Kate’s chin rose stubbornly.

A faint glimmer of amusement appeared in Jack’s eyes. She was calling his bluff, was she? After tossing that coffeepot, 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 shrink back in fear? No, on she came, chin held defiantly high. His amusement deepened. Such a little creature, but with so much spirit.

Harlequin Historicals is delighted to introduce 2000 RITA Award finalist Anne Gracie and her North American debut book

Gallant Waif

Harlequin Historical #557

#555 ONE KNIGHT IN VENICE

Tori Phillips

#556 THE SEDUCTION OF SHAY DEVEREAUX

Carolyn Davidson

#558 NIGHT HAWK’S BRIDE

Jillian Hart

Gallant Waif
Anne Gracie

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Prologue

Kent, England. Late summer, 1812.

“No, no, Papa. I won’t. You cannot make me!”

“Please, my sweet, I beg of you. It will not take long and I fear he will take no notice of me.”

The tall dark-haired man waiting alone in the drawing-room reacted to the voices, which seemed to come from outside. He turned sharply and let out a soft expletive, his face tensed in pain. Moving more cautiously, he flexed his leg carefully, supporting himself with his cane. His sudden pallor gradually disappeared as the pain ebbed slowly away.

He glanced towards the sound of the voices and swallowed, tugging nervously at his cravat, thus ruining the effect that he’d taken hours to achieve. His clothes were of the finest quality, although somewhat out of date; they seemed to have been tailored for a slightly larger gentleman, for the coat that should have fitted snugly was loose everywhere except across the shoulders. The gentleman himself was rather striking to behold as he stood staring blankly out of the window, tall, broad-shouldered and darkly handsome, yet thin, almost to the point of gauntness.

Jack Carstairs had done enough waiting. It had been bad enough being closed up in a carriage for hours upon end to get here…then to be left closeted in the front parlour for almost half an hour was too much for a man who’d spent the last three years out of doors, commanding troops under Wellington on the Peninsula. He opened the French doors on to the terrace and stepped outside into the cool, fresh air, and was immediately rewarded by the sweet, melodic tones of his beloved.

Jack stepped forward impatiently. Three years, and now the waiting was at an end. In just minutes he would hold her in his arms again, and the nightmare would be over. He limped eagerly towards the sound of the voices coming from the open French windows further along the terrace.

“No, Papa, you must tell him. I do not wish to see him.” Julia’s voice was petulant, sulky. Jack had never heard it so before.

“Now, now, my dear, I will speak to him and put him right, never fear, but you must see that it is necessary for you to at least come with me, for you know he will not believe me otherwise.”

Jack froze. He had received a letter full of sweetness and love from Julia, only a month ago, just before he was wounded. It was in the same batch of letters that had told him of his father’s death. Months after the event, as was all mail received on the Peninsula.

The lovely, well-remembered voice became more petulant, almost childish. “I don’t want to see him, I don’t. He’s changed, I know, I saw him from the window.”

Her father’s voice was coaxing. He’d always been wax in the hands of his beautiful daughter, but for once he was standing relatively firm. “Well, now, my dear, you have to expect that. After all, he has been at war and war changes a man.”

Julia made a small sound, which from anyone less exquisite would have been called a snort. “He…he’s ugly now, Papa; his face is ruined.”

Unconsciously Jack fingered the harsh, still livid scar that bisected his cheek from temple to mouth.

“And he can hardly even walk.” Her voice grew soft and coaxing. “Please, Papa, do not make me speak to him. I cannot bear even to look at him, with his leg sticking out in that peculiar-looking way. It would have been better if he had died than to come back like that.”

“My dear!” Her father sounded shocked.

“Oh, I know it seems hard,” Julia continued, “but when I think of my beautiful Jack and how he is now I could weep. No, Papa, it’s just not possible.”

“Are you sure, my dear?”

“Of course I am sure. You told me yourself his father left him nothing. I cannot marry a pauper.” She stamped her foot. “It makes me so angry to think of it—all that time wasted, waiting! And, in any case, he can barely walk without falling over, so you can be very sure that he will never dance with me again as he used to…”

Her voice tailed off as she recalled the magic moments she had spent on the dance floor, the cynosure of every eye, the envy of every other woman in the room. She stamped her foot again, angry at being deprived of all she had expected.

“No, Papa, it is quite impossible! I am glad now that you would not allow us to announce the betrothal formally, though I thought you monstrous cruel at the time.”

Jack had heard enough. His face white and grim, he drew back the draperies which had concealed him and stepped into the room.

“I think that says it all, does it not?” he said in a soft, deadly voice.

There was a small flurry as the two absorbed what he might have heard. There was no telling how long he had been outside. Jack limped quietly to the door and pointedly held it open for Julia’s father to make his exit.

“I believe your presence is no longer required, Sir Phillip,” he said. “If you would be so good as to leave us alone, sir?”

Sir Phillip Davenport began to bluster. “Now see here, Carstairs, I won’t be ordered about in my own house. I can see it must be a nasty shock for you, but you are no longer in a position to support my daugh—”

“Thank you, sir.” Jack cut across him. “I understand what you are saying, but I believe I am owed the courtesy of a few moments alone with my betrothed.”

The voice which had spent years commanding others had its usual effect. Julia’s father began to look uncomfortable and took a few steps towards the door.

“Oh, but…” Julia began.

“As far as I am concerned our betrothal has not yet been dissolved and I believe I have the right to be told of it in person.” Jack gestured again for her father to leave. Observing that gentleman’s hesitation and concern, his lip curled superciliously. He added silkily, “I assure you, Davenport, that, while I may be changed in many respects, I am still a gentleman. Your daughter is safe with me.”

Sir Phillip left, leaving his daughter looking embarrassed and angry. There was a long moment of silence. Julia took a quick, graceful turn about the room, the swishing of her skirts the only sound in the room. The practised movements displayed, as they were meant to do, the lush, perfect body encased in the finest gown London could provide, the fashionable golden coiffure, the finely wrought jewellery encircling her smooth white neck and dimpled wrists. Finally Julia spoke.

“I am sorry if you heard something that you didn’t like, Jack, but you must know that eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves.” She shrugged elegantly, glided to the window and stood gazing out, seemingly absorbed in the view of the fashionably landscaped garden beyond the terrace.

Jack’s face was grim, the scar twisting down his cheek standing out fresh and livid against his pallor.

“God damn it, Julia, the least you could have done was told me to my face—what’s left of it,” he added bitterly. “It’s partly because of you that I’m in this situation in the first place.”

She turned, her lovely mouth pouting with indignation. “Well, really, Jack, how can you blame me for what has happened to you?”

His lips twisted sardonically and he shrugged, his powerful shoulders straining against the shabby, light, superfine coat.

“Perhaps not directly. But when my father ordered me to end our betrothal you cast yourself into my arms and begged me to stand firm. Which of course I did.”

“But how was I to know that that horrid old man truly would disinherit you for disobeying him?”

His voice was cool, his eyes cold. “That horrid old man was my father, and I told you at the time he would.”

“But he doted on you! I was sure he was only bluffing…trying to make you dance to his tune.”

His voice was hard. “It’s why I purchased a commission in the Guards, if you recall.”

The beautiful eyes ran over his body, skipping distastefully over the scarred cheek and the stiffly extended leg.

“Yes, and it was the ruination of you!” She pouted, averting her eyes.

He was silent for a moment, remembering what she had said to her father. “I am told that I will never dance again. Or ride.”

“Exactly,” she agreed, oblivious to his hard gaze. “And will that horrid scar on your face go away too? I doubt it.”

She suddenly seemed to notice the cruelty of what she had said. “Oh, forgive me, Jack, but you used to be the handsomest man in London, before…that.” She gestured distastefully towards the scar.

With every word she uttered, she revealed herself more and more, and the pain and disillusion and anger with himself was like a knife twisting in Jack’s guts. For this beautiful, empty creature he had forever alienated his father. Like Julia, he had never in his heart of hearts believed his father would truly disinherit him, but it seemed his father had died with Jack unforgiven. It was that which hurt Jack so deeply; not the loss of his inheritance, but the loss of his father’s love.

Feeling uncomfortable under Jack’s harsh scrutiny, Julia took a few paces around the room, nervously picking up ornaments and elegant knick-knacks, putting them down and moving restlessly on.

Jack watched her, recalling how the memory of her grace and beauty had sustained him through some of the worst moments of his life. It had been like a dream then, in the heat and dust and blood of the Peninsula War, to think of this lovely, vital creature waiting for him. And that’s all it was, he told himself harshly—a dream. The reality was this vain, beautiful, callous little bitch.

