Gallant Waif (16 page)

Kate stamped her foot in frustration.

Jack grinned. “Take ‘em to the parson’s wife, Millie, with my comp—” he glanced at Kate’s face and changed his mind “—with Miss Farleigh’s compliments.”

“At least leave me one of the old dresses,” Kate cried. “I cannot possibly carry out some of my duties in such elegant outfits as those.”

“What sort of duties do you mean?” enquired Jack silkily.

“Well, things like scrub—” Kate floundered to a halt and glared at him, realising the full extent of his trickery.

“Exactly,” he concluded, enjoying his victory. “Take ‘em out, Millie.”

Millie did not dare disobey. “I’m sorry, miss,” she muttered, casting a sympathetic look at Kate. She left, taking Kate’s clothes with her.

Kate struggled in Jack’s grip for a moment longer and then changed her tactics. She held herself stiffly and forced herself to meet the angry blue eyes.

“Unhand me, sir,” she demanded, her eyes glittering with haughty indignation.

“I told you,” he grated. “You had half an hour. The time is up.”

“How dare you steal all my clothes?”

“Not quite all, I think.” He glanced down at the dress she was wearing. “I did warn you.”

At that she started to struggle again, but he effortlessly held her arms behind her and then held them in the grip of one large strong hand. She was pressed hard against him, chest to chest. She could feel his heart thudding. He seemed to be breathing rather harder than usual.

“And now, Miss Katherine Farleigh,” he said softly, his breath warm against her ear, “will you agree to accept these clothes from my grandmother or not?”

“No, and you cannot make me!”

“Oh, no?”
His free hand went behind her and to her horror she felt his hand tag free a button at her neck. He looked at her, and one long, strong finger gently stroked the soft skin of her nape. Kate stared defiantly back, struggling to maintain her composure, willing her body not to respond to the delightful sensation.

He undid a second button and waited, stroking, circling,
smoothing
her skin. His eyes darkened. His body seemed to surround her and it took every bit of Kate’s self-discipline not to lean into him. And he knew it, the beast, she told herself, desperately resisting the tiny seductive caresses. His tactics were utterly unfair, totally despicable, Kate decided, so she tried to kick him. Her legs were restrained by the pressure of his powerful thighs. He reached for the third button, but Kate had had enough.

“Yes, all right, then, I accept the clothing,” she snapped, adding under her breath, “You big bully!”

He heard her and chuckled. “This time, Miss Farleigh, I believe brawn has won the day.” He released her and stood back triumphantly. “You’d better mean it,” he added, “
for
if you defy me once more—”

“You need not go on about it so—I gave you my word,” she muttered crossly.

“So you did.” His eyes mocked her anger.

Kate glared at him, wishing she could think of something—anything to wipe that infuriating grin off the wretched man’s face. “Get out of my room,” she ordered.

His grin grew wider. “Sore loser,” he said softly, and left.

In a whirl of temper Kate flung off her old clothes and donned new ones—new underclothing, the soft, warm, dove-grey dress she had liked so much and a grey spencer, smartly frogged with black and gold braid. The sensual pleasure of the fine new clothes did nothing to alleviate her annoyance with Jack Carstairs. He had no right to force her to accept
them.
. .after all, she was entitled to choose what she wore, wasn’t she? She wasn’t his slave or anything, was she? If they truly did come from Lady Cahill, she supposed she had

no
moral qualms about accepting them. But whether she did so or not was
her
choice—not his!

Oh, but the man was infuriating—always sticking his nose in where it was neither needed nor wanted! She kicked her old clothes into a heap in the corner, wishing they were Jack Carstairs instead.

A short time later there was a knock on the door.

“What do you want now?” she exploded. There was a brief silence.

“If you please, miss,” said Millie’s hesitant voice, “Mr Carstairs sent me up to fetch the rest of the things to go to the parson.”

Kate handed the bundle to Millie and watched as the girl took the last remaining remnants of her old life.

It was not such a bad thing, she realised suddenly. Her old clothes had carried old associations—and none of them good. Some had been given to her after she’d escaped from the French—reluctant charity to a disgraced woman. Some dated from her girlhood before they all went to war. All of them were dyed black with grief. She had put those times behind her now, and was building a new life. The new clothes were symbolic of that.

She smoothed down the long woollen sleeve of the grey spencer. Never had she worn such lovely, fashionable, expensive clothing. She noticed Millie’s sidelong glance as she did so and smiled a little ruefully.

Millie grinned back at her.
“Aye, “tis sad to lose old clothes—some seem like old friends, don’t they, miss?
But, well, it’s a beautiful jacket, miss.
And all the rest.
The old lady sent them, I hear.” There was a question in her voice, and Kate hastened to reassure her.

“Yes, Lady Cahill. It was very kind of her.”

Millie nodded. “Ah, well, that
be
all right, then.” She paused. “Like a cup of tea, miss?”

Kate hesitated.

“It’s all right,” said Millie, reading her thoughts accurately. “Mr Carstairs is off up the Bull.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Bull, miss—the Bull and Boar Tavern. He’ll not be back till late, I reckon.”

“Oh, well, then, in that case, yes, I’d love one.”

Later that evening Kate donned one of her new nightgowns and slipped into bed, shivering. The nights were getting very cold—soon she’d have to think about heating a brick to take to bed with her. Or perhaps using that bedwarmer she’d found. She burrowed down into the bedclothes, enjoying the feel of the soft linen nightgown against her skin. She had taken out the silk one and looked at it for a moment of two, then put it wistfully away. She could not imagine a time when she might have a use for it. Such a garment was not meant as clothing to warm a girl at night—rather, it aimed to warm a man…

For the first time in months, Kate thought of Henri and the things he had done to her in the privacy of his tent. She had not disliked
them.
. .but any pleasant memories had been driven out by the realisation that she was not wed to him after all, that he was a stranger who’d lied to her, tricked her, taken marital rights illicitly. And she’d felt used and angry and guilty…

She wondered what it would be like to share those pleasures with Jack. She thought of the silken nightgown—as it had looked draped incongruously against his big, masculine body. Having seen the creamy silk sliding through his fingers, it was easy to imagine the same creamy silk sliding over her body, and those same tanned fingers stroking, caressing, exploring…

Suddenly her face flamed in the dark. Such thoughts! It was shocking. She knew now why girls were kept so ignorant until marriage—the whole thing was far too unsettling. She burrowed her face into the pillow, cooling her cheeks on the cold linen.

She’d been blaming that quarrel over the clothes on Jack Carstairs but, in truth, she’d provoked most of it herself. It had been Kate who’d thrown down the gauntlet, not him— she’d known very well how he would react if she refused the clothes, and he had. Giving her the excuse to defy him…

She squirmed in mortification as she realised it was she who had first laid hands on him, she who had provoked that whole physical tussle. Worse, she’d enjoyed it, had liked the feeling of being in his arms,
had wanted him to keep touching, stroking,
caressing.
. .
imagining Jack doing to her what Henri had done…

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.