Untamed (23 page)

he next phase of Rourke’s taming regimen called for waking his bedraggled bride before the cock crowed. Unfortunately Kate wasn’t the only one he’d exhausted the previous day. He rose from his cot, heavy-lidded and stiff-kneed, as well as later than usual. Depriving Kate of creature comforts had meant depriving himself, as well. It occurred to him that having Ralph—Cheevers—stow all the mattresses and bedding might not have been the best of ideas.

He dressed in his stiffened clothes from the day before, shaved with the dull razor he found in the washstand drawer, cutting himself and bleeding like a stuck pig, and finally combed his hair with his fingers. Where the devil was Ralph? At the train station, he hoped, seeing about springing their “lost” luggage from the storage bin. Clearly the past several years of ironed newspapers, expert tailoring, and servants to wait upon him had rendered him soft. He almost wondered if his bride might not be made of sterner stuff than he. For an earl’s daughter, she struck him as remarkably self-sufficient.

He headed to the small room in the south tower Kate had claimed as hers. The door stood open.

“Kate?” He stepped one foot over the threshold, strangely shy of venturing inside.

A buck-toothed chambermaid looked up from the bed she was making up. The four-poster seemed to have grown a mattress overnight.

“Where is my lady?”

“Up and gone.”

Up and gone! Panic flared through him. Could Kate have found her way back to the train station and left him? She wasn’t familiar with the area; still he knew her to be a highly resourceful woman. They’d been married just a day, but their union was yet to be consummated. With at least one servant, the plain-faced maid, to bear witness to that less-than-flattering fact, she would have little difficulty obtaining an annulment. The garden escapade would be nothing compared to the laughingstock he’d be when word got ’round that Patrick O’Rourke hadn’t bedded his bride. But beyond any damage to his reputation, it was the sinking sense of failure, of being abandoned yet again, that had perspiration soaking his brow.

“She’s in the front hall reviewing the staff.” She returned to her task.

Like a balloon receiving the prick of a pin, panic and the breath he’d been holding rushed out of him in a whoosh. “In that case, why aren’t you there?”

“I’m not a reg’lar. I just help out me mum from time to time.”

“I see.”

Halfway down the stairs, he heard Kate’s voice from the hall below. “In managing a household, be it small or large, one must have a clear understanding of one’s priorities.”

Intrigued, he stopped on the landing above. Setting his hands atop the dusty rail, he looked down. Kate addressed his servants standing in queue before the stairs. As she spoke, she strode back and forth along the length of the line, which from his vantage point resembled more of a squishy semicircle. Back lance straight and hands folded behind her back, she reminded him of a general reviewing the troops.

A quick glance confirmed the “troops” weren’t much to see—a few footmen, a trio of housemaids, and a big, red-faced woman whose stained apron proclaimed her to be the cook. His stable manager, Hamish Campbell, was there, too, mud and hay sticking to his boots, his unshaven face wearing an expression best described as shell-shocked. A small man with a monkey’s face followed behind Kate, scribbling notes into a pocket-sized black book. Rourke suspected the little man was his steward.

The ragtag crew had more or less conveyed with the property, holdouts from the previous owner. Other than the stable manager, Rourke couldn’t say who they were or what they did exactly. Since acquiring the estate at a foreclosure several years before, he’d channeled all his energies into making improvements on the land and buying breeding stock for his stable of racers. He’d given the castle nary a thought. Judging from the conversation in progress, Kate was bent on changing that—hell-bent.

Rather than continue on down, he held where he was, feeling as though he was watching a play in progress. Kate’s “costume” hadn’t changed much from the night before, though it looked as if she’d brushed the dried mud from her gown. She must have found someone to bring her washing water, as well, because she’d obviously cleaned up beyond the previous night’s hasty ablution. With her pretty, shiny hair pulled back from her face and secured with a strip of ribbon and the sleeves of her shirtwaist rolled high above trim elbows, she scarcely resembled the haughty society miss and PB he’d waltzed with nearly two years ago.

