Gallant Waif

Kate flushed in mortification. Was it that obvious?

Carlos continued, “Pretty, though. Those eyes are beautiful. Needs some meat on her bones yet. Me, I like a woman to feel like a woman.”

Jack Carstairs grunted. “You think too much about women.”

“Ah, Major Jack, do not say so, you, with your fine handsome face and wicked blue eyes that all the ladies sigh over.”

Jack’s hand went unconsciously to the shattered cheek.

“Ah, Major Jack, that little scratch will never make you safe from the ladies’ attentions. It will only—”

“Hold your tongue, Carlos,” Jack snapped brusquely.

There was a short silence. Kate pushed some more sticks into the fire, her face rosy.

“Yes,” Carlos continued, “that little bird is as flat as a board at the moment, but with some of your good solid English beef in her the curves will grow—oh, yes, they will grow most deliciously.”

His soft laughter washed over Kate’s rigid body. How dared they discuss her like that? She was no innocent, not any longer, but they did not know it.

No one who had travelled with an army could retain the total innocence of men that was so necessary for an unmarried English lady. Still, for most of that time she’d had the protection of her father and brothers and the broader protection of the soldiers who knew them. Kate had walked freely among the troops, tending wounds, writing letters to loved ones and doling out soup and cheerful greetings, secure in the knowledge that not one of them would offer her the sort of insult that she was now having to endure in the home of a so-called English gentleman! Even if it was in a foreign tongue.

Of course, given how she had left the Peninsula, she should be inured to this sort of insult by now—but these men knew nothing of that. And she was not inured to insult and never would be!

Carlos’s voice penetrated her consciousness again. “And when those curves do grow, Major Jack, I will be there to worship them. I, Carlos Miguel Riviera.”

“That’s enough!” Jack’s voice was suddenly harsh. “You’ll do no such thing.”

“Ah, Major Jack…” the other smiled with dawning comprehension “…you fancy the little mouse yourself, do you?”

“Not at all,” snapped Jack furiously. “I have no interest in tumbling scrawny kitchen maids. But I won’t have you sniffing around her. She’s…she’s my grandmother’s servant and you’re not to go near her, understand?”

The men of the Coldstream Guards all knew that particular tone and not one of them would have dreamed of answering back or disobeying. Carlos’s hands rose in a placatory fashion. “No, no, of course not, Major Jack. I will have nothing to do with the girl, nothing, I promise you.” His voice was soothing, conciliatory, then his evil genius prompted him to add, “She is all yours, Major Jack, all yours.”

Jack sat up and glared at Carlos, but a clatter from the other end of the kitchen distracted him. Both men turned to look at Kate.

The small body was rigid with fury, the grey-green eyes blazing tempestuously. “Your coffee, gentlemen.” She emphasised the last word sarcastically, then, to both men’s utter amazement, she lifted the coffee pot and hurled it straight at them.

Chapter Three

Reactions honed by years of fighting sent both men instantly diving out of the way, but nothing could save them from being splattered with hot coffee as the earthenware pot shattered against the wall behind them. They cursed and swore in a fluent mixture of Spanish, Portuguese and English and turned to face the source of their anger. But there was no one to be seen. Kate had not waited to see the results of her action, but had stormed out of the kitchen while they were still ducking for cover.

“Blast the wench!” Jack growled. “What the hell’s the matter with her? Damned coffee all over me.” He pulled off his shirt, now sodden with brown coffee, and used it to mop down his dripping face and chest.

Carlos, similarly engaged with the aid of a drying cloth, looked across at him. “You think, Major Jack, that maybe she understand what we were saying?”

Jack stared at him. “An English kitchen maid, in the middle of Leicestershire, understand Spanish?” His tone was incredulous. “Impossible! Though she did clean that soot off her face.”

He absent-mindedly rubbed the shirt over his arms and chest, then shook his head. “No. Ridiculous. She’s English.” He stood up and roughly towelled the remains of the coffee from his unruly black hair.

“Unless she has Spanish blood in her.” He considered her clear, pale skin, the grey-green eyes and the curly, nut-brown hair, then he shook his head again. “Hasn’t got the colouring for it.”

Carlos shrugged. “Then why?” His hands spread out eloquently, indicating the devastated coffee pot.

