Gallant Waif

by Anne Gracie

  Fire shot through her with such force that she let out a small whimper. His grip instantly gentled and he lifted his face and stared into hers. Kate was helpless—his muscular arms were all that kept her from sliding to the floor, her head was thrown back and her damp lips remained parted.

  "What did you mean about my eyes?" she finally said.

  "Only that every time I look into them I want to do this—"

  He lowered his mouth to hers again in a long, passionate kiss.

  Kate's senses were reeling but, more, she could not believe what he had said—her eyes made him want to kiss her? Her eyes?

  He lifted his head back and smiled into her dazed face. She knew she should do something, say something, but she could not. Her eyes clung to his and he seemed to see the silent message in them for he murmured, "See—you're do­ing it again," and lowered his mouth, with agonising ten­derness, to hers.

  Without warning, he brushed his fingers across her breasts. Kate gasped and arched her back in response. Her nipples were unbearably tender as his hands rubbed the material of her frock and chemise across them. Her body was racked with wave after wave of the most exquisite shudders, and she could not help but push herself against him. At the same time, his mouth, lips and tongue were creating the most amazing sensations, intensifying the feeling she had of needing to get closer to him, to feel him against, around, inside her.

  She could taste the brandy he had been consuming, the tobacco he had smoked, but also, something indefinable, the maleness and uniqueness of Jack. She wanted to touch him, taste him, feel him. One of her hands embedded itself in his thick, crisp dark hair, while the other cupped his jaw, rubbing tenderly back and forth, revelling in the texture of his un­shaven chin. His mouth moved away from hers for a moment and she whimpered softly in protest at the deprivation and followed it.

  His body was pressing against hers, moving in a slow, rhythmical motion, male to female, holding, tasting, wanting. His arms moved around to her back, and Kate thrust forward into the circle of his body, rubbing her breasts against the hardness of his chest. She felt him withdraw from her in some indefinable way, then gradually became aware of a growing draught at her back.

  Abruptly she realised that Jack was unfastening her dress, trying to slip it from her shoulders. She pulled back, uttering a small exclamation of surprise, and found herself clutching her dress to her and staring him wordlessly in the face.

  "Jack. . ." she whispered, an unanswerable question in her eyes.

  His gaze fixed on her face for a moment. He swore and thrust her away. Running a hand through his hair, he turned and headed for the table where he habitually kept the brandy. He pulled up short and swore again, recalling its recent fate. He dug his hands into his pockets and stared moodily into the fire. He kicked it once with his bad leg and sparks flew and danced like whirling dervishes up the chimney, while the pain brought him to his senses.

  Kate hurriedly fastened up her dress as best she could, then waited for Jack to turn around. They stood there for long, silent minutes, Jack staring into the fire, his chest heaving, an unreadable look on his face, Kate, her face delicately flushed in the candlelight, wide-eyed and nervous.

  Jack clenched his jaw. One tender word from him now and she would be in his arms again. And this time there would be no stopping him. He was poised on a knife-edge as it was. He'd never wanted any woman in his life as much as he wanted her.

  But Kate was a lady, and if he touched her now they would be calling the banns next Sunday in church, and he couldn't do that to her: tie her for life to a miserable wreck when, with his grandmother's help, she could have almost anyone, and a life of ease and pleasure. No, he wasn't much of a gentleman, but he had enough pride not to speak that tender word and snare her with her own kindness.

  "Get out of here before I really do give you a beating," he growled. "Lord, didn't your father ever teach you not to throw yourself at a man like that? If I didn't know you to be an innocent. . ." He ran his hand through his hair. "It's prov­ocation of the worst sort. Do you not understand? It is asking to be used like the lowest sort of woman!"

  The colour slowly drained from Kate's face. She opened her mouth, but the words would not come.

  . . . asking to be used like the lowest sort of woman! He was accusing her of wantonness, she thought despairingly. Blam­ing her, like all the rest. . . Throwing herself at a man. . . If I didn't know you to be an innocent. . . But he didn't know her as well as he thought he did. And what would he think, once he did know her better? That she'd provoked Henri, too? That she'd asked to be a Frenchman's whore?