“Oh, be honest, Jack.” She twirled and stopped in front of him. “You are no longer the man I agreed to marry. Can you give me the life we planned? No.”

She shrugged. “I am sorry, Jack, but, painful though it is for both of us, you must see it is just not at all practical any more.”

“Ahh, not practical?” he echoed sarcastically. “And what exactly is not practical? Is it my sudden lack of fortune? My ruined face? Or the idea of dancing with an ugly cripple and thereby becoming an object of ridicule? Is that it, eh?”

She cringed in fright at the savagery in his voice.

“No, it is not practical, is it?” he snarled. “And I thank God for it.”

She stared as she took in the meaning of his last utterance.

“Do…do you mean to say you don’t want to marry me?” Her voice squeaked in amazement and dawning indignation. It was for her to give him his congé, not the other way around.

He bowed ironically. “Not only do I not wish to marry you, I am almost grateful for the misfortunes which have opened my eyes and delivered me from that very fate.”

She glared at him, her bosom heaving in a way that had once entranced him. “Mr Carstairs, you are no gentleman!”

He smiled back at her, a harsh, ugly grimace. “And you, Miss Davenport, are no lady. You are a shallow, greedy, cold little bitch, and I thank my lucky stars that I discovered the truth in time. God help the poor fool you eventually snare in your net.”

She stamped her foot furiously. “How dare you? Leave this house at once…at once, do you hear me? Or crip—wounded or not, I’ll have you thrown out!”

He limped two paces forward and she skittered back in fright.

“Just give me back my ring,” he said wearily, “and your butler won’t be put to the trouble and embarrassment of manhandling a cripple.”

She snatched her left hand back against her breast and covered the large diamond ring with her other hand.

“Oh, but I am very attached to this ring, Jack,” she said in a little-girl voice. “I did love you, you know. Surely you want me to have something to remember you by?”

He looked at her, disgust filling his throat, then turned and silently limped from the house.

Chapter One

London. Late autumn, 1812.

“Good God! Do you mean to tell me my grandson did not even receive you after you’d travelled I don’t know how many miles to see him?” Lady Cahill frowned at her granddaughter. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Amelia, stop that crying at once and tell me the whole story! From the beginning!”

Amelia gulped back her sobs. “The house is shabby and quite horrid, though the stables seem well enough—”

“I care nothing for stables! What of my grandson?” Lady Cahill interrupted, exasperated.

“His manservant told me Jack saw no one.”

The old lady frowned. “What do you mean, no one?”

“I mean no one, Grandmama, no one at all. He—Jack, that is—pretended to be indisposed. He sent a message thanking me for my concern and regretting his inability to offer me hospitality. Hospitality! His own sister!”

Amelia groped in her reticule for a fresh handkerchief, blotted her tears and continued, “Of course I insisted that I go up and tend him, but his man—a foreigner—would not even allow me up the stairs. I gathered from him that Jack was not ill…just…drunk! He won’t see anyone. And, according to his manservant, he’s been like that ever since he returned from Kent.”

There was a long pause while the old lady digested the import of this. “Kent, eh? I wish to God he had never set eyes on that poisonous little Davenport baggage.” She glanced up at her granddaughter. “I take it, then, that the betrothal is definitely at an end.”

“Unfortunately, yes, Grandmama.”

“Good!” said Lady Cahill vehemently. “He’s well rid of that little harpy and you know it.”

“But, Grandmama, it appears to have broken his heart.”

“Nonsense! He’s got a fine strong heart. He’s got my blood in him, hasn’t he? When you’re my age, you’ll stop prating of broken hearts and other such nonsense. Bodies mend and so do hearts.”

There was a long silence.

“But that’s just it, isn’t it, Grandmama?” Amelia said at last. “Bodies don’t always mend, do they? Jack’s servant said that Jack’s leg is still very bad and painful, although he can walk.”

Lady Cahill thought of the way her favourite grandson had looked when he’d come back from the wars in Spain. Such a fine tall, athletic lad he had been, too, before he left. But now…

She glared at her granddaughter. “Don’t let me ever hear you speaking such rubbish, do you hear me, gel? Never! That boy is as fine a lad as ever he was, you mark my words! He’s got a fine fighting spirit in him.”

“I saw no fighting spirit, Grandmama.”

“Do you try to tell me, gel, that my grandson has had the stuffing knocked out of him and hides himself away from the world merely because his betrothal to that beautiful, heartless little viper is at an end? Faugh!” Lady Cahill snorted. “You’ll not make me believe that, not in a month of Sundays.”

“No,” said Amelia slowly. “But that, on top of everything else…He will never ride again, they say. And so many of his friends have been killed in the war…And, Grandmama, you know how much Papa’s will hurt him—to be left with virtually nothing…”

“Lord knows what maggot was in your father’s mind at the time,” agreed Lady Cahill. “Bad enough to disinherit the boy, but to leave him ‘whatever is found in my pockets on the day I die”’…Faugh! Utter folly! “Twas the veriest coincidence that he died after a night of cards at White’s. Had he not just won that deed to Sevenoakes, the boy would not even have a roof over his head!”

Lady Cahill snorted in disgust. Yes, Jack had taken some terrible blows, one on top of another. But even discounting Amelia’s dramatics it seemed he was taking it badly. He could not be allowed to brood like that. He needed something to snap him out of it.

There was a soft knock at the door. “Yes, what is it, Fitcher?” the old lady snapped, her temper frayed by concern for her grandson.

“Pardon me, milady.” The butler bowed. “This letter was delivered a few moments ago.” He bowed again, proffering a letter on a silver salver.

Lady Cahill picked up the letter, wrinkling her nose in disdain at the undistinguished handwriting which gave her direction. “Humph,” she muttered. “Not even franked.”

She turned it over and broke the seal. She frowned over the letter, muttering crossly to herself as she did. Finally she threw it down in frustration.

“What is it, Grandmama?”

“Demmed if I can read the thing. Shockin’ bad hand and the spelling is atrocious. Can’t think who’d be sending me such rubbish. Toss it in the fire, girl!”

The young woman picked the letter up and smoothed it out. “Would you like me to try?”

Taking the snort she received from her grandmother to be assent, Amelia read it out, hesitating occasionally over misspellings and illegible words, of which there were many.

Milady I be right sorry to be addressing you like this it being above my station to be writing to Countesses but I cannot think of who else to turn to…

“A begging letter!” the Dowager Countess snapped in outrage. “On to the fire with it at once!”

“I think not, Grandmama,” said Amelia, scanning ahead. “Let me finish.”

…for my poor girl is now left all alone in the world with no kin to care what become of her but it do seem a right shame that the daughter of gentlefolk should have to skivvy to stay alive…

Lady Cahill’s eyes kindled with anger. “By God, she’s trying to palm one of your father’s by-blows off on to us!”

“Grandmama!” Amelia blushed, horrified.

“Oh, don’t be so mealy-mouthed, girl. You must know your father had any number of bits o’ fluff after your dear mother died, and they didn’t mean a thing, so don’t pretend. But it’s nothing to do with us. Your father would have left any base-born child well provided for. He was a gentleman, after all, even if he was a fool! Now toss that piece of impertinence in the fire at once, I say!”

But her granddaughter had forgotten her blushes and was avidly reading on. “No, wait, Grandmama, listen to this.”

And being as I was her old nurse even if some as did say I wasn’t good enough to be nurse to Vicar’s daughter it falls to me to let you know what my girl has come to being as you was godmother to Miss Maria her poor sainted mother…

Lady Cahill sat up at this and leant forward, her eyes sharp with interest.

…and her only remaining child so now there be nothing left for her but to Take Service her not willing to be took in by myself and truth to tell there be little enough for me alone so I beg ye Milady please help Miss Kate for as the Lord is my witness there be no other who can yours truly Martha Betts.

“Do you know any of these people, Grandmama?” said Amelia curiously.

“I believe I do,” said her grandmother slowly, picking up the letter and scanning it again. “I think the girl must be the daughter of my godchild Maria Farleigh—Maria Delacombe as she used to be. She married a parson and died giving birth to a daughter…must be nigh on twenty years ago. She had two boys before that, can’t recall their names now, and I lost touch with the family after she died, but it could be the same family.”

She peered at the address. “Is that Bedfordshire I see? Yes. Hmm. No kin? What can have happened to the gel’s father and brothers?” Lady Cahill frowned over the letter for a short time, then tossed it decisively down on a side table.

“What do you mean to do, Grandmama?”

Lady Cahill rang for sherry and biscuits.

