Читать книгу Gallant Waif - Anne Gracie - Страница 8

“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.