only person astir in the world. Kate hugged the delightful sensation to her and strode on.

  Suddenly she heard the sound of rapid hoofbeats close be­hind her—too close. She dived off the narrow pathway just as a riderless horse pounded past her, reins dangling free, stirrups flapping.

  Shaken, she clambered out of the tangled underbrush, smoothing her skirts and brushing mud from her hands. Someone had had an accident—a rider had been thrown. Should she go back and see if they were all right, or should she try to catch the horse first? If its reins got tangled or caught, it could injure itself. She ran along the path and came to a stile, where a large roan stallion stood, snorting and tossing his head, unable to go any further. Calmly Kate ap­proached, talking quietly and coaxingly, while he watched her in suspicion, poised for flight.

  It was one of Jack's horses, she was sure, though why he should keep so many horses when he couldn't ride was be­yond her comprehension. It was the same horse she'd seen on her first morning at Sevenoakes. Clearly he was a rogue, and one in need of more exercise than he was currently re­ceiving. She had seen him running free several times before, Carlos in hot pursuit.

  Had a thief tried to ride it? If so, he'd made a big mis­take—that particular horse had only ever been ridden by Jack, according to Carlos. Jack had bred the horse himself, broken him to bridle and trained him to do his every bidding. He'd even taken the horse to war with him. And now no one rode him at all. Jack should have sold the horse, she thought, not kept it here, under his eye, where every sight of it was a bitter, festering reminder that he could no longer ride.

  "Come on, there. . .good boy. . .there, there. . ." she mur­mured, wishing she'd brought an apple with her. She held out her hand as if offering something and continued slowly and deliberately to approach the horse. Curiously, it thrust out its neck, sniffing to see what titbit she was holding. Kate deftly and calmly took hold of the dangling reins.

  The big horse tried to jerk away, but she held him firmly, soothing him with murmured endearments and steady hands. She'd always loved horses, and they seemed to know it. Jack's roan was no exception—under Kate's calming influ­ence he stopped his nervous trembling, and was soon blowing affectionate snuffles into the front of her dress. She quickly checked him over, running experienced hands down his legs, and was relieved to find no sign of damage. Now to see if he would accept her on his back.

  With some difficulty, for he was still nervous of any other rider, and she was hampered by her long skirts, Kate man­aged to mount the big horse, using the stile as a mounting block. He reared up and snorted in fear at first, but Kate clung on tightly, and her firm hands and low, soothing voice soon had him under control again. Then, sidling and dancing under her unaccustomed light weight, the roan headed back down the narrow pathway at a brisk trot, shying skittishly at every falling leaf or shifting shadow.

  For the first few moments, Kate was wholly engrossed in controlling her mount, then, as it became clear that the stal­lion accepted her mastery, pleasure filled her—it was so long since she had ridden a horse. And this was such a fine horse. She could understand why Jack had been unable to bring himself to sell the animal. The thought occurred to her that perhaps she could ask if she might exercise him. He certainly needed it.

  As the path opened out, she saw a trail of hoofprints crossing the field nearest the house, and remembered her task. Someone might be hurt, even if it was a thief who deserved punishment! Castigating herself at her selfish pleasure in the ride, she urged the stallion into a canter. Rounding the back of the stable, she saw a prone figure lying on the frozen ground.

  Kate's heart missed a beat. No, surely not. She urged the horse closer, then flung herself off, retaining just enough presence of mind to tie it to a nearby bush. The figure on the ground was ominously still.

  Breathing hard, she fell on her knees beside him, heedless of the cold, wet mud, and gently turned him over. Dear Lord, she prayed, let him not be badly hurt!

  “Jack. Are you all right?'' There was no answer. She laid her cheek to his chest. His heart was beating steadily. Thank God! Swiftly she ran her hands over his limbs. Nothing was broken. She gently examined his head but could find no ex­traordinary bump or cut. He was as white as a corpse, and almost as cold.