Amelia’s husband arrived and they all went in to dinner. Over cream of watercress soup, Lady Cahill announced her decision.

“But, Grandmama, are you sure about this?” Amelia looked distressed. “It’s a very long journey. What if Jack won’t receive you, either?”

Lady Cahill gave her granddaughter a look of magnificent scorn. “Don’t be ridiculous, Amelia!” she snorted. “I have never in my life been denied entrée to any establishment in the kingdom. I go where I choose. I was a Montford, gel, before my marriage to your grandfather, and no one, not even my favourite grandson, tells me what I may or may not do!”

She dabbed her mouth delicately on a damask napkin and poured her sherry into the soup. “Tasteless rubbish!”

Later, as she pushed cailles à la Turque around her plate, she said, “I’ll call upon Maria’s gel on my way to visit Jack. I cannot let her starve and I’ll not allow Maria Farleigh’s child to enter into service! Faugh! The very idea of it. Maria’s mother would turn in her grave. She was a fool to let her daughter marry a penniless parson.” Lady Cahill’s eyes narrowed as she considered the shocking mésalliance.

“The Farleighs were a fine old family,” she admitted grudgingly, “but he was the last of his line and poor as a church mouse to boot. Church mouse. Parson! Ha!” She cackled, noticing her unintended pun, then fell silent.

She heaved a sigh and straightened her thin old shoulders wearily. She pushed her plate away and called for more sherry.

“Yes, I’ll roust the boy out of his megrims and keep him busy.” Lady Cahill ignored the Scotch collops, the lumber pie, the buttered parsnips and the chine of salmon boiled with smelts. She helped herself to some lemon torte. “Can’t leave him brooding himself into a decline up there in the wilds of Leicestershire with no one but servants to talk to.” She shook her head in disgust. “Never did believe in servants anyhow!”

Amelia tried valiantly to repress a gasp of astonishment and met her husband’s amused twinkle across the table. For a woman who considered a butler, dresser, cook, undercook, housekeeper, several housemaids and footmen, a scullery-maid, coachman and two grooms the bare minimum of service needed to keep one elderly woman in comfort, it was a remarkable statement.

“No, indeed, Grandmama,” Amelia managed, bending her head low over her plate.

“Don’t hunch over your dinner like that, girl,” snapped the old woman. “Lord, I don’t know how this generation got to be so rag-mannered. It wouldn’t have been tolerated in my day.”

The knocker sounded peremptorily, echoing through the small empty cottage. This was it, then, the moment she had been waiting for and dreading equally. The moment when she stopped being Kate Farleigh, Vicar Farleigh’s hoydenish daughter, and became Farleigh, maidservant, invisible person.

Now that the moment had come, Kate was filled with the deepest trepidation. It was a point of no return. Her heart was pounding. It felt like she was about to jump off a cliff…The analogy was ridiculous, she told herself sternly. She wasn’t jumping, she had been pushed long ago, and there was no other choice…

Squaring her shoulders, Kate took a deep breath and opened the door. Before her stood an imperious little old lady clad in sumptuous furs, staring at her with unnervingly bright blue eyes. Behind her was a stylish travelling coach.

“Can I help you?” Kate said, politely hiding her surprise. Nothing in Mrs Midgely’s letter had led her to expect that her new employer would be so wealthy and aristocratic, or that she would collect Kate herself.

The old lady ignored her. With complete disregard for any of the usual social niceties, she surveyed Kate intently.

The girl was too thin to have any claim to beauty, Lady Cahill decided, but there was definitely something about the child that recalled her beautiful mother. Perhaps it was the bone structure and the almost translucent complexion. Certainly she had her mother’s eyes. As for the rest…Lady Cahill frowned disparagingly. Her hair was medium brown, with not a hint of gold or bronze or red to lift it from the ordinary. At present it was tied back in a plain knot, unadorned by ringlets or curls or ribands, as was the fashion. Indeed, nothing about her indicated the slightest acquaintance with fashion, her black clothes being drab and dowdy, though spotlessly clean. They hung loosely upon a slight frame.

Kate flushed slightly under the beady blue gaze and put her chin up proudly. Was the old lady deaf? “Can I help you?” she repeated more loudly, a slight edge to her husky, boyish voice.

“Ha! Boot’s on the other foot, more like!”

Kate stared at her in astonishment, trying to make sense of this peculiar greeting.

“Well, gel, don’t keep me waiting here on the step for rustics and village idiots to gawp at! I’m not a fairground attraction, you know. Invite me in. Tush! The manners of this generation. I don’t know what your mother would have said to it!”

Lady Cahill pushed past Kate and made her way into the front room. She looked around her, taking in the lack of furniture, the brighter patches on the wall where paintings had once hung, the shabby fittings and the lack of a fire which at this time of year should have been crackling in the grate.

Kate swallowed. It was going to be harder than she thought, learning humility in the face of such rudeness. But she could not afford to alienate her new employer, the only one who had seemed interested.

“I collect that I have the honour of addressing Mrs Midgely.”

The old lady snorted.

Kate, unsure of the exact meaning of the sound, decided it was an affirmative. “I assume, since you’ve come in person, that you find me suitable for the post, ma’am.”

“Humph! What experience do you have of such work?”

“A little, ma’am. I can dress hair and stitch a neat seam.” Neat? What a lie! Kate shrugged her conscience aside. Her stitchery was haphazard, true, but a good pressing with a hot flatiron soon hid most deficiencies. And she needed this job. She was sure she could be neat if she really, really tried.

“Your previous employer?”

“Until lately I kept house for my father and brothers. As you can see…” she gestured to her black clothes “…I am recently bereaved.”

“But what of the rest of your family?”

This old woman was so arrogant and intrusive, she would doubtless be an extremely demanding employer. Kate gritted her teeth. This was her only alternative. She must endure the prying.

“I have no other family, ma’am.”

“Hah! You seem an educated, genteel sort of girl. Why have you not applied for a post as companion or governess?”

“I am not correctly educated to be a governess.” I am barely educated at all.

The old lady snorted again, then echoed Kate’s thought uncannily. “Most governesses I have known could barely call themselves educated at all. A smattering of French or Italian, a little embroidery, the ability to dabble in watercolours and to tinkle a tune on a pianoforte or harp is all it takes. Don’t tell me you can’t manage that. Why, your father was a scholar!”

Yes, but I was just a girl and not worth educating in his eyes. In her efforts to control the anger at the cross-questioning she was receiving, it did not occur to Kate to wonder how the old woman would know of her father’s scholarship. If Mrs Midgely wished Kate to be educated, Kate would not disappoint her. Some women enjoyed having an educated person in a menial position, thinking it added to their consequence.

“I know a little Greek and Latin from my brothers—” the rude expressions “—and I am acquainted with the rudiments of mathematics…” I can haggle over the price of a chicken with the wiliest Portuguese peasant. It suddenly occurred to Kate that perhaps Mrs Midgely had grandchildren she wished Kate to teach. Hurriedly Kate reverted to the truth. It would not do to be found out so easily.

“But I cannot imagine anyone offering a tutor’s position to a female. I have no skill with paints and have never learnt to play a musical instrument…” No, the Vicar’s unwanted daughter had been left to run wild as a weed and never learned to be a lady.

“I do speak a little French, Spanish and Portuguese.”

“Why did you not seek work as a companion, then?”

Kate had tried and tried to find a position, writing letter after letter in answer to advertisements. But she had no one to vouch for her, no references. Someone from Lisbon had written to one of her female neighbours and suddenly she was persona non grata to people who had known her most of her life. It hadn’t helped that the girl they remembered had been a wild hoyden, either. There were many who had predicted that the Vicar’s daughter would come to a bad end. And they were right.

Life in service wouldn’t be so bad, she told herself. As one of a number of servants in a big house, she would have companionship at least. A servant’s life would be hard, harder than that of a companion, but it was not hard work Kate was afraid of—it was loneliness. And she was lonely. More lonely than she had ever thought possible.

Besides, a companion might be forced to socialise, and Kate had no desire to meet up with anyone from her previous life. She might be recognised, and that would be too painful, too humiliating. She had no wish to go through that again, but none of this could she explain to this autocratic old lady.

“I know of no one who would take on a companion or governess without a character from a previous employer, ma’am.”

“But surely your father had friends who would furnish you with such?”

“Possibly, ma’am. However, my father and I lived abroad for the last three years and I have no notion how to contact any of them, for all his papers were lost when…when he died.”

“Abroad!” the old lady exclaimed in horror. “Good God! With Bonaparte ravaging the land! How could your foolish father have taken such a risk? Although I suppose it was Greece or Mesopotamia or some outlandish classical site that you went to, and not the Continent?”

