Gallant Waif

by Anne Gracie

  Suddenly she became acutely aware of the warmth of his hand, the large brown thumb that was moving caressingly back and forth across her skin, and she flushed and awk­wardly pulled her hand away.

  "Nonsense," she muttered gruffly. She started clearing away the cups, intensely aware of his eyes following her every movement. “Would you like me to prepare the hot oils for the treatment? It is not difficult—it only takes persis­tence."

  Now it was his turn to look awkward. "Can you not ex­plain to Carlos what is required?"

  "It would be better if I did it myself," Kate said. "I can show Carlos once I have ascertained the treatment needed— it is not difficult, but there are a few tricks to it that are better demonstrated than explained."

  Kate saw the look on his face and flushed. He was shocked at her indelicacy. Well, there was no need for him to be concerned—she was no delicate flower—but it was very dif­ficult to force herself to disillusion him.

  "It is. . .I. . ." she began, stambling over the words. With her face averted she continued woodenly, "Mr Carstairs, I am not the innocent you seem to believe me. I have seen the male form before, have cared for a number of wounded men, not only my brother, so, you see, you have nothing to be concerned about." She avoided his eye, her cheeks rosy. “So, shall I prepare the oils now?''

  "No, no, I was only enquiring out of interest," he said hurriedly, unnerved by her willingness to begin at once.

  "But you will think on it."

  He smiled faintly at her intensity. "I shall," he agreed, "but I have much to do today."

  He stood up and left the room. Kate watched him go, a frown on her face. He had nothing at all to do, she knew. He would probably spend the remainder of the day brooding. Drinking. The man had suffered more than physical damage. It was almost as if he was afraid to hope. Well, she could hope enough for two.

  That evening, however, Jack did not retire in his customary solitude, but invited Kate and Martha to join him in the par­lour where Carlos had lit a fire. He had a bottle of port beside him when they arrived, but he was not drunk. He poured Kate and Martha a glass of sherry, and they settled down in front of the cosy fire and chatted. Kate, initially wary of his motives, soon relaxed, perceiving he was making a genuine effort to play the polite host.

  Gradually Jack turned the conversation around to more re­cent events. Her tale of being with the army had stunned him. He had to know more.

  "So tell me, why did your father drag you off to travel in the tail of an army?'' Jack tried to keep the anger out of his voice. It was ill to think badly of a man he had never met, a man who was dead and gone, what was more, but he could not forgive Kate's father for exposing such an innocent young girl to the horrors of war, valiant little creature though she might be.

  "In the tail?" Kate grinned. "You can't think I would be so poor-spirited as to travel at the tail with all the heavy baggage and complaining wives and impedimenta! Nothing so dreary, I'm glad to say. Jemmy found me a charming little Spanish mare and I was able to go where I wanted."

  "Good God!" he muttered, appalled. Had none of her family recollected she was a sheltered young girl of eighteen or so?

  "Oh, it was much more convenient, for then I was free to ride back and forth, keeping an eye on Papa, for he was dreadfully absent-minded at times, and also the baggage, which travelled with Luis, our Portuguese servant. And then, you know, I was always on hand to snaffle a good spot when we stopped for the night and make sure everything was com­fortable for them and a hot meal ready."

  She smiled as she sipped her sherry. "We were lucky— Jemmy was hunting mad. Even when we were returning to Portugal after Talavera, and food was so scarce that almost everyone was starving, he managed to shoot a hare or some­thing for the pot, just when I thought my stomach was going to stick to my backbone." She rubbed her stomach reminiscently. "Jemmy could turn even a retreat into a hunting trip."

  Jack moved uncontrollably in his chair, flooded with anger, fighting an impulse to sweep her into his embrace. He, too, had fought at Talavera. He recalled only too well the horrors of that retreat, the starving men, the sheer bloody hell of being unable to provide enough food. That she should ever have been put in such a frightful position! How many times had this little creature faced starvation? He would never for­get how thin and frail she had felt in his arms the first time he met her! How he wished he had known her earlier. He would have ensured she was never in danger, or frightened or hungry.