“How the hell should I know why?” Jack growled. “The chit ought to be in Bedlam for all I know. Damn her, but she’ll not get away with it this time!”

“This time?” queried Carlos, the beginnings of a grin appearing on his broad face. “Do you say, Major Jack, that the little mouse has crossed you before?”

A pair of icy-blue eyes turned on him. “Clean up this mess at once,” snapped the crisp voice so familiar to the men of the Coldstreams.

“Sí, sí. At once, Major Jack, at once.” Carlos bent to the task instantly as Jack strode from the room with a frown like a black thundercloud on his face.

“Oho, little mouse, you’ve roused the lion in him, to be sure,” Carlos muttered. “I hope you’ve hidden yourself safe away, for Major Jack is greatly to be feared when he has the devil in him.”

Jack entered the hallway and glanced swiftly around. No sign of the chit. His hands clenched into fists. He’d give the little hussy a good shaking before he sent her packing! The chill morning air quivered against his bare skin, and with a muttered curse he moved quickly up the stairs towards his room, favouring his stiff leg quite heavily. Turning the corner on the landing, he ran smack into Kate storming along the corridor. They collided with such force he had to grab her to steady himself.

Kate, too, reached out instinctively and found herself clasped against a broad, strong, very naked male torso. His chest was deep and lightly sprinkled with dark hair, his shoulders broad and powerfully muscled. His skin was warm and smooth and his scent, the scent of a powerful male, surrounded her, filling her awareness.

“Oh!” she gasped, and tried to pull away.

“Not so fast, my girl!” he grated. “How dare you toss that thing at us? You could have caused a serious injury.”

“Nonsense,” she scoffed, tugging at his grip, “I’ve played cricket for years—I’m an excellent shot and I aimed to miss.”

“Cricket? Rubbish! Girls don’t play cricket. You need a lesson in behaviour, young woman!”

“Let go of me,” she spat, struggling in his arms. “How dare you?” She wriggled and writhed, but he held her effortlessly. It was no use trying to fight him, she realised; the big brute was far too strong. He chuckled, a low rumbling from deep inside his chest.

“If you keep wriggling against me like that, little spitfire, I just might begin to enjoy this,” he murmured into her ear.

Kate froze. The wretch was seeking to put her to the blush—she would have to use other tactics.

“Ohh, ohh, you’re hurting me…ohh…” She sighed dramatically and sagged abruptly in his arms.

“Bloody hell!” he muttered.

Kate felt the hard grip on her arms instantly gentle.

“Hell and damnation,” he muttered again. The girl was so small and frail. And he had caused her to faint. A wave of remorse passed over him. He felt a brute, a savage. He’d known she was half starved. There was no need to frighten her to death, even if she had hurled a pot of hot coffee at his head. He’d have to carry her to her room, he supposed. His grip shifted and he bent to swing her into his arms.

Instantly Kate moved. In a flash she escaped his arms and dealt him a smart slap across the face. “Brains before brute force every time!” she flashed, and took to her heels down the corridor.

As she reached her room, she turned. “And girls do play cricket!” She slammed the door behind her, turned the key and leant against it panting, laughing, oddly exhilarated.

He stared after her, frustrated, cursing her in English and Spanish. Then he turned and limped as quickly as he could towards his grandmother’s room, his face black as thunder.

“Grandmama!” He burst into her room. “Who the devil is that…that little hell-cat?”

The beady blue eyes examined her grandson’s face closely. He was in a fierce temper—it was positively blazing from his eyes. Splendid! Lady Cahill thought. No sign of the lacklustre absence of spirit that Amelia spoke of. Something, or rather someone, by the sounds of it, had stirred him up beautifully. And his loving grandmother would continue the process.

She glared at him. “What the devil do you mean, sir, to come storming into my boudoir at this time of day, cursing and swearing and raising your voice?” The blue eyes were frosty with displeasure. “In my day, no gentleman would dream of entering a lady’s presence in such indecent attire, or should I say lack of it? Be off with you, boy, and don’t return until you are properly clothed! I am shocked and appalled, Jack, shocked and appalled!” She turned her head from his naked chest in a pained, offended manner.