  She would die if Jack ever looked at her the way those men in Lisbon had.

  She stared at him numbly. It was true. She had provoked him.

  Provoked. . .the argument. Provoked his anger, that was all. But Jack had grabbed her first. And he had kissed her when she had no thought of it—well, not much. Oh, yes, she had kissed him back, but he had started it, kissing her in that devastating. . . And he had been the one who had begun to undo her dress! But, like the people in Lisbon, he held her responsible. . .

  Well, if she was wanton, then so was he!

  Suddenly anger bubbled up in her, anger not only for what Jack had said, but for what men had said about her in Por­tugal and Spain. Blaming her!

  Hypocrites!

  This time she would not tamely accept the blame for what a man had done to her. She would retrieve her position. And give him the response he deserved!

  She stared up at him, her face a white mask. Uncon­sciously his hand reached out towards her and in a flash she slapped him hard across the face. He stood there stupidly, unmoving, and, in utter silence, she turned and exited, quietly closing the door behind her.

  Jack stood staring at the door a long time. After a while his hand came up and rubbed his cheek bemusedly. It was no light slap. His little Kate packed a good wallop. He sat down again and gazed into the fire, his hand still covering the cheek she had slapped, although the sting had long since faded.

  How had it got so far out of hand?

  Bloody hell, one minute she was driving him crazy, pro­voking his retaliation—sweeping in like some small avenging angel to wrest his drink out of his hands. He'd been justifi­ably angry with her then as she danced from chair to chair, flinging insults and bowls of greenery at him—cheeky little imp. Then his anger had started to change. It had become a hunt. And when he'd caught her, felt her small, panting body against his, all his frustrations had come to the fore. . .

  Hell, she needed a lesson, but he'd never intended to hurt her like that. He couldn't get the memory of her eyes out of his mind. For a moment, before she had taken in what he had said, he had glimpsed the shyest, sweetest glow in her eyes as they had blinked up at him, her senses still reeling from the impact of his embrace. Jack would never forget the way that tender glow had died, replaced by anguish and deep­est hurt. . .

  She hadn't deserved that. He clenched his fist and slammed it down on the arm of the chair. Hell and damnation, she should have known better than to accost him when he was drunk. But she had felt so sweet in his arms, so sweet and warm and trusting. And he hadn't been able to bear it, know­ing that it was impossible. So he had turned nasty to drive her away before it was too late. He groaned again.

  He punched the arm of the chair once more, then punched his leg, taking bitter satisfaction in the pain it caused him.

  In the sanctuary of her bedchamber, Kate lay across the counterpane, a damp and crumpled handkerchief bearing tes­timony to bitter tears. She lay, staring at the faded wallpaper, her breath racked by an occasional shudder—all that re­mained of her terrible weeping bout. She felt oddly calm now, the calm after the storm.

  For the best part of the year now she had done her utmost to remain quite aloof from other people, cutting herself off from feeling more than the most superficial day-to-day emo­tions. The decision, she now realised, had been rooted in fear, fear of being hurt again, fear of being rejecte
d.

  And she had been right to fear.

  What did you mean about my eyes?

  Only that every time I look into them I want to do this—

  And his kisses were everything she'd ever dreamed of— and more. For better or worse she was irrevocably in love with Jack Carstairs.

  All her resolutions, all her biblical recitations, all her fran­tic planning to the contrary had been nothing but desperate attempts to deny the truth to herself. She recognised it now. The damage had been done well before she was truly aware of it.

  At first, she hadn't seen the danger in him, despite his attractiveness. She'd just felt happy that her skills were needed at Sevenoakes. But his interfering ways had unsettled her—their quarrels had left her exhilarated, infuriated and gloriously alive. But it was more than just physical attraction, she knew. The quarrels were due to his protectiveness. She'd tried to reject it but, for a girl who'd rarely experienced it, protectiveness was a very endearing quality in a man. And when she'd recognised his pain she couldn't help but respond to it despite her resolutions to stay aloof. And by the time she'd realised how deeply entangled with him her emotions had become it was far, far too late.