  Kate blushed suddenly. “I'm sorry, I know it is unladylike to mention such things."

  Jack was amazed. She could casually refer to the experi­ence of living through a frightful battle and retreating with an exhausted and starving army, then blush because it was unladylike to mention such a thing as a stomach. His eyes caressed her. She was unique, this little Kate.

  “I was at Talavera,'' he said quietly.

  "Then you will recall that dreadful trip back into Portugal too." She nodded. "Were the Coldstreams at Busaco? Jemmy was wounded there. Was that where you caught your facial wound?"

  "No." His hand crept up to his ravaged cheekbone. "This is a souvenir of Badajoz."

  They both fell silent, remembering Badajoz. The fire crackled loudly as a knot of sap burst. A log fell and sparks twirled madly up the chimney. In her comfortable wing chair, Martha stirred, then returned to her heavy doze. Kate re­garded her with compunction. She was an old woman, and she should not be dozing uncomfortably in a chair at this hour, but tucked up warmly in bed. But none of Kate's ar­guments could shift her—she was Kate's chaperon, and her reputation would be safely guarded by her old nurse. Even though Martha knew there was no reputation to guard.

  "You seem remarkably calm, relating your experiences." Jack's deep low voice pulled Kate out of her reverie. "Were you never frightened before a battle, for instance?"

  "Lord, yes, utterly terrified," she said simply. "Before every battle I was a mess—unable to eat, leaping six feet at every sound. . .even a little grumpy."

  His warm chuckle washed over her. "Grumpy? Now why do I not find that difficult to believe?"

  Kate wrinkled her nose. "Yes, fear brings out the virago in me. I used to snap at Ben for being such a big, slow stupid!"

  She paused and stared into the flames for a moment. "Ben was the eldest. He was the sort of person you could not for one moment imagine in a hurry, or a flap, about anything. Yet he invariably got things done just as fast and with none of the drama that Jemmy or I seemed to cause."

  She said in a slow, gruff voice, " 'This sweaty haste doth make my head spin all the day'—Ben was always saying that to Jemmy or me, and Father would always take him to task about mangling Shakespeare and mentioning sweat in front of me." Her voice quavered a little.

  Jack watched her from the shadows, his eyes unreadable. A father who didn't want her ears sullied with the word "sweat', but who took her into situations where she was surrounded by blood, sweat and far, far worse.

  "Jemmy used to roast Ben about his unflappability too, but he was a wonderful brother. They were so different, those two—like quicksilver and stone. . . No, I don't mean stone precisely because that suggests Ben was cold and he wasn't—he was a big darling." Her eyes blinked rapidly and her lips quivered with emotion.

  Jack wanted to gather her into his arms and kiss her grief and distress away. Poor, gallant little waif.

  "Ben never saw Badajoz. He was killed at Ciudad Rodrigo. . . Were you at Ciudad Rodrigo?"

  He shook his head.

  She continued, "I remember that first day there so clearly. It was terribly cold, and the snow was frozen and crunchy underfoot from the frost that night. But the morning was so still and perfect—simply beautiful, you know, the sort of day when you long to go for a good gallop, then come home to a lovely hot breakfast. . .

  "And then the big guns shattered the morning, pounding and pounding until I thought my eardrums would shatter too, though I was a long way from them, you know. And I stuffed my ears with rags
to stop the noise. . . Ben was killed the next day. I suppose you could say he was lucky, for he caught a ball in the temple and probably didn't know what hit him before he was dead."

  She bit her lip. “You probably think I am unnaturally cold to say he was lucky, but there are so many more terrible ways for a man to—"

  He could restrain himself no longer. He had to touch her. He reached across and took her small, cold hands in a warm grip-

  "He was lucky, Kate. There couldn't be a better way to go than instantly, in the open air, in the heat of action." His hands enveloped hers in warmth.

  They lapsed into silence. The only sounds were the crack­ling of the fire and the slow, rhythmic sound of Martha sleep­ing. His thumbs stroked back and forth across her skin. Soothing, wordless reassurance.

  "How did Jemmy and your father die?"