Jack opened his mouth, then shut it with a snap. Blast it, he could hardly give her a piece of his mind. She was his grandmother, dammit. He glared at her, fully aware of her game. She was the most outrageous old lady he knew—he would bet his last guinea that she was no more shocked at seeing a man without a shirt than he was. And as for his swearing…the old hypocrite, peppering almost every phrase she uttered with oaths, then pretending to blush at his! He was damned if he’d stay and let his grandmother rake him over the coals for the entertainment of herself and her dresser! Jack bowed ironically and left the room.

He slammed the door and Lady Cahill relaxed back against the pillows, grinning in a most unladylike way.

“Oh, how shocking, milady,” said the hovering woman dressed severely in grey.

“Oh, don’t be such a ninny, Smithers. You’ve seen a man without his shirt before, haven’t you?” Lady Cahill cast a quick glance at her poker-faced maid. “Well, perhaps not. It’ll widen your education in that case.”

“Milady!” said Smithers indignantly.

“Oh, fetch me my wrap,” said the old lady. “I’m getting up.”

“Before eleven!” gasped Smithers.

Lady Cahill regarded the shocked face of her maid in amusement. “Perhaps not,” she decided. “You can fetch that child I brought with me. Ask her to come and take hot chocolate with me here, if such a thing can be found in this benighted place.”

Her maid stiffened in displeasure. “That…that shabby young person, milady?”

The old lady’s voice turned to ice. “That ‘shabby young person’, as you refer to her, is the daughter of my beloved goddaughter, Maria Farleigh, and as such, Smithers, is to be treated as my honoured guest. Do you understand?”

The woman curtseyed. “Yes, milady,” she murmured humbly.

Kate stiffened at the knock on her door. She hunched her shoulder away from it and remained curled up on the bed. The knock sounded again. “Go away!” she said.

There was a short silence.

“Miss?” The voice was unmistakably female. Kate slipped off the bed and ran to the door. The disapproving face of Smithers met her eye. “Lady Cahill invites you to join her in her bedchamber to take chocolate.” The cold, pale eyes ran quickly over Kate’s shabby outfit and the long nose twitched almost imperceptibly in disdain.

Kate’s chin rose. “Have you prepared the chocolate?” she asked bluntly.

The stare grew contemptuous. “I am her ladyship’s dresser, not the cook. I will direct Mr Carstairs’s man to arrange for the cook to prepare it immediately.” The cold stare informed Kate that even a guttersnipe would know better than to expect an important personage like Lady Cahill’s dresser to lower herself with the preparation of foodstuffs.

Kate repressed a grin and took two steps in the direction indicated by Smithers. She would have liked to see this woman’s face when she realised there was no one to prepare breakfast for herself or Lady Cahill. Then a stab of compunction halted her. Lady Cahill was an elderly lady who had been exhausted by her journey into the country. And Kate knew that she had eaten nothing at all during the trip.

“Please inform Lady Cahill that I will join her directly. I will see to her ladyship’s breakfast first.”

The eyebrows rose in displeasure. The prim mouth opened. “But her ladyship gave me the clearest instructions—”

“If you would be so good as to convey my message to Lady Cahill,” Kate interrupted in a cool voice which, despite its soft huskiness, left no room for argument.

“Very good, miss.” The woman sniffed disparagingly, but left without argument, hiding her surprise. Despite her hideous clothing, this girl had some breeding in her.

Kate ran downstairs, keeping a wary eye open for the two men, but they were nowhere to be seen. In the kitchen she quickly built up the fire and set the kettle to boil. There was no chocolate to be had. She surveyed the barren storeroom ruefully and shrugged. She’d just have to do the best she could.

She found a large tray and set it with a cloth. In a few minutes it bore crockery, a pot of tea, two soft boiled eggs and some lightly buttered toast. It was not what Lady Cahill was used to, no doubt, but it would have to do. She carried the heavy tray upstairs.

“Ah, my dear,” said Lady Cahill. “But what are you doing carrying that heavy tray, you foolish child? Get one of the servants to do that for you.”

Kate deftly set the tray down on a table beside Lady Cahill’s bed. “Good morning, ma’am,” she said cheerfully. “I trust you slept well.”

The old lady grimaced. “In this bed? My dear, how could I?” She gestured towards the shabby hangings and worn furniture. “I suppose I must be grateful that I have a chamber at all, since my dear grandson refused even to see his sister. Thank heavens Smithers had the forethought to pack bedding. I don’t know what sort of place my grandson is running here, but I can tell you—I intend to have words with him on the subject.”

