Gallant Waif

by Anne Gracie

  She lifted the dove-coloured dress and stood in front of the mirror, holding it against her. It was very elegant—high-waisted, with a border of embroidered leaves around the hem—simply but beautifully cut. And the material felt so light and yet so warm. She rubbed her cheek against its soft folds and inhaled, savouring its new, delicious smell.

  One after another, Kate held the dresses against her slender frame, draping them this way and that, trying to imagine how they would look if she were to wear them—which, of course, she could not.

  She picked up a nightgown. Fine silk slipped through her fingers like water. She held it up, imagining herself wearing it, and blushed. It was. . .would be quite immodest. The Rev­erend Mr Farleigh's daughter had never owned, or even imagined, such a garment. It was so fine that surely you could see through it. She slipped her fingers inside the nightgown and, sure enough, her skin glowed pinkly through the delicate fabric. She blushed a deeper rose and hastily put it down and then picked up the dove dress again.

  "That colour suits you," said a deep voice from the door­way.

  Kate gasped and whirled around, clutching the dove frock against her, for all the world as if she were naked. Jack Car­stairs stood in the open doorway, leaning casually against the door frame.

  "H-how long have you been there?" she stuttered.

  He did not respond, but a slow smile told her the answer and her blush deepened. He'd seen her looking at the night­gown.

  “I've brought you a letter." He glanced down at the welter of clothes that covered the bed and the lurking smile wid­ened. Kate followed his gaze. He was looking at the under­clothes and nightgowns. Hurriedly she snatched them up and thrust them under the dresses, her cheeks burning.

  "Wh. . .what did you say you wanted?" she muttered, un­able to meet his eyes.

  "A letter has arrived for you," he said softly. "And I see that that's not all."

  Jack couldn't resist teasing her. The sight of that night­gown sliding sensuously over her skin had caused his body to tighten, imagining her clothed in nothing but that fine translucent silk. And the blush that rose so easily to her cheeks would no doubt be repeated elsewhere on her body. He knew it. And she knew he knew it; he could tell by her loss of composure. Kate Farleigh wasn't easily rattled, and by God he was going to enjoy it while he could. The little termagant was adorable like this, flushed and embarrassed and uncertain.

  "Please give me the letter," said Kate, still flustered by the amusement in his deep voice. He held it out. She reached for it, but he swiftly raised it out of reach.

  "Say 'thank you' first," he drawled, still grinning.

  "Give it to me, please," she repeated, annoyed. The big lummox! Did he think she was going to grapple with him for it? She had been teased by experts—her brothers—and she wasn't so foolish as to think she could get the better of him by trying to snatch the letter. He was far too tall, for one thing.

  In any case, she'd sworn never to let him get his hands on her again. Her encounters with Jack Carstairs were nothing like the tussles she'd had with her brothers. His touch had no brotherly feel about it at all; it made her feel oddly help­less and fluttery inside and it took all her will-power to break away from him.

  "I've come all the way upstairs to bring it to you. Don't I deserve something?" he teased, enjoying her discomfiture.

  "You deserve something, all right," she muttered beneath her breath.

  He heard her and laughed. "Little wildcat. Here's your letter, then." He tossed it on to the bed.

  "Thank you. Now please leave." Kate went pointedly to the door. "And you can take all of your things with you,"

  He looked at her in mock-amazement. "My things? What ever do you mean, Miss Farleigh?"

  Kate nodded at the pile of clothing on her bed. "All of those. I told you before, I cannot accept such gifts from you."

  He stared at her in exaggerated surprise. "My things? You think these are my things? My dear Miss Farleigh. . ." He bent and, before Kate could see what he was about, drew the silk nightgown from its hiding place. He held it up against his lean, strong frame.

  "You think that this is mine?" His blue eyes quizzed her wickedly. Kate fought against the rising tide of embarrass­ment that threatened her again.

  "Oh, don't be ridiculous!" she snapped, trying not to smile. The frail wisp of silk only served to emphasise the masculinity of the man. "You know exactly what I mean."

  He let the delicate silk trail through his long brown fingers, then tossed the offending garment to one side. ''But I haven't offered you these."

  "But—"

  "You'll find that this letter from my grandmother explains everything," he interrupted smoothly. "It arrived with the rest of these things. It wasn't my taste that selected these. . .although for once in my life I find myself in total accord with my grandmother." He smiled, a slow, teasing smile that had Kate fighting those fluttery inner feelings again.

  “Your grandmother?''

  "Yes. She told me in my letter that she'd sent you some clothing more suited to your position."

  "You mean you didn't send me all of this?"

  "No, indeed. I hope, as a gentleman, I wouldn't dream of so insulting you." He added piously, "A lady could certainly not accept such gifts from a gentleman, Miss Farleigh. I am shocked you would even suggest it." He pursed his mouth primly, his eyes twinkling wickedly.

  Kate tried to avoid his gaze. She had been made to feel very foolish. He'd known very well that after their previous discussion of her wardrobe she would jump to the conclusion that he'd sent these things. He might not have actually sent them himself, she realised, but he most certainly was behind his grandmother's charitable actions.