Kate’s eyes glittered. Old harridan! She did not respond to the question, but returned to the main issue. “So, do I have the position, ma’am?”

“As my maid? No, certainly not. I never heard of anything so ridiculous.”

Kate was stupefied.

“I never did need a maid anyway, or any other servant,” the old lady continued. “That’s not what I came here for at all.”

“Then…then are you not Mrs Midgely, ma’am?” Kate’s fine features were lit by a rising flush and her eyes glittered with burgeoning indignation.

The old lady snorted again. “No, most decidedly I am not.”

“Then, ma’am, may I ask who you are and by what right you have entered this house and questioned me in this most irregular fashion?” Kate didn’t bother to hide her anger.

Lady Cahill smiled. “The right of a godmother, my dear.”

Kate did not return the smile. “My godmother died when I was a small child.”

“I am Lady Cahill, child. Your mother was my goddaughter.” She reached up and took the girl’s chin in her hand. “You look remarkably like your mother at this age, especially around the eyes. They were her best feature, too. Only I don’t like to see those dark shadows under yours. And you’re far too thin. We’ll have to do something about that.”

Lady Cahill released Kate’s chin and looked around her again. “Are you going to offer me a seat or not, young woman?”

This old lady knew her mother? It was more than Kate did. The subject had been forbidden in the Vicarage.

“I’m sorry, Lady Cahill, you took me by surprise. Please take a seat.” Kate gestured to the worn settee. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you any refresh—”

“Never mind about that. I didn’t come here for refreshments,” said the old lady briskly. “I’m travelling and I can’t abide food when I’m travelling.”

“Why did you come here, ma’am?” Kate asked. “You’ve had little contact with my family for a great many years. I am sure it cannot be chance that has brought you here just now.”

Shrewd blue eyes appraised her. “Hmm. You don’t beat around the bush, do you, young woman? But I like a bit of plain speaking myself, so I’ll put it to you directly. You need my help, my girl.”

The grey-green eyes flashed, but Kate said quietly enough, “What makes you think that, Lady Cahill?”

“Don’t be foolish, girl, for I can’t abide it! It’s clear as the nose on your face that you haven’t a farthing to call your own. You’re dressed in a gown I wouldn’t let my maid use as a duster. This house is empty of any comfort, you can’t offer me refreshment—No, sit down, girl!”

Kate jumped to her feet, her eyes blazing. “Thank you for your visit, Lady Cahill. I have no need to hear any more of this. You have no claim on me and no right to push your way into my home and speak to me in this grossly insulting way. I will thank you to leave!”

“Sit down, I said!” The diminutive old lady spoke with freezing authority, her eyes snapping with anger. For a few moments they glared at each other. Slowly Kate sat, her thin body rigid with fury.

“I will listen to what you have to say, Lady Cahill, but only because good manners leave me no alternative. Since you refuse to leave, I must endure your company, it being unfitting for a girl of my years to lay hands on a woman so much my elder!”

The old lady glared back at her for a minute then, to Kate’s astonishment, she burst into laughter, chuckling until the tears ran down her withered, carefully painted face.

“Oh, my dear, you’ve inherited you mother’s temper as well as her eyes.” Lady Cahill groped in her reticule, and found a delicate lace-edged wisp which she patted against her eyes, still chuckling.

The rigidity died out of Kate’s pose, but she continued to watch her visitor rather stonily. Kate hated her eyes. She knew they were just like her mother’s. Her father had taught her that…her father, whose daughter reminded him only that his beloved wife had died giving birth to a baby—a baby with grey-green eyes.

“Now, my child, don’t be so stiff-necked and silly,” Lady Cahill began. “I know all about the fix you are in—”

“May I ask how, ma’am?”

“I received a letter from a Martha Betts, informing me in a roundabout and illiterate fashion that you were orphaned, destitute and without prospects.”

Kate’s knuckles whitened. Her chin rose proudly. “You’ve been misinformed, ma’am. Martha means well, ma’am, but she doesn’t know the whole story.”

Lady Cahill eyed her shrewdly. “So you are not, in fact, orphaned, destitute and without prospects.”

“I am indeed orphaned, ma’am, my father having died abroad several months since. My two brothers also died close to that time.” Kate looked away, blinking fiercely to hide the sheen of tears.

“Accept my condolences, child.” Lady Cahill leaned forward and gently patted her knee.

Kate nodded. “But I am not without prospects, ma’am, so I thank you for your kind concern and bid you farewell.”

“I think not,” said Lady Cahill softly. “I would hear more of your circumstances.”

Kate’s head came up at this. “By what right do you concern yourself in my private affairs?”

“By right of a promise I made to your mother.”

Kate paused. Her mother. The mother whose life Kate had stolen. The mother who had taken her husband’s heart to the grave with her…For a moment it seemed that Kate would argue, then she inclined her head in grudging acquiescence. “I suppose I must accept that, then.”

“You are most gracious,” said Lady Cahill dryly.

“Lady Cahill, it is really no concern of yours. I am well able to look after myself—”

“Pah! Mrs Midgely!”

“Yes, but—”

“Now, don’t eat me, child!” said Lady Cahill. “I know I’m an outspoken old woman, but when one is my age one becomes accustomed to having one’s own way. Child, try to use the brains God gave you. It is obvious to the meanest intelligence that any position offered by a Mrs Midgely is no suitable choice for Maria Farleigh’s daughter. A maidservant, indeed! Faugh! It’s not to be thought of. There’s no help for it. You must come and live with me.”

Come and live with an aristocratic old lady? Who from all appearances moved in the upper echelons of the ton? Who would take her to balls, masquerades, the opera—it had long been a dream, a dream for the old Kate…

It was the new Kate’s nightmare.

For the offer to come now, when it was too late—it was a painful irony in a life she had already found too full of both pain and irony.

“I thank you for your kind offer, Lady Cahill, but I would not dream of so incommoding you.”

“Foolish child! What maggot has got into your head? It’s not an invitation you should throw back in my face without thought. Consider what such a proposal would involve. You will have a life appropriate to your birth and take your rightful position in society. I am not offering you a life of servitude and drudgery.”

“I realise that, ma’am,” said Kate in a low voice. Her rightful position in society was forfeited long ago, in Spain. “None the less, though I thank you for your concern, I cannot accept your very generous invitation.”

“Don’t you realise what I am offering you, you stupid girl?”

“Charity,” said Kate baldly.

“Ah, tush!” said the old lady, angrily waving her hand. “What is charity but a foolish word?”

“Whether we name it or not, ma’am, the act remains the same,” said the girl with quiet dignity. “I prefer to be beholden to no one. I will earn my own living, but I thank you for your offer.”

Lady Cahill shook her head in disgust. “Gels of good family earnin’ their own living, indeed! What rubbish! In my day, a gel did what her parents told her and not a peep out of her—and a demmed good whipping if there was!”

“But, Lady Cahill, you are not my parent. I don’t have to listen to you.”

“No, you don’t, do you?” Lady Cahill’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Ah, well then, help me to stand, child. My bones are stiff from being jolted along those shockin’ tracks that pass for roads in these parts.”

Kate, surprised but relieved at the old lady’s sudden capitulation, darted forward. She helped Lady Cahill to her feet and solicitously began to lead her to the door.

“Thank you, my dear.” Lady Cahill stepped outside. “Where does that lead?” she asked, pointing to a well-worn pathway.

“To the woods, ma’am, and also to the stream.”

“Very pleasant, very rural, no doubt, if you like that sort of thing,” said the born city-dweller.

“Yes, ma’am, I do,” said Kate. “I dearly love a walk through the woods, particularly in the early morning when the dew is still on the leaves and grass and the sun catches it.”

Lady Cahill stared. “Astonishing,” she murmured. “Well, that’s enough of that. It’s demmed cold out here, almost as cold as in that poky little cottage of yours. We’ll resume our discussion in my coach. At least there I can rest my feet on hot bricks.”

Kate dropped her arm in surprise. “But I thought…”

The blue eyes twinkled beadily. “You thought you’d made yourself clear?”

Kate nodded.

“And so you did, my dear. So you did. I heard every word you said. Now, don’t argue with me, girl. The discussion is finished when I say it is and not before. Follow me!”

