Gallant Waif

by Anne Gracie

  "I'll see to the horses," he said quietly, and left the room. Jack did not appear to hear him. All his attention was on Kate. She murmured something in her sleep and his hold on her tightened.

  Over her head Jack stared blankly at the wall. What a fool he'd been. He'd thought he could give her up, convinced himself that she would be better off without him, that the best thing he could do for her was to send her to his grand­mother. . .

  He didn't want to send her anywhere. He wanted to hold her like this for the rest of his life. He shifted slightly and winced as his bad leg reminded him of his uncomfortable position. Well, not exactly like this. Not on a grubby pallet on a hard cold floor in a squalid little tumbledown cottage.

  Kate shifted and wheeled against him, and despite his dis­comfort he felt his body respond to her. No, he didn't want to hold her like this for the rest of his life. Hold her, yes. In his bed. Caressing her and loving her and introducing her to the delights of passion. Oh, yes, she had passion in her, his little Kate. He felt his body tighten just thinking about it as it had so many times recently. Too many times. He had barely been able to control himself. The slightest look or movement of hers had been enough to force him to battle with his body's response.

  She shivered and moved against him again. Damn his stu­pidity, she was cold, he realised. Blasted fool that he was, thinking of himself when all the time the girl was cold. It was his body warmth she wanted, not his body. Selfish, bloody, stupid, insensitive fool! Gently, trying not to disturb her, Jack shrugged himself out of his greatcoat and wrapped it snugly around her.

  "Mmm, nice," she muttered, and he grinned wryly, real­ising that she had indeed been cold. Carefully he moved, gritting his teeth at the jarring pain, tenderly manipulating her until he was lying half on his side, half on his back, with her small body tucked into the warm curve of his. He opened his jacket and shirt to pull them more closely around her and give her more of his body warmth. Instantly she snuggled her arms around his bare torso and moved closer on top of him, nuzzling her mouth against his throat.

  Steadfastly ignoring his body's tumultuous response, he closed his shirt and jacket over her and tucked the greatcoat carefully around her. She would be warmer now, with his body and his coat sheltering her from all possible draughts. He could feel his pulse thundering. His body throbbed for release. He was torn between savouring her closeness, the feel and scent and touch of her, and battling the demands of his body to further that closeness. An electric jolt passed through him as she wriggled again. He swore silently and gritted his teeth, willing his body into obedience.

  Damn it all! He was little better than Cole, he thought. She was drugged. She didn't know what she was doing. He should be protecting her, not lusting after her like a mindless beast! She had just come through a dreadful ordeal and all he could think of was how desperately he wanted to make love to her. He stared at the stained and sagging ceiling and tried desperately to think of other things.

  He was failing miserably at this task when Francis re­entered the cottage, staggering under a load of wood. Swiftly he cleared the grate and soon had a fire crackling briskly. From his position on the pallet Jack grinned approvingly. Francis left again, and soon returned with several rugs.

  "Found 'em in the carriage." He tossed one over Jack and Kate. "Brought you something else, too." Grinning, he pro­duced from his pocket a substantial flask of brandy.

  "Good man!" whispered Jack, and reached out. He took a long pull on the flask and sighed, feeling the liquor burn a cosy trail through his body. "Ah, that's better."

  "Leg paining you much?"

  "Not too bad."

  Francis grunted. "Always were a shocking bad liar, old man. Have another drink. It's going to be a long, uncom­fortable night for you. She's all right?"

  Jack nodded. “Just cold and the after-effects of the drug— filthy swine. I gather you let the bastard go."

  “Couldn't have you clapped up for murder, old thing. You gave him a good enough hiding and I sent him out into the night. Bloody cold at that. Might not survive. If not, no bad thing. If he does, well, he's still been punished."

  "Not enough."

  “Try and get some sleep, old man. Or worry about young Kate if you must, not Cole. I'll sleep in the carriage, keep an eye on the horses."

  The cottage fell silent, the only sound the occasional crackling of the fire and the blowing of the wind in the trees outside.