  She blinked the tears back for a few moments, then said softly, "They were both caught by snipers on the way to Salamanca. You recall the way our army and the French were travelling parallel and exchanging shots every now and then to relieve the tedium?"

  He nodded. They had been in so many of the same places and yet their paths had never crossed.

  “Jemmy was wounded in the chest and, a short time later, Papa was caught in the stomach. Both wounds were fatal. They could not bear the jolting of the cart, so I found a deserted farmhouse and stayed with them until they died."

  The simple statement hid a world of grief and Jack felt his heart stir. "I think it is time you took yourself to bed." He rose, reached down a hand to help her up, then, without con­scious volition, drew her into his arms, cradling her securely against his big warm body.

  There was little passion in the embrace, just warm, pro­tective, comforting strength, and she nestled against him, lis­tening to the pounding of his heart, wishing the moment could last for ever. Kate had not expected to be held like this again in her life, and she clung to him, desperately, revelling in his warmth and strength and tenderness.

  He reached down and gently tipped her face up to his and they gazed into each other's eyes, then his dark head bent over hers and their lips met in a long, tender kiss.

  Martha snorted in her sleep and stirred, awakening, and in moments the two were standing in separate parts of the room, Kate bending over her old nurse, assisting her to stand, Jack leaning casually against the wall, his face in shadow again.

  It was probably the port anyway, Kate told herself for the umpteenth time as she separated curds from whey in the kitchen, making cottage cheese. They'd barely spoken since that night. In fact, he'd obviously been going out of his way to avoid her. Kate realised he was regretting the impulse which had caused him to kiss her. And, though she could never regret anything so magical, she knew she should.

  So she had decided to forget the conversation by the fire, the wonderful embrace that had sent her to bed floating on air. It was not an easy resolution, but she was managing quite well, the memory of his kiss occurring to her no more than a dozen times a day before being firmly banished. It was very wearing, being wanton.

  "Senorita Kate, Major Jack, he say he is ready for your

  torture treatment to begin. This morning." Carlos grinned. "He no try to ride today, no hurt himself."

  Kate was stunned. Jack had listened to her after all! He was prepared to trust her. She grinned back at Carlos, de­lighted, then hastened to prepare everything before Jack could change his mind.

  Holding the small pot of hot, aromatic oil carefully, she mounted the stairs and walked slowly with Carlos towards Jack's bedroom door. She was absurdly nervous. Don't be ridiculous, she told herself. You've done this a dozen times or more. There's no reason to behave in this missish fashion, just because you're in an English country house and not a Portuguese cottage or a tent in Spain.

  Yes, a small voice answered her silently. But this is Jack. . .

  She pushed open the door. Jack lay on the bed, dressed in a nightshirt, his lower body swathed in a sheet. He looked at her, glanced down at the sheet, clutched it more firmly around himself and his colour darkened.

  "This is a damned stupid idea. I've changed my mind," he announced. "Leave the stuff with Carlos. I'm sure we can work out what needs to be done."

  Kate perceived he was thoroughly embarrassed by her presence. All her nervousness dissolved like magic and she tried not to smile. "Now don't be foolish. I told you before, it is not simply a matter of rubbing in a few oils. It is a special technique that must be taught."

  She noted his heightened colour and said softly, "You must not worry that I am here. I have performed many much more difficult tasks. Try to imagine that I am simply one of those who tended your wounds in Spain."

  He snorted. His imagination could not do it. Kate was small and slender, with a smooth, clear complexion, and soft pink lips. The last person to touch his wound in Spain had been a big brawny soldier, bald, toothless, tattooed and with the most extensive vocabulary of obscenities that Jack had ever encountered.

  He braced himself as she reached for the sheet and clutched it tighter.

  "Now don't be silly," she said firmly. "I must be able to see the leg, if I am to apply these oils to it in the proper way." She flushed slightly and said in a lower tone, "I told you before, I am not unacquainted with the male form. It will not embarrass me to view your leg."

  Jack found he could not release the sheet. It was not so much that he was worried about offending her maidenly modesty, he realised, it was not wanting to see her look of revulsion when she saw the mess that was his leg.