Rourke ran his gaze over those slender bare limbs and felt his mouth go dry. Before now, he’d never thought of a woman’s forearms and elbows as especially erotic, but the sight of Kate’s had him hardening. Lusting after her for nearly two years must have made him hungry for every bit of bare flesh he could glimpse—that and the fact that he still hadn’t bedded her.

Beyond that, she looked adorably domestic and utterly at home—far more at home than he felt in this drafty mausoleum, truth be told. He might have held the deed for several years, but he was still getting used to the place, still getting lost amongst its maze of drafty, poorly lit corridors, still tempted every now and again to head below stairs to the bright, homey kitchen (aye, he knew where it was) and put his feet up among the people who not so long ago would have been his peers. What an odd and uncomfortable sensation it was, this feeling of being an interloper in one’s own home. So much for being king of one’s castle. And yet with the morning of her first day merely hours old, his new bride wasn’t only making herself at home, she looked well on her way to conquering it.

“Housemaids, your first duty of the day, in the winter months especially, is to open the shutters of all the lower rooms and take up the hearth rugs for beating.” Kate paused before two redheaded maids, clearly twin sisters. “Ashes from the grate are to be swept and deposited in the cinder pail for sifting. Twice a month, furniture is to be polished with my special receipt of linseed oil, vinegar, and spirits of salts, the precise proportions of which I shall write down for you. We’ll start with the great hall and then work our way up to the top.” Addressing the first twin, she said, “Jenny, I am appointing you captain of what we shall call the East Tower Team.” She pivoted to the second twin. “Millie, you shall head up the West Tower Team. Agreed?”

Eyes bugging at what must be their first taste of authority, the girls bobbed curtseys in unison. “Aye, I mean, yes, ma’am.”

“The members of the winning team, the team that completes its territory first and to best satisfaction, will earn an extra half day of a week with pay for the term of their tenure, understood?”

The latter obviously got everyone’s attention. Shoulders shot back, and chins lifted. The queue went from wobbly arc to almost-straight line. From the back, someone said, “An extra half day and paid, too. Gorm!”

The third maid’s hand tentatively lifted. At Kate’s encouraging nod, she said, “What’s to be done about the master’s study, milady? It’s in neither wing.”

For the first time since Rourke had come upon her, Kate seemed to falter. “I shall tend the cleaning and airing of that room myself.” Brightening, she ran her gaze over the group. “We will convene at this spot every Monday at this time to report on our progress, as well as to discuss any difficulties that arise. You may go now, but if you’ve any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask. Until I can employ a proper housekeeper, I shall be working right alongside you.”

Rourke waited for the assembly to disperse, and then continued down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, he cleared his throat to warn her of his approach. “Good morning, Kate.” Heart thrumming, he stepped off the landing.

She started anyway, swinging about. “Good morning.” The look she lanced him suggested that his uninvited presence had rendered the morning decidedly less so.

“I see you’re settling in.” It was an inane thing to say, but well, he had to say something, didn’t he?

She frowned. “I am trying to, only I cannot seem to locate Mr. Cheevers. When I asked after him this morning, everyone acted almost as though they’d never heard of him.”

Rourke hesitated. “I’m sure he’s, uh … rattling about somewhere.” Preferably any “rattling” had taken him to the train station to retrieve their luggage.

Kate sighed. “This place is a shambles.” She frowned up at the ceiling. “We had a leak last night. I set Jenny to mopping it up. I’m beginning to wonder if those cobwebs aren’t all that’s holding the roof on.”

Slipping back into character, Rourke summoned a jaunty smile and clapped her on the back just hard enough to knock her slightly forward. “Sure, a wee bit of dust and cobwebs aren’t beyond the ken of a crack housekeeper such as you. Betimes, Kate, is that any way to speak of our home? It’s here we’re to spend our first days—and nights—as man and wife.” He dropped his voice and added, “My mum always said a woman remembers the bed where she lost her maidenhead all her days.”