  Kate was the first to waken next morning. She came slowly to consciousness, her mind still fuzzy from the drug she had been given. Despite a slight headache and a stomach that was insisting it be fed, she was aware of a tremendous feeling of lightness. Still with her eyes closed, she inhaled slowly, mov­ing her cheek sensuously against its pillow. She stopped. Her pillow felt. . .odd.

  She opened one eye. Her pillow was a naked male chest, lightly sprinkled with dark hair. Good God! Cautiously she lifted her head and looked at the owner of the chest. Jack? She had slept with Jack? Swiftly, with a minimum of move­ment, she glanced around the room. She had never seen this place in her life.

  The last time she had wakened with no recollection of the previous day she had found herself in the hands of the French. But Jack was here. Grimly she forced her mind to recall its last memory. Arguing with Cousin Jeremiah. . .and drinking that bitter coffee. Had she been drugged? Or had she passed out for some other reason? It was no use. She couldn't answer. She would have to wait until Jack woke.

  She looked down at Jack as he lay sound asleep and her mouth curved in a tender smile. He looked so young and boyish and handsome, the harsh bitterness wiped away in sleep. Gently she stroked the lines of his face, smoothed the tousled thick dark hair. Unable to help herself, she touched her lips to his in the lightest of kisses. She froze as he stirred, then relaxed as his breathing returned to its previous regu­larity.

  She watched the broad chest moving up and down with each breath and marvelled that she had slept all night on it without realising it. She bent and kissed the warm, slighdy salty skin. She feathered tiny damp kisses up his chest, over his throat, along his jaw and back to his lips. She spent long moments tasting and caressing him, all in the lightest of gos­samer touches so as not to disturb his sleep, revelling in the contrast of texture of his darkly rugged jaw, scraping her soft lips against its harsh texture, then placing her mouth gently against his soft, relaxed lips. Greatly daring, she touched his lips with her tongue, just to know again the taste of him. He moaned and shifted slightly and she froze again, watching him, but he was still asleep, and she returned to her illicit explorations.

  Kate's heart was pounding. She knew she should not be doing this, lying so with a man, exploring his unconscious body like a thief in the night. It went against every principle she had been raised by, every tenet of the proper behaviour for a lady—but she couldn't help herself. She would never have this opportunity again. This was not simply a man—it was Jack, the man she longed for with every fibre of her being, the man she loved but could never have. Surely God would forgive her this once.

  She gazed at his sleeping face, her body tingling all over. Oh, but he was a beautiful man. Gently she ran her hand over his naked torso, marvelling at the smoothness of his skin, the contained power in the relaxed muscles of his chest. Deli­cately she ran her fingers through the soft curls of his chest hair. His flat brown nipples were ringed with whorls of dark hair. She kissed them and he shuddered under her touch.

  She lifted her head, waiting for signs of him awakening. Her eyes ran over his face, his dear battered cheek, his long aquiline nose, the deep grooves that ran from nose to mouth. Her gaze stopped on his open mouth and slowly she lowered her mouth to his, seeking that incredible, wonderful sensation she had experienced before, when her tongue had touched his.

  Jack silently groaned as he felt her mouth come down on his again. He couldn't take much more of this without re­sponding. His body was aflame with the desire to hold her, return her sweet, tentative caresses, to take
her and bring them both to glorious crescendo. But he couldn't, not here, not now, not in silence and stealth, for he was too aware of their situation: the filthy cottage, the sagging ceiling, the hard floor. And Francis could walk in at any moment. No, it would be too sordid.

  When he took Kate and made her his, he wanted it to be utterly perfect. But for now he would take what he could. And what he had was the most exquisite torture he had ever experienced.

  He had come awake almost instantly, as soon as he had felt her stir, but had not moved, allowing her to escape from their embarrassingly intimate position if she wished to. He had waited for her to move away from him, feeling the cold rush of air as she lifted her body away from his, feigning sleep to make it easier for her to leave him.