Gesturing imperiously, she led the way to the coach and allowed the waiting footman to help her up the steps. Swathed in furs, she supervised as Kate was similarly tucked up with a luxurious fur travelling rug around her, her feet resting snugly on a hot brick. Kate sighed. It seemed ridiculous, sitting in a coach like this, to discuss a proposal she had no intention of accepting, but there was no denying it—the coach was much warmer than the cottage.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, I thank you,” Kate responded politely. “Lady Cah—”

The old lady thumped on the roof of the coach with her cane. With a sudden lurch, the coach moved off.

“What on earth—?” Kate glanced wildly around as the cottage slipped past. For a moment it occurred to her to fling herself from the coach, but a second’s reflection convinced her it was moving too fast for that.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking me? Who are you?”

The old woman laughed. “I am indeed Lady Cahill, child. You are in no danger, my dear.”

“But what are you doing?” demanded Kate in bewilderment and anger.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lady Cahill beamed. “I’ve kidnapped you!”

Chapter Two

“But this is outrageous!” Kate gasped. “How dare you?”

The old lady shrugged. “Child, I can see you’re as stubborn as your dear mother and, to be perfectly frank, I haven’t the time to waste convincing you to come and stay with me instead of hiring yourself out as a maid or whatever nonsense you were about. I intend to reach my grandson’s house in Leicestershire tonight and, as it is, we won’t reach it until well after dark. Now, be a good girl, sit back, be quiet and let me sleep. Travelling is enough of a trial without having a foolish girl nattering at me.” She pulled the furs more closely around her and, as if there was nothing more to be said, closed her eyes.

“But my house…my things…Martha…” Kate began.

One heavy-lidded eye opened and regarded her balefully. “Martha knows my intentions towards you. She was most relieved to hear that you would, in future, make your home with me until such time as a suitable husband is found for you. A footman is locking up your house and will convey the keys to Martha.”

Kate opened her mouth to speak, but the blue eyes had closed implacably. She sat there, annoyed by the ease with which she had been tricked, and humiliated by the old lady’s discovery of her desperate straits. She sighed. It was no use fighting. She would have to go wherever she was taken, and then see what could be done. The old lady meant well; she did not know how ill-placed her kindness was.

…until such time as a suitable husband is found for you. No. No decent man would have her now. Not even the man who’d said he loved her to distraction wanted her now. She stared out at the scenery, seeing none of it, only Harry, turning away from her, unable to conceal the revulsion and contempt in his eyes.

Harry, whom she’d loved for as long as she could remember. She’d been nine years old when she first met him, a tall, arrogant sixteen-year-old, surprisingly tolerant of the little tomboy tagging devotedly along at his heels, fetching and carrying for him and his best friend, her brother Jeremy. And when Kate was seventeen he’d proposed to her in the orchard just before he’d left to go to the wars, and laid his firm warm lips on hers.

But a few months ago it had been a totally different Harry, staring at her with the cold hard eyes of a stranger. Like all the others, he’d turned his back.

Kate bit her lip and tried to prevent the familiar surge of bitter misery rising to her throat. Never, ever would she put herself in that position again. It was simply too painful to love a man, when his love could simply disappear overnight and be replaced with cold disdain…

The coach hit a deep rut and the passengers lurched and bounced and clung to their straps. Kate glanced at Lady Cahill, but the old lady remained silently huddled in her furs, her eyes closed, her face dead white beneath the cosmetics. Kate returned to her reflections.

So she would never marry. So what? Many women never married and they managed to lead perfectly happy and useful lives. Kate would be one of them. All she needed was the chance to do so, and she would make that chance; she was determined. Maybe Lady Cahill would help her to get started…

Bright moonlight lit the way by the time the travelling chaise pulled into a long driveway leading to a large, gloomy house. No welcoming lights were visible.

In a dark, second-floor window a shadowy figure stood staring moodily. Jack Carstairs lifted a glass to his lips. He was in a foul temper. He knew full well that his grandmother would be exhausted. He couldn’t turn her away. And she knew it, the manipulative old tartar, which was, of course, why she had sent her dresser on ahead to make things ready and timed her own arrival to darkness. Jack, in retaliation, had restricted his grandmother’s retinue to her dresser, sending the rest off to stay in the village inn. That, if nothing else, would keep her visit short. His grandmother liked her comfort.

The chaise drew to a halt in front of a short flight of stairs. The front door opened and two servants, a man and a woman, came running. Before the coachman could dismount, the woman tugged down the steps and flung open the door. “Here you are at last, my lady. I’ve been in a terrible way, worrying about you.”

Lady Cahill tottered unsteadily on her feet, looking utterly exhausted. Kate felt a sharp twinge of guilt. The old lady clearly wasn’t a good traveller, but Kate’s attempts to make her more comfortable had been shrugged aside with so little civility that, for most of the journey, Kate had ignored her.

Kate moved to help but the maidservant snapped, “Leave her be. I will take care of milady. I know just what needs to be done!” Scolding softly, she gently shepherded the old lady inside, the manservant assisting.

The chaise jerked as it moved off and Kate almost fell as she hastily scrambled out of it. She took a few wavering steps but, to her horror, her head began to swim and she swirled into blackness.

The man watching from the window observed her fall impassively and waited uninterestedly for her to scramble to her feet. No doubt this was another blasted maid of his grandmother’s. Jack took another drink.

Damned fool that he was, he’d clearly mishandled his sister, refusing to see her. He’d been heavily disguised at the time, of course. Even drunker than he was now. Good thing his grandmother hadn’t asked to see him tonight. He’d have refused her too. Jack continued staring sourly out of the window, then leaned forward, intent. The small, crumpled figure remained motionless on the hard cold gravel.

What was wrong with the girl? Had she hurt herself? It was damned cold out there. Any more time on the damp ground and she’d take more than just a chill. Swearing, he moved away from the window and limped downstairs. There was no sign of anyone about. He heard the sound of voices upstairs—his grandmother was being tended to by the only available help. Jack strode into the night and bent awkwardly over the small, still figure.

“Are you all right?” He laid his hand lightly on the cold cheek. She was unconscious. He had to get her out of the cold. Bending his stiff leg with difficulty, he scooped her against his chest. At least his arms still had their strength.

Good God! The girl weighed less than a bird. He cradled her more gently. Nothing but a bundle of bones!

Jack carried her into the sitting-room and laid her carefully on a settee. He lit a brace of candles and held them close to her face. She was pale and apparently lifeless. A faint, elusive fragrance hovered around her, clean and fresh. He laid a finger on her parted lips and waited. A soft flutter of warm breath caused his taut face to relax. His hands hovered over her, hesitating. What the deuce did you do with fainting females? His hands dropped. Ten to one she’d wake up and find him loosening her stays and set up some demented shrieking!

Jack went to the doorway. “Carlos!” No response. Dammit! He poured brandy into a glass and, slipping one arm around the girl, tipped a generous portion into her mouth. Instantly she came alive in his arms, coughing, hands flailing against him.

“Gently, gently,” he said, irritated.

“What—?” Kate spluttered as he forced another mouthful of fiery golden liquid into her. She gasped as it burnt its way down her throat and glared indignantly at him.

“It’s only brandy.”

“Brandy!” She fought for breath.

“You needed something to bring you around.”

“Bring me around?” Kate glanced round the strange room. She stared up at the shadowed face of the man who had an arm around her. Her pulse started to race. Blind panic gripped her and she tried to wrench herself away, to hit out against him. She was restrained by strong hands, gentle but implacable.

“You fainted outside.” He held her a moment until she calmed slightly, then released her and stood back. “Mind you, if I’d known you were such a little wildcat I’d have thought twice about rescuing you from the cold, wet driveway and giving you my best brandy.”

Kate stared blankly at him. Fainted? Rescue? Best brandy? She still felt decidedly peculiar. “I…I’m sorry…My nerves are a little jumpy these days…and I tend to overreact.”

Especially when I awake to find myself in strange company, not knowing what has come before it. Her head was pounding. Had she fainted for just a few minutes, as he said, or would she find a gap in her memory of days or weeks, as she had once before? Her hand reached to touch the faint ridged scar at the base of her skull, then dropped to her lap. She glanced down and a wave of relief washed over her. She remembered putting on these clothes this morning…Lady Cahill…the long trip in the coach. It was all right. It wasn’t like before…

But who was the man looming over her? She was aware of a black frown, a long, aquiline nose, a strong chin, and blue, blue eyes glinting in the candlelight. She blinked, mesmerised.

He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze and moved abruptly beyond the candleglow, his face suddenly hidden in shadows again.

“I…I really do beg your pardon,” she said. “I didn’t…I was confused.” She tried to gather herself together. “It’s just—”

“Are you ill?” His voice was very deep.

“No, I don’t think so. It’s just…it must be because I haven’t eaten for several day—for several hours.”