The old lady twinkled beadily at her and Kate found herself smiling back. She poured the tea.

“Tea?” said the old lady pettishly. “I told Smithers chocolate.”

“I fear there is none to be had in the house.”

“No chocolate?” said the old lady incredulously. “I know the countryside is uncivilised, but this is ridiculous.” She pouted. “I suppose there are no fresh pastries either?”

Kate shook her head. “No, indeed, ma’am. But I did get you some freshly boiled eggs and a little toast. Here, eat it while it is still hot,” she coaxed.

Ignoring the old woman’s moue of distaste, Kate placed the food before her. After some grumbling, Lady Cahill consumed the repast, pretending all the while that she was only doing it to please Kate. Finally she sat back against her pillows and regarded Kate speculatively. “Now, missy,” she said. “I gather you’ve met my grandson.”

“What did he say about me?” Kate asked warily.

The old lady chuckled. “Nothing much, really.”

“Oh,” said Kate. Clearly Lady Cahill did not intend to enlighten her. “He…he doesn’t know who I am, does he, ma’am?”

The old lady noted with interest the faint colour that rose on Kate’s cheeks. “Didn’t he ask you?”

Kate looked slightly embarrassed. “No…I mean, yes, he asked me, and of course I told him my name. But I don’t think he understands my position.”

“What did you tell him?”

Kate looked uncomfortable. “I told him to ask you.” She was annoyed to find that her voice had taken on a faintly defensive tone and added boldly, “Indeed, ma’am, I could not answer him, having been kidnapped! I do not know why you have brought me to this place or what you intend me to do.”

Lady Cahill acknowledged her point with a slow nod. “Truth to tell, child, I had no clear intention at the time, except to get you away from that dreadful cottage and prevent you from ruining your life.”

“Ruining my life? How so, ma’am?”

“Tush, girl. Don’t poker up like that! Once you’d been in service that would have been the end of any possibility for an eligible alliance.”

“An eligible alliance!” Kate spoke in tones of loathing.

“Yes, indeed, miss!” snapped Lady Cahill. “You’re not on the shelf yet. You have good blood, good bones and you have no business giving up on life in such a stubborn fashion!”

“Giving up on life? I’m not giving up on life. I am endeavouring to make my way in it. And I fully intend to do so—in the way I choose to do it!”

Kate jumped up from her seat at the end of the bed and began to pace around the room. It was vital that she get Lady Cahill to understand. It was simply not possible for Kate to make an eligible alliance any longer. She was ruined and, even if she attempted to hide the fact, it must come out eventually. But she had no desire to explain the whole sordid tale to this autocratic old lady whose sharp tongue hid a kind heart. It was cowardly, she knew, but if she could retain this old lady’s respect, even by false means, she would. She must convince her some other way.

“I know you mean well by your charity, but I cannot bring myself to accept it. I have been too long accustomed to running my father’s household, and have had responsibilities far in excess of other girls of my age and station.”

“Charity be damned!” snapped Lady Cahill.

“Ma’am, just look at me. Look at my clothes. You say you wish me to live with you as your guest, to take me into society. Can you see me paying morning visits and attending balls in this?” She gestured angrily at her shabby garments.

Lady Cahill stared at her incredulously. “Well, of course not, you ridiculous child! I wouldn’t dress my lowest skivvy in those rags.” She leant back in the bed, shaking her head at the folly of the girl. “Naturally I will provide you with all that you will need—dresses, gowns, gloves, hats, parasols, trinkets—all the fal-lals that you could wish for. “

“Exactly, ma’am. I would have to ask you for each little thing, and that I could not bear.”

“Ah, bah!” snorted Lady Cahill.

“Besides, ma’am, I have no social skills to speak of. You seem to have overlooked the fact of my upbringing. I have no musical skills, I have never learnt to paint watercolours, I can patch and darn anything, and have even sewn up wounds, but I cannot do fancy embroidery. I can dance, but I do not know how to chat of nothing day in and day out. I have worked for most of my life, ma’am, and that is what I do best. I simply do not have it in me to act the social butterfly and that is what you want me to do.”