  He'd been unprepared for the shock of the first feathery caress on his skin. So light, he had almost not believed it was happening, but it had been followed by another and then another, and it had taken all his will-power just to lie there instead of gathering her hard against him in a passionate em­brace. Such a thing had never happened to Jack Carstairs before. To lie still, and to all intents placid and unaware, while the little creature that had wound herself around his heart planted the tiniest, most delicately moist kisses all over him.

  His pulse pounded with the effort of remaining relaxed under her innocently questing sensual onslaught. He had no choice. He had to lie here in tormented bliss, treasuring each tentative, seductive caress, as if he had no more feeling than a block of wood. It was that or lose the precious moment to sordid reality. No choice at all.

  God, but she was sweet. Oh, Lord, she was kissing him on the mouth again. He braced himself for the ravaging temptation as her small pink tongue reached in and delicately touched his. The jolt of sensation swamped him, and with silent anguish he felt his tongue responding, curling around hers. He felt her alarmed withdrawal but he could not help himself and his tongue followed hers. She jerked away in panic. Gently but firmly his hand cupped the back of her head and, blue eyes blazing into hers, he pulled her mouth back to his.

  The kiss was long, sweet and intensely passionate.

  Outside the cottage, Jack could hear Francis getting the horses ready. He released Kate and after a moment she drew back, a dazed, bemused expression on her face. Jack yearned to pull her back into his arms and kiss her arousal into pas­sion. Instead he smiled, an odd, twisted, tender smile.

  "Morning, sweetheart," he whispered. "That's the nicest awakening I think I've ever had."

  Kate blinked, then blushed rosily. Good God, she was ly­ing full length on top of Jack Carstairs in the most immodest position, legs entwined, her breasts resting on his naked chest and his. . .his manhood pressing into her. And he was awake!

  Hurriedly she scrambled off Jack and stood, tugging fran­tically at her clothes, desperately attempting to achieve some semblance of decency and composure. Heavens! How long had Jack been awake? Had he known all that she had done?

  Deeply embarrassed, she busied herself with tidying her clothes and her hair, unable even to look in his direction, let alone meet his gaze. She wanted to break the fraught silence with words, but could think of nothing to say. Behind her she could hear Jack moving; presumably he was closing his shirt, buttoning his waistcoat, shrugging himself back into the coat she had found herself wrapped in. . .

  "Morning, all. Sleep well?" Francis entered the cottage with a stamping of boots. "Brrr, it's cold out there. I think we should try to get moving as soon as possible. Kate, how are you, m'dear?"

  Kate murmured something unintelligible and slipped out­side the cottage, her face flaming. Francis here as well? Who else knew of her shame? Bad enough that she had allowed herself to be kidnapped by her cousin, but to have two wit­nesses to it—and then to have behaved in that manner with Jack! What must he think of her, to have touched him that way.. .with Francis somewhere about too? It was all too mor­tifying.

  She went in search of water in which to wash. She could find no well, nor any pump or stream. The night had been a bitter one and the small pond beside the cottage was frozen over. Kate tried to smash through the ice with a rock, but it would not break. She rubbed some icicles over her skin until they melted and dried her tingling face on her petticoat. She tore a ribbon of lace off her petticoat and tied her hair back as neatly as she could. Then she returned to the cottage, shiv­ering in the morning chill.

  By the time she returned, both Francis and Jack looked presentable, if not their usual immaculate selves. She avoided Jack's eyes and knew her face was flaming, but hoped it would be put down, by Francis at least, to the nip of the frigid air outside.

  "Good morning, gentlemen," she said brightly, smiling impartially at a space somewhere between the two of them. "Anything to eat? I'm utterly ravenous."

  Francis chuckled. "The lady is hungry, old man. We can't have that. Shall we adjourn to the nearest hostelry and obtain some breakfast? I fancy there is an inn in the next village which can accommodate our needs tolerably well."

  "Oh, yes, let's," said Kate immediately, beaming at him. She still could not look at Jack.

  "In that case, ma'am, I shall fetch your carriage at once!" said Francis, bowing like a flunkey. Kate giggled as he left the cottage, bowing repeatedly like a Cit facing royalty.