  "But I cannot—"

  "I hope you're not suggesting there is any impropriety attached to an elderly lady buying a few bits and pieces for the daughter of her godchild?'' he interrupted in a cool voice. "Her own mantua-maker made them from measurements Smithers took from your old clothes."

  Kate hadn't realised Lady Cahill had taken so much trou­ble. She felt a little embarrassed, but she didn't want to back down while he was standing over her like this. “No. . . but. . . it is too much. . .too generous. . ."

  His face hardened, his eyes lost their twinkle.

  “Understand me, Miss Farleigh. These things are from my grandmother and you can and will accept them!"

  Kate resented his tone. "You have no right to tell me what I may or may not accept."

  "I care nothing for that. You will oblige me by appearing in one of these dresses within the half-hour." Lord! The chit was stubborn.

  "I will do nothing of the sort," Kate responded defiantly. "I resent your high-handed manner, sir, and take leave to tell you I will not wear these clothes."

  He took two menacing steps towards her and she skittered away out of his reach. "Understand me, miss! You will wear these new clothes and burn the old ones!"

  "Oh, will I, indeed?" She pulled a face.

  Jack took his watch out of his pocket and glanced at it. "You'll dress yourself in one of those new dresses within the half-hour, or. . ."

  "Or what?"

  "Or, Miss Katherine Farleigh, I will come in here and dress you myself." There was a hard glitter in his eyes that suggested he was not jesting.

  She wrinkled her nose at him. "You wouldn't dare!"

  "Just try me, missie!" he snapped. "You have half an hour."

  He left the room.

  Kate locked the door firmly after him and sat down on the bed. He'd thrown down the gauntlet and naturally she'd picked it up. It was time Jack Carstairs learned once and for all that he was not her master. He had no authority over her whatsoever. If she didn't choose to wear these clothes, she wouldn't, and no bossy great interfering man would tell her otherwise.

  A little over half an hour later there was a knock on her door. "Who. . .who is it?" Kate called, annoyed at the in­voluntary quaver in her voice.

  "It's me, miss, Millie."

  Kate
unlocked the door. "Come in, Mil—"

  Millie stood twisting her apron nervously. Jack Carstairs loomed darkly behind her. Kate drew herself up straight and stared defiantly at him. He snapped his fingers at the maid.

  Millie swallowed. "I'm here to collect your old clothes, miss."

  "That won't be necessary," replied Kate smoothly. Millie looked doubtfully back at Jack. "But Mr Car­stairs—''

  “Mr Carstairs has nothing to do with it, Millie. My clothes belong to me, not Mr Carstairs."

  "Excuse me, Millie," said Jack softly. He moved past her and approached Kate determinedly. Mistrusting the look in his eye, she skipped around to the other side of the bed. He opened the door of the wardrobe and started to drag her old clothes from it, tossing them to Millie.

  "Stop that at once!" snapped Kate, outraged. He ignored her and moved next to the chest, which he similarly emptied into Millie's waiting arms.

  "How dare you?" cried Kate, and ran to restrain him. He whirled and took her shoulders in a firm grip. Their eyes locked for a moment. Slowly his hands slid down her arms and he held her wrists in a light but unbreakable grip.

  "Let me go, you big bully!"

  "I thought I made my instructions clear to you before." He looked meaningfully down at the shabby old dress she was still wearing in defiance of his orders.

  Kate's mouth grew dry. He could not surely mean to carry out his threat to dress her in the new clothes himself? She struggled to escape, but to no avail. He was a very powerful man and she had no hope of pitting her strength against his.

  "That will be all, Millie," he said.

  "Don't leave, Millie," cried Kate.

  "I said, that will be all, Millie. Take those rags outside and burn 'em. Carlos has a fire ready."

  "Burn them?" The Reverend Mr Farleigh's daughter was appalled. "But that's a shocking waste of perfectly good clothing—''

  He snorted.

  "But it is," she persisted. "I am very sure that the vicar's wife would be glad of them for some of her poorer parish­ioners. You have no idea how difficult it is to ensure that people are adequately clothed."

  He raised an ironic eyebrow. “Believe me, Miss Farleigh, my appreciation of that particular problem grows hourly."

  Kate stamped her foot in frustration.

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

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

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

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

  "Exactly," he concluded, enjoying his victory. "Take 'em out, Millie."

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

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

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

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

  "How dare you steal all my clothes?"

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

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

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

  "No, and you cannot make me!"

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

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

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

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

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

  "So you did." His eyes mocked her anger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Yes, Lady Cahill. It was very kind of her."

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

  Kate hesitated.

  "It's all right," said Millie, reading her thoughts accu­rately. "Mr Carstairs is off up the Bull."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "The Bull, miss—the Bull and Boar Tavern. He'll not be back till late, I reckon."

  "Oh, well, then, in that case, yes, I'd love one."

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

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

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

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

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

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