Jack frowned. The slip of the tongue was not lost on him.

Kate tried to sit up. Another wave of dizziness washed over her. Jack grasped her arm and thrust her firmly but gently back against the cushions. “Don’t try to move,” he ordered. “Just stay there. I’ll return in a moment.” He left the room.

Kate sat on the settee, one hand to her head. She felt weak and shaky. Brandy on such an empty stomach. She shook her head ruefully, then clasped it, moaning. She closed her eyes to stop the room from spinning around her.

“Here, this will make you feel better.” The harsh deep voice jolted Kate out of her daze. She opened her eyes. Before her was a plate with a clumsily cut slice of bread and cold meat on it. It looked wonderful. She glanced quickly up at the man towering over her and smiled.

“Oh, thank you so much. It is very kind of you,” she said, then added, blushing, “I’m afraid that brandy made me quite dizzy.”

She applied herself carefully to her meal, forcing herself to eat with tiny bites, chewing slowly and delicately.

Jack watched her, still faintly dazzled by the sweetness of her smile. She was pretending uninterest in the food, he realised, even though she was starving. Well, who was he to quibble at pride? But she was certainly an enigma, with her pride and her shabby clothes.

“Who the devil are you?”

The sudden question jolted Kate out of the rapture of her first meal in days.

“My name is Kate Farleigh.” She returned to the food.

“And who is Kate Farleigh when she’s at home?”

Kate pondered as she chewed. Who was Kate Farleigh now? She was no longer the Reverend Mr Farleigh’s daughter, nor Jeremy and Benjamin Farleigh’s sister. She certainly wasn’t Harry Lansdowne’s betrothed any more. And she didn’t even have a home.

“I don’t suppose she’s anyone at all,” she replied in an attempt at lightness that failed dismally.

“Don’t play games.” The frown had returned to his face. “Who are you and what are you doing here? I know you came with my grandmother.”

His grandmother? So this was the master of the house, Mr Jack Carstairs. His food was doing wonders for her spirits. She felt so much better. Kate almost smiled at his aggrieved tone. He obviously didn’t want her here. Well, she hadn’t asked to come.

“Oh, you mustn’t blame me for that.” She licked the last crumb delicately from her lips. “It wasn’t my choice to come, after all.”

“Why? What the deuce do you mean by that?” He scowled, watching the movement of the pink tongue. “What is your position in relation to my grandmother?”

What was her position? Kidnappee? Charity case? Spurious great-goddaughter? None of them would exactly delight a doting grandson. Besides, it would be very ungrateful of her to upset the man who’d fed her a delicious meal by calling his relative a kidnapper. Although the idea was very tempting.

“I’m not at all sure I can answer that. You will have to ask Lady Cahill.” Kate got to her feet. “Thank you so much for your kind hospitality, sir. The meal was delicious and I was very hungry after my journey.”

She took two steps towards the door, then faltered, belatedly realising she had nowhere to go. “Could you tell me, please, where I am to sleep?”

“How the deuce should I know?” he snapped. “I don’t even know who you are, so why should I concern myself where you sleep?”

Rudeness obviously ran in the family, decided Kate. It mattered little. With a full stomach, she felt quite in charity with the whole world. She would find herself a bed without his assistance—having found billets all over Spain and Portugal she would be lacking indeed if she could not find a bed in one, not terribly large English country house.

“Very well, then, sir, I will bid you goodnight. Thank you once again for your hospit…” She paused, then corrected herself wryly, “For the food.” She began to climb the stairs in a determined fashion. Halfway up, her knees buckled.

“Dammit!” Jack leapt stiffly towards the stairs and caught her against his chest as she fainted for the second time. He carried her into a nearby bedchamber and laid her gently on the bed. He stood looking down at her for a long moment. Who the devil was she?

In the soft light of a candle, he assessed her unconscious form. She was thin, far too thin. Clear delicate skin was stretched tightly over her cheekbones, leaving deep hollows beneath them. His gaze lingered where the neck of her shabby, too loose dress had slipped, revealing a smooth shoulder, hunched childlike against the chill of the night. Had he not chanced to be watching when she fainted, she would still be lying unconscious on the front driveway. It was an icy night. Doubtless she would not have survived.

He’d get no answers tonight. Best to tuck the girl up in bed and take himself off. He bent and removed her shoes, then stopped in perplexity. He was sure he should loosen her stays, but how to go about that with propriety? His mouth quirked. Propriety! It was quite improper enough for him to be in this girl’s bedchamber. He shrugged and bent over the supine body, searching gingerly at her waist for stay laces. God, but the chit was thin! With relief he ascertained that she wore no stays, had no need of them, probably didn’t even own any.

Carefully he covered her with warm blankets. She shifted restlessly and flung an arm outside the bedding. He bent again to cover it and as he did so her eyes opened. She blinked for a moment, then smiled sleepily and caressed his face with a cool, tender touch. “Night, Jemmy.” Her eyelids fluttered closed.

Jack froze, his breath caught in his chest. Slowly he straightened. His hand crept up to his right cheek, to where she had touched him. As they had done a thousand times before, his fingers traced the path of the ugly scar.

He grimaced and left the room.

The thunder of galloping hooves woke Kate at dawn next morning. She stared around the strange room, gathering her thoughts. It was a large chamber. The once rich furnishings were faded, dusty and worn.

She sat up, surprised to find herself fully clad except for her shoes. How did she get here? She recalled some of the previous night, but some of it didn’t make sense. It was a frightening, familiar feeling.

Kate could have sworn she saw her brother Jemmy last night. She vaguely remembered his poor, ravaged face looking intently into hers. Only that could not be, for Jemmy lay cold and deep in a field in Spain. Not here in Lady Cahill’s grandson’s house. She got out of bed and walked to the window, shivering in the early morning chill.

The view was beautiful, bare and bleak. The ground glittered silver-gilt with sun-touched frost. Nothing moved, except for a few hardy birds twittering in the pale morning sunlight. Immediately below her window was a stretch of rough grass. A trail of hoof prints broke the silvery surface of the frost.

Her eyes followed the trail and widened as she saw a riderless horse galloping free, saddled, reins dangling around its neck. It seemed to be heading towards a small forest of oaks. It must have escaped its restraints. She could sympathise. She too would love to be out in that clear, crisp air, galloping towards the forest, free and wild in the chill of dawn. How she missed her little Spanish mare and her early morning rides, that feeling of absolute exhilaration as the wind streamed through her as if she were flying. Dawn was the only time she could ride as fast and as wildly as she liked. Her father was never an early riser.

Turning, Kate caught a glimpse of herself in the glass that hung on one wall. She giggled. It looked as if she’d been dragged through a haystack backwards. Wild brown curls tumbled in every direction. The veriest gypsy urchin—how many times had she been called that? Swiftly she pulled out the remaining pins from her hair and redid it in her customary simple style. She brushed down her clothes, pulling a wry face at the wrinkles. She looked around for a pitcher of water with which to wash, but there was nothing in sight.

Walking softly, so as not to disturb the sleeping household, she left her room and went downstairs in search of the kitchen. There was not a soul around. A house of this size should surely have many servants up and about their duties at this hour, in preparation for when their master woke.

The more she saw, the more Kate goggled with surprise. What kind of establishment had Lady Cahill brought her to? The floors were gritty underfoot. Dustballs drifted along skirting boards and under furniture. The furniture, no longer fashionable, was covered in a thick layer of dust. The early morning sunshine was barely able to penetrate the few grime-encrusted windows which were not shrouded by faded curtain drapery. She shuddered at the number of cobwebs she saw festooned across every corner—she loathed spiders. Everything spoke of neglect and abandonment, yet the house was, apparently, inhabited.

This shabby, dirty, rambling house did not at all fit in with the impression given to her by Lady Cahill’s manner, clothes, and servants. It was her grandson’s home. Why did he not command the same sort of elegant living his grandmother so obviously took for granted? Kate shrugged. The mystery would be solved sooner or later; in the meantime she needed hot water and something to eat.

Finally Kate discovered the kitchen. She looked around in disgust. The place was a pigsty. The floor hadn’t been swept in weeks, there was no fire burning in the grate and cold ashes mingled with the detritus on the floor. The remains of past meals had been inadequately cleared away and piles of dirty dishes lay in the scullery.

It might be the oddest gentleman’s establishment she’d ever had the doubtful privilege of visiting, but here was one way she could earn the large breakfast she planned to eat. Kate rolled up her sleeves and set to work. It was ironic, she thought, clearing the ashes from the grate and setting a new fire—the misdeeds of her youth had given her the one truly feminine skill she possessed.

