by Anne Gracie
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, "Senorita, 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. "Senorita?"
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 o
f 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.
Chapter Four
"Where the devil did you find that girl, Grand-mama?" he demanded on entry.
His grandmother regarded him coolly. "I am very well, Jack, thank you for asking."
''Dammit, Grandmama. . ." he began, then, noting the light of battle in the beady blue eyes, decided it would be politic to capitulate. His grandmother, Jack knew from long experience, was quite capable of parrying his questions all day. Curse it, he sighed, what had he done to be plagued with such females? Only a few days ago, life had been so peaceful.
He sat himself down on the edge of her bed, his stiff leg out before him, ignoring the strangled gasp of horror from his grandmother's maid at the impropriety.
“Oh, get out, Smithers, get out if you cannot stomach the sight of a man seated on my bed!" snapped Lady Cahill. She waited until the maid removed herself, after having favoured her mistress with a look of deep reproof.
"Stupid woman!" muttered the old lady. "But she's worth her weight in gold at la toilette. Makes an old woman like me look less of an old hag."
Jack smiled, his good humour restored. "Old hag, indeed! What a shocking untruth, Grandmama. As if you haven't remained an acknowledged beauty all your life. You've clearly recovered from the ordeal of the journey, for I must tell you that you are in great looks, positively blooming in fact."
"Oh, pish tush!" said his grandmother in delight. "You're a wicked boy and I know perfectly well that you're only trying to turn me up sweet."
Jack's lips twitched, as he recalled the time his grandmother had read his sister a blistering lecture for using exactly that piece of slang. "Turn you up sweet, indeed?" he quizzed her. "Good God, Grandmama. What a vulgar expression. I'm shocked!"
"Don't criticise your elders and betters, young man," she retorted, her twinkling eyes revealing she was fully aware of her inconsistency. "Now, what's all this I've heard about you falling into the megrims? It's not like you, Jack, and I won't have it!"
Jack took a deep breath, struggling to overcome the surge of annoyance that rose within him at her blunt statement. “As you see, Grandmama," he responded lightly, "your sources have misinformed you. I'm in the pink of health despite being a cripple."
Lady Cahill frowned at him. "You're no more a cripple than I am," she snapped. "What's a stiff leg? Your grandfather had one for years as a result of a hunting accident and it never stopped him from doing anything he wanted to."
"As I recall, ma'am, my grandfather was still able to ride to hounds until shortly before his death."
A short silence fell. Lady Cahill considered the cruel irony of her grandson's injury. A noted rider to hounds until his injury, Jack had received as his only inheritance a house in one of the most famous hunting shires in the country. Now, when he was unable even to sit a horse.
Jack stood up awkwardly. He still found it hard to face discussion of his wounds. "Can one enquire as to what brought you to my humble home?" he asked, changing the subject.
"You may well ask that," she said crossly.
"Yes, I just did," he murmured irrepressibly.
"Don't be cheeky, boy! I came to find out what was happening to you. Now, tell me, sir, what did you mean by denying your own sister hospitality?''
"Grandmama, you can see for yourself that this place is not yet fit to receive guests. . . Besides, I was castaway at the time. I do regret it, but I've had enough of women weeping and sighing over my. . .my disfigurement," he finished stiffly.
"Disfigurement, my foot!" She snorted inelegantly. Her eyes wandered to the scar on his right cheek. "If you are referring to that little scratch on your face, well, you were always far too good-looking for your own good. You look a great deal more manly now, not so much of a pretty boy."
He bowed ironically. "I thank you, ma'am."
"Oh, tush!" she said. "I think I will get up now, so take yourself off and get one of those lazy servants of yours to bring me up some hot water."
"I regret it, ma'am, but I cannot."
“What do you mean, boy?''
He shrugged indifferently. "I don't employ any indoor servants."
Lady Cahill sat up in bed, deeply shocked. "What? No servants?" she gasped. "Impossible! You must have servants!"
"I have no interest in the house. I've bivouacked in enough dam—dashed uncomfortable places in the last few years and now it's enough for me to have a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in. I have no intention of forking out a small fortune for a horde of indoor servants, merely to see to my comfort, even if I had a small fortune to fork out, which as you know I do not."
Lady Cahill was appalled. "No indoor servants?"
He shrugged again. "None but my man, Carlos, and he sees to my horses as well." He held up his hand, forestalling any further comment from her. "There are only those servants you brought with you yourself. I'm afraid you'll have to get them to wait on you. Only I sent them to stay in the village at the inn—all except for your dresser and maid. They can see to your needs as best they can."
Lady Cahill snorted. "You won't see Smithers demeaning herself by heating water."
He shrugged. "Get your other maid to do it. She seems capable enough."
"What other maid? What are you talking about, boy?"
Jack sighed. "Grandmama, don't you think it's time you stopped calling me 'boy'? I am past thirty, you know."
"Don't be ridiculous, boy! And stop changing the subject. What other maid are you talking about?"
"The little thin creature in the dreadful black clothes. I must say, Grandmama, that I am surprised that you haven't noticed them. You're usually so fastidious about your servants' appearance. And how is it—'' his voice deepened with indignation "—that you allowed the girl to almost starve herself to death? She swooned last night in the driveway and there was no one to assist her."
"Swooned?" said Lady Cahill, watching him narrowly.
"Fell down in a dead faint. From hunger, unless I miss my guess. She's nothing but skin and bones, with the most enormous eyes. Pale skin, curly brown hair, looks as if a breeze would blow right through her, a tongue on her like a wasp but, apparently, scared stiff of spiders."
Jack halted, suddenly aware that he had said far too much. He knew from past experience that his grandmother could add two and two and come up with five.
"Frightened of spiders, is she? That surprises me. I wouldn't have said that that young woman was afraid of much at all. I would've said she has a deal of courage. But she's not my maid," Lady Cahill added finally. "Is that what she told you?"
Jack frowned. "No," he said slowly, thinking back. "I suppose I rather jumped to that conclusion." His eyes narrowed, recalling Kate's performance of a few minutes ago. "If she isn't your maid, who is she?"
"Her name is Kate Farleigh."
"I know that, ma'am. She did inform me of that. But what is she doing here?" Jack hung on to his patience.
His grandmother shrugged vaguely. "Now, how should I know what she is doing, Jack? You know perfectly well I haven't left this room since I arrived last night. She could be picking flowers or taking tea. How the deuce should I know what she is doing, silly boy?"