  She turned to find Jack leaning against the wall, glowering at her. "Must you flirt with him so early in the morning?"

  Kate flushed and looked away. She felt his gaze scorching her.

  "I wasn't flirting." Her heart plummeted. Jack grunted disbelievingly.

  Kate turned her back on him and walked to the open door and looked out. There was nothing she could do. He would think whatever he wished to. She could not change his mind. She shivered in the bitter cold and folded her arms against her chest then jumped as a heavy coat was dropped over her shoulders from behind.

  "Here," he said curtly. "Wrap this around you."

  The coat was still warm and smelled faintly of him. Kate didn't move. She felt his hands coming over her shoulders, tugging the coat more firmly around her. She tried to shrug it off. "No, no. I don't need—"

  "Don't be so stupid," he growled. Strong hands came down on her shoulders and turned her around. She looked up at him, but he concentrated on buttoning the coat firmly over her.

  "Thank you," she said softly.

  He glanced at her briefly, a hard, unreadable look, mut­tered something under his breath, then pushed past her and went to help Francis with the horses.

  He was limping heavily, she realised with dismay—his leg must be paining him dreadfully. White lines of pain were back around his mouth, deeper than they had been for months—he had hurt himself rescuing her. She wanted to run after him, do something, but she knew she could not. Hadn't she done enough? He was clearly embarrassed by that morn­ing kiss, and angry with her because of it, or why would he be so cross with her for responding to Francis's nonsense? Although pain did nothing for anyone's temper.

  The carriage arrived. Francis acted as driver, and the two horses he and Jack had ridden were tied behind. Kate got in and waited while Jack and Francis had a brief altercation about who was to drive. Eventually Jack conceded, but said in a surly manner that he would sit up with Francis.

  "Don't be ridiculous, man," said Francis acerbically. "Your leg is in no condition to be climbing up here and, in any case, you haven't got a coat and you'll freeze in this weather. Now shut up and get into the carriage before Kate thinks you have conceived a distaste for her company."

  Kate swallowed. Francis had been joking, but he had in­advertently hit the nail on the head. Jack didn't want to be in the carriage with her. It was obvious.

  Jack climbed into the carriage. Kate gazed out of the win­dow.

  Wordlessly he seated himself and stared moodily out of the opposite one.

  They travelled the short distance to the next village in si­lence and pulled up before a small, neat inn. The innkeeper looked them over with a practised eye, taking in their crum­pled c
lothing, the men's unshaven chins, Kate's loosely tied-back hair, and a knowing look crept over his ruddy features.

  "Two chambers, landlord, if you would be so good," drawled Francis. "One for myself and my friend and the other for. . .my sister."

  Kate flushed at the landlord's glance. He clearly disbe­lieved the tale and took her for quite another sort of female. She put her chin up proudly, defying him to judge her.

  Jack had noted the exchange. “My wife will want hot wa­ter and a maid to assist her," he snapped. "Her maid and our coachman were injured in the accident we had last night. We have no time to delay, landlord. Shall we say breakfast in forty minutes? Oh, and hot water for my friend and myself as well and shaving implements."

  The landlord responded to the haughty tone of command and leapt to obey, calling his wife to come and help the young lady, a look of deepest obsequiousness replacing the sleazy gleam.

  Kate blinked. His wife? She sighed. Sister, wife—it was all the same—a tale fabricated to protect her non-existent reputation. She followed the landlord's wife upstairs in si­lence.

  After a hearty, though not exactly jolly breakfast, during which Francis and Kate chatted while Jack ate in morose silence, they set off again. Mile after mile passed in uncom­fortable silence, both passengers brooding and thoughtful. The impasse continued until the countryside began to look familiar.

  Kate finally spoke. "You didn't need to tell that man that I was your wife, you know. Francis's sister would have been quite sufficient."

  "That's all you know," snapped Jack. So she would rather appear as Francis's sister than as Jack's wife, would she? Had this morning meant nothing, then? Women! He would never understand them.