The only time Reverend Farleigh had spoken to his hoydenish daughter had been when she’d misbehaved. Kate’s crimes had been many and various: climbing trees; riding astride—bareback—hitting cricket balls through windows; coming home in a straggle of mud with skinned knees, tangled hair and a string of illegal fish. Her father had soon learned it was not enough to confine his wild and errant daughter to her bedchamber—she simply climbed out of the window. He’d learned it was more effective to give her into the custody of the housekeeper, who’d set her to work, cleaning and cooking.

The youthful Kate had despised the work, but years later she’d become grateful for knowledge generally considered unnecessary and unbecoming to a girl of her class. It had proven invaluable. Most girls of her station in life would have recoiled with genteel disgust at the task she faced, but Kate’s experiences in the Peninsula War had inured her to the horrors of filth and squalor.

This kitchen was nothing compared to some of the unspeakable hovels where she and her father and brothers had been billeted during Wellington’s campaigns. In those hovels, the Vicar’s impossible daughter had discovered an ability to create a clean and comfortable environment for her family, wherever they were. And had glowed in the knowledge that for once she, Kate, had been truly needed.

Her skills were needed here, too, she could see.

Almost an hour and a half later Kate looked around the room with some satisfaction. The kitchen now looked clean, though the floor could do with a good scrub. She’d washed, dried and put away all the crockery, glasses, pots and pans. She’d used sand, soap and water to scrub the table and benches. And she’d even taken her courage in both hands, tackling the worst spiderwebs and killing two spiders with a broom. A fire now burned merrily in the grate and a huge iron kettle steamed gently. She poured hot water into a bowl in the scullery and swiftly made her ablutions.

A rapid search of the provision shelves unearthed a dozen or so eggs. Kate checked them for freshness, putting them in a large bowl of water to see if they sank to the bottom. One floated; she tossed it out. A flitch of bacon she found hanging up in the cool room. And, joy of joys, a bag of coffee beans. Kate hugged them to her chest. It had been months since she had tasted coffee.

She roasted the beans over the fire, then used a mortar and pestle to crush them, inhaling the aroma delightedly as she did so. She mixed them with water and set it over the fire to heat. She sizzled some fat in a pan, then added two thick rashers of bacon and an egg.

The floor did need scrubbing, Kate decided. She would do it after breakfast. She went to the scullery to fetch a large can of water to heat. The largest can she could find was wedged under a shelf, stuck fast. She tugged and pulled and cursed under her breath, then the heavenly aromas of bacon, egg and coffee reached her nostrils. Oh, no! Her breakfast would be ruined! She raced into the kitchen and came to a sudden halt.

Lady Cahill’s grandson sat at the table, his back and broad shoulders partly towards her. He was tucking into her breakfast with every evidence of enjoyment.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Kate gasped crossly.

He didn’t stop eating. “I’ll have another two eggs and four rashers of bacon. And some more of that excellent coffee, if you would be so good.” He lifted his empty cup without even turning to face her.

Kate stared in growing indignation.

“More coffee, girl, didn’t you hear me?” He snapped his fingers impatiently, still not bothering to turn around.

Arrogance obviously ran in the family too! “There’s only enough for one more cup,” she said.

“That’s all I want.” He finished the last bite of bacon.

“Oh, is it, indeed?” Kate said, pulling a face at his impervious back. The exquisite scent of the coffee had been tantalising her for long enough. She’d cleaned and washed his filthy kitchen. All morning her mouth had been watering in anticipation of bacon and eggs and coffee. And he’d just walked in and without so much as a by-your-leave had devoured the lot!

“There’s only enough for me,” she said. “You’ll have to wait. I’ll make a fresh pot in a few minutes.”

He swung around to face her. “What the deuce do you mean—only enough for you?”

Jack was outraged. To his recollection, he’d never even heard a kitchen maid speak, let alone answer him back in such a damned impertinent manner. And yet who else would cook and scrub at this hour of the morning?

She stared defiantly back at him, hands on hips, cheeks flushed, soft pink lips pursed stubbornly. One hand moved possessively towards the coffee pot and her small chin jutted pugnaciously. She was a far cry from the pale, exhausted girl he’d met by candlelight the night before.

Despite his annoyance, his mouth twitched with amusement—there was a wide smear of soot reaching from her cheek to her temple. She stared him down like a small grubby duchess. Her eyes weren’t grey, after all, but a sort of greenygrey, quite unusual. He felt his breath catch for a moment as he stared into them, and then realised she was examining his own face just as intently. He stiffened, half turned away from her, keeping his scarred side to the wall, and unconsciously braced himself for her reaction.

She poured the last of the coffee into her own cup and proceeded to sip it, with every evidence of enjoyment.

Jack was flabbergasted. He was not used to being ignored—let alone by a dowdy little maidservant with a dirty face. And in his own kitchen! He opened his mouth to deliver a crashing reprimand, but she met his eye again and something held him back.

“I think I’ve earned it, don’t you?” She gestured at the sparkling kitchen.

He frowned again. What else did kitchen maids do but clean and scrub? Did the chit expect to be thanked? Did she realise who she was addressing? He opened his mouth to inform her, then hesitated uncertainly, a novel sensation for Major Carstairs, late of the Coldstream Guards.

How the devil did one introduce oneself to a kitchen maid? Servants knew who one was, and acted accordingly. But this one didn’t seem to know the rules. And somehow it just didn’t seem right to roar at this pert little urchin when only a few hours before he had held her in his arms and felt just how frail she was. Despite her effrontery.

He cleared his throat. “Do you know who I am?”

“Lady Cahill’s grandson, Mr Carstairs, I presume?”

He grunted.

Why had he mentioned it? Kate looked gravely at the tall dark man leaning back in his chair. He didn’t look particularly out of place in the kitchen, sprawled at the large scrubbed table, his long booted legs crossed in front of him. He was very handsome, she realised. Maybe he felt it would not be appropriate to eat in here with her when they had not been properly introduced.

“Would you rather I brought your breakfast to another room? A breakfast parlour, perhaps?”

His scowl deepened. “I’ll eat it here.” Long brown fingers started to drum out an impatient tattoo on the wooden surface of the table.

“Please try to be patient. I’ll finish my coffee, then cook enough bacon and eggs for both of us.”

Jack stared at her, debating whether to dismiss her instantly or wait until she’d cooked the rest of his breakfast. The egg had been cooked just how he liked it, the bacon had been crisped to perfection and she did make the best coffee he’d tasted in months. But he was not some scrubby schoolboy, as she seemed to imagine—he was the master of the house!

Jack’s lips twitched with reluctant amusement. His manservant’s cooking had, he perceived ruefully, seriously undermined his authority and his resolution. The men in his brigade would have boggled at his acceptance of this little chit’s effrontery, but they had neither drunk her coffee nor looked into those speaking grey-green eyes. Nor had they carried her up a flight of stairs and felt the fragile bones and known she had been starving. He couldn’t dismiss her—he could as soon rescue a half-drowned kitten then kick it.

She sat down opposite him at the kitchen table. He stiffened awkwardly as her gaze fixed on his face.

“So,” she said, “it was you in my bedchamber last night.”

His mouth tightened abruptly, his face dark with bitter cynicism. What was she going to accuse him of?

“When I woke up this morning I couldn’t quite remember how I got to bed. I thought I remembered seeing Jemmy, but now that I see you, of course, that explains it.”

Kate didn’t notice the stiffening of his body and the way his eyes turned to flint.

“Jemmy caught a bayonet wound, too, in just the same place, only his became terribly infected. Yours has healed beautifully, hasn’t it?”

She stood up, stretched luxuriously and smiled. “Isn’t coffee wonderful? I feel like a new woman, so I’ll forgive your barefaced breakfast piracy and cook some more for both of us.”

He stared at her in stunned silence. Who the devil was this impertinent, shabby, amazingly self-possessed girl with the wide, lovely eyes? And how could she recognise a bayonet wound and, what was more, refer to his shattered cheek so calmly when every other blasted female who had laid eyes on it had shuddered in horror, or wept, or ostentatiously avoided looking at him? He had the evidence of his own mirror that it was not a pretty sight.

And, he thought, watching her slight body move competently around the kitchen, who the devil was this Jemmy she kept mentioning? Jemmy with the scars, who was not, apparently, out of place in her bedchamber!

They were just finishing the last bacon and eggs and coffee, when the outside door opened and in walked a dark, stockily built man. He took one comprehensive look at Kate and smiled, a dazzling white smile which lit his swarthy face.

“Señorita.”