She shot him a quelling look. “Must you be so coarse this early in the day?”

Arm about her, he leaned close and dropped his voice, his lips falling just shy of brushing that delectable shell of ear. “We are married now, Katie. The sooner you accustom yourself to my rough Scots ways, the better it will be for both of us.”

She jerked away. “I saw quite enough of your rough ways the other day to last me a lifetime, certainly the next fifty-odd years at the very least. And while we’re on the subject, please cease calling me by that inane nickname. My name is Katherine.”

He grinned, pleased to be getting under her skin. “Not to me, it isna.”

She huffed. “You are impossible, but I suppose since you’re here, you might as well have breakfast.”

That took him aback. “There’s breakfast?” As if on cue, his stomach rumbled. Other than the chicken wings he’d quickly plucked clean the night before, he hadn’t eaten all that much.

She nodded and started toward the dining room, apparently expecting him to follow. On her way, she said, “I hope to be up to serving a full breakfast by the end of the week, but for now we’ll have to make do with cold pastry and pie.” She ushered him to his seat and turned to go.

Rourke paused at the door, amazed. A clean linen tablecloth covered last night’s bare boards. On the far side of the chamber, the ancient sideboard appeared to have been dusted, and several covered chafing dishes set atop. There was a pot of what must be coffee set on the table where a single place had been set. From the hearth, the freshly
swept
hearth, a cheerful fire blazed.

Stepping inside, he swung his gaze back to Kate. “This is bounty.”

Rather than acknowledge the compliment, she said, “You’ll have to serve yourself. Until I can hire more servants from town, I can’t spare a footman to wait at table.” She turned to go.

“You’re leaving?” For whatever reason, the prospect of sitting down to breakfast by himself as he normally did, struck him as a grim thought. “Aren’t you having breakfast, or are you still full from last night?”

He’d half-expected her to slap him. Instead her lips twitched. “I’ve had mine already, thank you.” So that explained the return of the brightness to her eye and the bloom to her cheek.

“Then stay and bear me company while I have mine.”

She hesitated, nibbling at the bottom lip he’d barely tasted last night. “I’ll stay for a bit.”

Satisfied, he moved to the sideboard. Uncovering the dishes, he found scones, a dish of marmalade and another of clotted cream, and a cold pie that Kate informed him was steak-and-kidney.

Sitting down, he bit into the flaky crust of a scone while Kate poured the coffee. “This is good. The cook knows how to do some things properly.”

She set the silver pot down. “Actually, I made that dish.”

“You bake?”

She nodded and turned away to busy herself with arranging the dishes on the sideboard.

Glancing back over his shoulder, he found himself on eye level with her pretty bottom. Almost choking on crumbs, he asked, “Since when does an earl’s daughter bake?”

She shrugged and turned about to face him. “Household management has long been a passion of mine. I’m a great disciple of the late Mrs. Beeton.”

She strolled over to the table and picked up the coffeepot to top off his cup. He was almost finished with his first scone, and she’d yet to sit down.

Lost in looking at her—surely she had the most elegant neck he’d ever seen—it took him a moment to catch up to the conversation. “I’m sorry, but who is Mrs…. Beeton?”

“Was,
actually. Sadly she died at only twenty-eight.” Though she didn’t say so, he sensed she was thinking that was her own age. “Isabella Beeton is the author of
Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management.
It was first published several decades ago but has since fallen out of print. It’s a wonderful book, full of all sorts of useful information and recipes for everything from boot blacking to sponge cake. Unfortunately, my copy was packed in the trunk that’s gone missing.”

She looked so forlorn that Rourke found himself resisting the urge to reach out and take her small hand. “I have a feeling our luggage will be returned to us soon, mayhap this very day. But please, won’t you sit, for a minute at least?”