  Briskly she twitched the sheet away. Jack clenched his teeth, awaiting her disgusted reaction. She bent over it si­lently. The leg was white and hideously criss-crossed with violent red and purplish scars. The muscles were shrunken and slightly twisted in places, as if pulled out of alignment by the puckered scarring.

  She examined it carefully, not letting her feelings show. He truly had been mauled about but, apart from the dreadful scarring, it didn't look too bad. She ran her hand gently down the leg, feeling the lines of the muscles. She felt him flinch under her touch and quickly met his gaze.

  "Did that hurt?"

  He was watching her, an odd look in his eyes. She had shown no sign of horror or disgust, no sign of sympathy or pity either.

  “Did I hurt you, sir?'' she repeated.

  "Er. . .your hands are cold. I did not expect it, that's all."

  "Oh." Kate continued to examine the leg.

  "Now, Carlos," she said, "I am going to work first on these muscles." Carlos bent his head over the leg curiously. "See how they are pulled tight by the scarring here. That is what makes it so hard to bend. Now, a little of this oil just so, and then. . ." She applied it to the leg and began to mas­sage it in. Jack Carstairs groaned slightly and shifted awk­wardly.

  "Is the oil too hot, sir?"

  "No, no. . .it's not that," he muttered, not meeting her gaze.

  Kate continued the treatment, explaining softly to Carlos all the time. Her small strong fingers rubbed and pummelled and pushed at the shrunken muscles. Jack lay on the bed, his face a mask of control. Kate alternated small intensive lo­calised movements with long, soothing strokes up and down the whole leg, pulling and pushing with a strong, smooth, rhythmic action. During one of these movements Jack uttered a muffled moan. Kate's head went up abruptly. This action was meant to be soothing and relaxing, not painful.

  “Am I hurting you, sir?''

  Jack flushed. "No, no. . .er. . .don't you think Carlos can take over now?''

  "No, sir, not yet. I thought it would be best if I took him through a complete treatment first. It should take no more than fifteen or twenty minutes."

  "Oh, God!" groaned Jack, and shifted under the sheet again.

  "I must be hurting you," Kate said, distressed. "I am so sorry. This part of the treatment should not hurt at all. Per­haps there is something I have missed. Can you tell me ex­actly where the pain is located?"

  He glared at her for a mom
ent, examining her face for any sign of mischief. She looked back, troubled grey-green eyes innocently meeting his gaze. She really had no idea what her touch was doing to him.

  "Dammit! No!" Jack growled crossly. "You're not hurt­ing me at all. Just get it over with as quickly as possible!" His eyes darted past her, over her shoulder, to where Carlos was standing; Kate felt a spurt of surprise at the withering look Carlos received.

  Kate bit her lip. Of course she was hurting him, or why was he moaning? Men were so stubborn at times. She didn't mind if he cursed or groaned, but she did need to know if the treatment was hurting or not and where. She continued in silence. He was getting tenser and tenser under her hands. It was puzzling. He should be relaxing. She redoubled her efforts, rubbing in the warm, aromatic oils with firm, rhyth­mical strokes along the length of his leg. Suddenly he groaned again and with a surge of sheets he turned over on to his stomach, sending Kate sprawling on the bed.

  She sat up, flustered and astonished. "What on earth do you think you are doing?" she demanded crossly. "Turn over, please; I haven't finished there yet."

  "Oh, yes, you have, Miss Farleigh," came the uncompro­mising reply, slightly muffled by the pillow. "That's quite enough from you."

  Kate shrugged. "Oh, well, I suppose I can work on the back of the leg as well as the front." She reached out and began to rub it again.

  "Damn and blast it, woman!" The words exploded from the pillow. He jerked his leg away from her and tried to thrust it back under the sheet. "Out, Miss Farleigh, now!"

  "But—" Kate began.

  "Carlos!"

  Kate felt Carlos's hand on her shoulder. "Please, Senorita Kate," the man said. "You must go now."

  "But I have not finished showing you everything."

  Carlos grinned. "Oh, senorita, you have shown me plenty, I think."

  "Carlos!" the deep angry voice from the pillow growled warningly.