Kate smiled slightly and inclined her head.

He sniffed the air and let out a long, soulful sigh. “Ah, coffee.”

Kate chuckled. “Would you care for a cup, sir?”

“The señorita is very kind.” The white smile widened in the dark face and he bowed again.

Kate dimpled. “Then please be seated, sir, and I will fetch you a cup directly.” She went to fetch the coffee pot.

The two men began to converse in Spanish. Kate slowly stiffened. Three years in Spain and Portugal had resulted in a certain amount of fluency in both languages. She could understand every word the men said. And she was not impressed.

“So, Major Jack, who is the little brown mouse with the pretty eyes, the terrible clothes and the dirty face?”

Kate peered at her reflection in a spoon, then scrubbed at her face with a clean dishcloth.

“Damned if I know, Carlos. Some servant of my grandmother’s.” His tone was indifferent, bored.

A chair scraped on the floor and footsteps came towards her. Kate bent over the pots, then jumped nervously as a warm hand touched her lightly on the shoulder. She turned quickly and found a pair of dark blue eyes regarding her from a great height, a glimmer of amusement in their depths. Did he find it amusing to give her a fright? Or had he noticed the clean face? She blushed.

“If you would be so good…” He waved her aside, bent, took a burning twig from the fire, lit a cheroot and returned to the table, limping heavily.

“Jumpy, isn’t she, the little mouse?” said Carlos in Spanish.

Kate could almost feel the shrug of the broad shoulders.

“Skinny too.”

“Probably hasn’t had a square meal in a good few weeks,” the deep voice agreed. “I don’t know what my grandmother could want with such a little 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.”

Her mouth opened and she started to breathe again in deep, agonised gasps.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I wanted to see if you understood Spanish.”

She looked up at him in confusion, her mind still numbed by the remnants of her uncontrollable fear of spiders.

“I spoke in Spanish, you see.” His hands rested warmly on her shoulders. She was still trembling and, despite himself, he was moved. Not knowing what else to do to atone, he drew her against him, wrapped her in his arms and held her tight against him, uttering soothing noises in her ear. He inhaled slowly. What was that fragrance she wore? It was hauntingly familiar. His arms tightened.

It did not occur to him that it was utterly inappropriate for him to be behaving in this way with a mere kitchen maid. As a boy, Jack had frequently brought home creatures in distress—half-drowned kittens, injured birds—and if he had thought of it now he would have explained to anyone who asked that he was merely offering comfort and reassurance. And she felt so right just where she was.

Kate’s cheek was pressed against his chest, her head tucked in the hollow between his chin and his throat. She could feel the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his unshaven cheek catching in the silk of her hair as he moved his face gently against it. She heard the steady thud of his heart. His strong body cradled hers, protecting, calming.

It had been so long since Kate had been held so comfortingly, the impulse just to let herself be held was irresistible. She felt his broad, strong hand moving soothingly up and down her spine and a shiver of awareness passed through her.

Gradually, Kate realised just who was holding her and why. She tried to wriggle out of the strong arms. He did not immediately release her, so with all the strength she possessed she thrust hard at his chest and emerged from his embrace dishevelled and panting, her face rosy with embarrassment.

“I suppose this is another one of your tricks!” She tried to smooth her hair and brushed down her clothes.

Jack felt his guilt intensify at her words and, unreasonably, anger flooded him.

“No, it damn well isn’t, you little shrew! I’m not in the habit of entertaining myself with scruffy kitchen maids. I was merely offering comfort.”

She glared at him, not knowing which made her angrier, his actions of the past few minutes or his description of her.

“Well, I don’t need your sort of comfort and I wouldn’t have needed comforting in the first place if you hadn’t played that beastly trick on me!”

“How was I to know you’d make such a devilish to-do about a spider?”

Kate’s temper died abruptly and she looked away. She had always been deeply ashamed of her fear of spiders and had tried valiantly to conquer it, to no avail. Her brain might tell her that the horrid creatures were small and for the most part harmless, but the moment she was confronted with one she panicked. It was a weakness in herself she despised.

“You’re right,” she muttered stiffly. “I’m sorry I made such a fuss. It won’t happen again.” She turned to pick up the tray.

“Not so fast, my girl,” he said, and his hand shot out to grip her wrist. He turned her to face him again. “Who the devil are you?” he said slowly, his eyes boring into her.

“I told you my name last night. It is Kate Farleigh, in case you have forgotten,” she retorted, twisting her arm to escape his grip. “Will you please release my hand?”

“I haven’t finished with you yet.”

Kate pursed her lips in annoyance. “I suppose you think your position entitles you to make game of others!”

“What?” He frowned down at her in puzzlement.

“Evidently you consider you’re perfectly entitled to treat those less fortunate than yourself in any fashion you care to! Well, I take leave to dispute you on that. No matter who I am, I have the right to go about my concerns as I see fit, without interference from you or any other member of your family!” Kate looked pointedly down at her wrist, imprisoned by his large strong hand.

He noted the short, blunt, unpolished nails, so different from the smooth, polished ovals on every lady of his acquaintance. He turned her hand over and his large thumb moved gently back and forth over the work-roughened skin. There was no doubt that this girl was accustomed to menial work, but she was an enigma all the same.

“You are the damnedest kitchen maid!” he murmured at last, shaking his head. “How the devil did you come to be brought here by my grandmother?”

Kate looked up at him in surprise. The dark head was still frowning over her hand. She repressed a rueful grin. She supposed she couldn’t blame him for that. She was surely dressed for the part and he had seen her working in the kitchen, obviously at home. Well, if the master of the house insisted on calling Kate a kitchen maid, Kate would oblige him—and serve him right! She had an imaginary spider to pay him back for, after all!

“Sir.” She tugged at her hand.

His thumb still absently caressed her.

“I must get back to my duties, sir. The kitchen floor needs scrubbing.” She tried to pull her hand free again, becoming increasingly unsettled by the gentle motion of his thumb on her skin.

“But where on earth did you learn to speak like a lady?”

Oh, drat the man! Would he never leave off? Kate’s sense of humour got the best of her. “A lady, sir?” She goggled in mock-surprise, and did her best to simper. “I never thought I sounded like a real lady.” She pronounced it “loidy’.

“I kept house for an old gentleman for a long time and he insisted I learn to speak proper-like. He was a true scholar, sir, and a Reverend he was, too, and he hated what he called the mangling of the English language.”

He did not appear to notice that her accent had broadened considerably during this speech, a fact which Kate found immensely encouraging. She twisted her hands awkwardly, as she imagined a rustic wench would, when confronted by a handsome gentleman.

“He taught me to read and write and cipher an’ all,” she added ingenuously, regarding him with wide, innocent eyes—which she was tempted for a moment to cross, but didn’t.

“But you understand Spanish,” Jack persisted. “Where does a kitchen maid come to know a foreign tongue like that?”

“I imagine there are hundreds of kitchen maids in Spain,” she responded pertly, her eyes downcast to hide the mischief in them.

“Don’t be impertinent, girl; you know perfectly well I was asking how an English kitchen maid like you came to know Spanish. It’s obvious to me that you have no Spanish blood.”

She beamed up at him foolishly. “You’re absolutely right, sir—no Spanish blood at all. You are a clever gentleman. Coo, so you are.”

The chit was playing games with him again! He was hard put to it not to laugh—except that he had an equally strong impulse to turn her over his knee. How on earth had this cheeky little miss survived this long without being strangled, let alone kept a position in a household? He couldn’t imagine his grandmother putting up with this type of cheek from a maidservant. His mouth quirked in some amusement. His grandmother would not take kindly to competition in the art of impertinence and this little baggage was every bit her equal.

“Enough of your sauce, girl. I asked you how an English maid came to understand Spanish.”

“Oh, the gentleman did a lot of foreign travel and it were easier for him to take me than leave me behind, so a’ course I was bound to pick up some of the lingo, wasn’t I? Will that be all, sir?” she asked humbly, her head bent to hide her laughter.

She could see perfectly well that she hadn’t satisfied his curiosity, and that he didn’t like it. He was used to being in control. Well, he wasn’t going to control her. He’d be furious when he found out who she really was, but it served him right for jumping to conclusions. And for the spider.

“Hmm. Yes, all right,” he mumbled ungraciously.

Kate bobbed him the sort of rustic curtsey her old nurse used to make to her father, and picked up the tray. She stepped lightly down the stairs, her mouth trembling on the verge of laughter as she imagined his face when his grandmother finally explained who she was.

Jack watched her slight figure disappear, then turned and knocked at his grandmother’s door.

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