  Kate whipped off her pelisse and tucked it around him, then eased his head and shoulders into her lap, abandoning all modesty, surrounding his body with her legs. She would ensure his warmth, at least. Later, if he did not regain con­sciousness, she would have to leave him and go for help. But while he was so pale and frozen and helpless she could not leave him.

  She held him close, praying silently that he would be all right and that someone would come soon to help them. One hand cupped his rough, stubbled chin, tenderly cradling his head against her breast, the other smoothed his hair back off his forehead. She murmured soothing words in his ear, her breath mingling with his in the crispy air.

  She was just deciding reluctantly that she might have to leave him to fetch help when Jack's eyes flickered open. He stared up at her blankly for a moment or two and muttered, "You?" in a tone of bemusement, then closed his eyes again.

  "How do you feel?" Kate asked softly, his head still against her breast.

  "Bloody," he muttered, still with his eyes closed.

  "Oh, no, there is no blood," she assured him.

  One blue eye opened and regarded her sardonically. "Good." He lay heavily against her for another few mo­ments, then, seeming to become aware of just how intimately he was lying against her, he sat up, groaning. He swore as a sudden wave of pain shot through his leg, and he stilled his movements suddenly, bending to examine his leg more closely.

  "You haven't broken anything either," Kate said reassur­ingly.

  "And you'd know, I suppose," he said.

  Kate didn't allow herself to rise to his bait. "Well, yes, I would know, but I don't expect you to believe me. Now, it's extremely cold on this ground and you'd better move if it's at all possible."

  He glanced at her again, and a frown darkened his forehead as he noticed that she was shivering. Then his eyes fell to her pelisse, tucked securely around him. He swore, dragging it off him and almost angrily thrusting it at her. “Put that on at once, you little fool! Do you want to catch your death?"

  Kate ignored him. “Do you think you can stand up?''

  Jack moved his bad leg a little and groaned. “I think I can manage to walk, but the question is, can your ears bear the bad language that will doubtless result from the effort?"

  Kate laughed aloud at this. As if he did not already curse with almost every breath he took! “Here, put your arm across my sh
oulder and see if you can stand."

  He sat up and she wedged her shoulder under his armpit. Using his good leg and herself as a lever, he slowly rose to his feet. His lips were tightly compressed, but he did not utter a word. By the time he was upright, he looked exhausted. White lines around his mouth told Kate he was in consider­able pain.

  “Do you really think you should be trying to walk on your bad leg?'' said Kate hesitantly. "I could easily run for help and fetch someone to carry you on a litter."

  "I'll be damned if I'll let the blasted thing make me a cripple," he muttered bitterly.

  "Oh, well, that's a relief," murmured Kate provocatively.

  He shot her a look of hard enquiry.

  Her lips twitched with amusement. "I feared the strain would be too much for you."

  "I fail to understand what you find to amuse you in this situation," he grated.

  "Oh, nothing, to be sure, sir," she said. "Only that I feared that your effort to refrain from cursing would be too much for you. However, I perceive that your tongue is in its usual fine form, so I need feel no anxiety on your behalf."

  He stared for a few seconds and then recalled his use of the word “damned'. Despite himself, his lips twitched. Lean­ing heavily on her, he began to move slowly towards the house. After a few minutes he glanced down at her. "You really are the oddest girl."

  "What makes you say so?''

  "Ninety-nine women out of a hundred would be turning this into a major dramatic occasion, weeping and having hys­terics over me, and here you are, having the audacity to tease me about bad language."

  "Would you prefer me to have hysterics, then, sir?" Kate pretended to consider it seriously. "I must confess that I haven't had a great deal of experience in the matter, but if it would make you more comfortable, then I'm sure that I could undertake to stage a very convincing bout of hysterics. If you prefer it, that is." Her eyes danced mischievously, but all the time she urged him onward, hoping her nonsense would dis­tract him from the pain.