Oh, Lord, Kate prayed, let me not have to tell her the truth. Her arguments were valid enough; it would be difficult for Kate to accept charity—that was true. She knew herself to be overly stiff-necked about such things. But to attend routs and balls, to learn her way in society, to bury herself in frivolity for a time—a foolish part of Kate longed for those very things.

Lady Cahill stared, utterly appalled. “Child, child, you have no idea what you are saying. Most of those things are not necessary and the others you can learn. Entering society does not mean becoming a social butterfly and chatting of nothing—though, I grant you, a great many people do little else. But there are fools in every stratum of society.”

She fell silent for a moment, then waved her hand at the girl sitting so silently at the end of the bed. “You fatigue me, child, with your foolish intractability. I must give this matter further consideration. Leave me now. We will talk of this further.”

Kate rose, feeling a trifle guilty for causing the old lady distress. It was not her fault, she told herself defensively. She had not asked to be brought here. She had the right to make decisions for her own life and she owed Lady Cahill nothing except politeness. So why did she feel that she was in the wrong? Was it wrong to wish to owe nothing to anybody? Was it wrong to want to earn her own money, to refuse dependence on others? No, it wasn’t wrong…it just felt wrong when she had to refuse an old lady’s kindness, she reluctantly acknowledged.

She picked up the breakfast tray and left, closing the door softly behind her. A door ahead of her opened and Jack Car-stairs appeared in the hall. Kate halted abruptly. He was between her and the stairs. She could flee to her own room, return to Lady Cahill’s bedchamber or face him out.

Folding his arms, Jack leaned against the wall and awaited her arrival, a sardonic look on his face.

Kate’s chin rose stubbornly. She would not be intimidated by mere brute force! Even if he was over six feet and with shoulders as wide as…well, as wide as any shoulders had a right to be. But she wasn’t nervous of him. Certainly not! She gripped the heavy tray more tightly in her hands, taking obscure comfort in the fact that it was between them, and walked forward, her head high.

A faint glimmer of amusement appeared in Jack’s eyes. She was calling his bluff, was she? After tossing that coffee pot, she had a right to expect that he might want to throttle her. And then she’d slapped him—slapped the master of the house. So foolhardy. He could snap her in two if he chose; she would surely know that. She wasn’t to know he’d never hurt a woman in his life. But did she quail? No, on she came, chin held defiantly high. His amusement deepened. Such a little creature, but with so much spirit.

Even if she didn’t fear violence from him, after that outrageous act of hers in the kitchen, she must surely expect to be dismissed without a character. It was, he knew, a servant’s biggest dread, for it meant they were unlikely ever to gain employment again. She must know that. Her dreadful shabby black clothes, clearly made for another woman and adapted to her thin frame, showed she was well acquainted with poverty. And starvation was obviously a recent experience.

But her precarious position hadn’t stopped her hurling that pot of hot coffee straight at his head. Or over his head, as she claimed. Cricket, indeed! He almost snorted. But why had she thrown it in the first place? Unlikely though it seemed, perhaps this little English kitchen maid did speak Spanish. Jack decided to test the theory. He remained leaning casually against the wall, watching her.

Kate swept past him, apparently indifferently, though her heart was beating rather faster than usual. She reached the steps, and he said in Spanish, “Señorita, there is an enormous black spider caught in your hair. Allow me to remove it for you.”

He waited for her to turn around, to scream, to start tearing at her hair or to continue, ignorant of what he had said.

She simply froze. Jack waited for a moment, puzzled, and then strode towards her. “Señorita?”

She did not move. Jack touched her shoulder. Good God! The girl was shaking like a leaf. He could hear the crockery on the tea tray rattling faintly.

Swiftly he turned her around to face him and was appalled to see naked terror in her eyes. Her face was dead white and the clear smooth forehead was beginning to bead with perspiration. She was swallowing convulsively. Through dry, pale lips she whispered piteously, “Please get it off me.”

Jack stared at her for a few seconds, stunned by the unexpected intensity of her reaction.

“Please,” she whispered again, shuddering under his hands.

“My poor girl. I’m so sorry,” he said remorsefully. “There is no spider. None at all.”

He took the tray from her unresisting hands and laid it on a nearby table, not taking his eyes off her.

She stared at him, uncomprehending. He placed his hands on her shoulders again and gave her a tiny shake to jolt her out of her trance-like terror.

“There is no spider. I made it up,” he explained apologetically. “It was a trick.”