  She had tried. . .but then he'd kissed her. And with the inevitability of a flower responding to the warmth of the sun she'd opened her heart and let herself feel things for him that she had never felt for another person.

  She loved him.

  . . .every time I look into them I want to do this— Jack could not know how much those words had meant to her. When anyone else looked into her eyes, they saw her dead mother—her father, her brothers, Martha. Even Lady Cahill looked at Kate and saw her mother.

  But Jack only saw her, living, breathing Kate. And with Jack, only with Jack, her eyes brought her kisses. And in his arms, being kissed, she had offered all that she was and all that she could be. . .

  And he had thrown it back in her face.

  It hurt, unbearably badly. She felt utterly crushed.

  Chapter Ten

  Next morning Kate rose early and went down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast as usual. She had come to several firm decisions in the night. She had allowed herself too much freedom with Jack—she was only his housekeeper. She should not have tried to interfere with his life, no matter how good her intentions. She should never have allowed herself to feel any emotion for him—it was inevitable that she would get hurt. She'd been living in a dream world and it had to stop.

  She was never going to let anyone—not Jack Carstairs, not anyone—affect her emotions like that again. She would con­trol it all much better in future, rebuild the walls of ice she had made around her heart in Lisbon. She had allowed Jack Carstairs to melt them. This time, she would build them stronger. She had already started the process during the long, sleepless night which had just passed. She could feel the chill of it surrounding her already. Inches thick. It might be cold, but it was also painless.

  Kate put the coffee on, then stiffened as she heard unmis­takable uneven footsteps coming towards the kitchen door. The door opened. There was a long silence. She could feel his eyes boring into her. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him.

  "I owe you an apology, Miss Farleigh," said Jack. "I had no business saying those things to you. I did not mean them and I regret them very deeply. I also forced myself upon you in the most disgraceful manner. It was unforgivable." Kate blinked. Damn him, damn him, damn him! He was utterly sincere. She felt a distant sensation of ice melting all around her. Oh, damn him!

  He continued, "I do not ask you to forgive me, but I do hope you will at least accept my humble apologies. I assure you, nothing of that kind will happen again."

  Kate had a lump in her throat. "Mr Carstairs, it was not entirely your fault. It. . .it is no business of mine whether you choose to spend your evenings drinking or not." Her voice grew huskier than ever. "My interference was unwarranted, so whatever you may have said or done I have only myself to blame."

  Oh, Lord, she thought, why did I do that? She'd had no intention of apologising. It shouldn't matter to her what he thought, said or did. So what was she doing? More apolo­gising, apparently. "I also said some terrible things to you and I did not mean them. . .or, at least, I should not have. . ."

  She floundered to a halt. She could feel his warm gaze resting on her. A long, tense moment passed, then the coffee boiled over.

  "The coffee! Oh, goodness!" exclaimed Kate, and rushed to rescue it. "Ouch!" She gasped and flinched, having in­cautiously grabbed the hot cast-iron handle and burnt her hand. She stepped back from the stove, sucking her hand.

  "Let me see."

  "It's nothing," she said dismissively, cradling her hand protectively nevertheless.

  "Here," he said authoritatively. "Show it to me." He gently took her hand in his and bent over it, examining the burn carefully. Kate looked at the dark head bent over her hand and felt herself tremble. She longed so much to place her hand on it and run her fingers through the thick, unruly hair. Ice, she thought. Think ice!

  "It's not serious," she said quietly. "I've had much worse burns than this."

  "Well, you shouldn't have."

  Kate was astonished at the suppressed anger in his voice. "You shouldn't be in a position where you keep burning yourself."

  It was that protectiveness again. Unnerved, she tried to pull her hand away. His head came up and he stared into her eyes.

  "Oh, damn it all to hell!" he muttered, and pulled her into his arms. His mouth came down on hers, hard, and Kate could feel the passion pouring from him. Ice cracked all around her, turning instantly to steam.

  The kiss was over in seconds. Jack pushed her away and left the room, heading outdoors. Kate sagged against the ta­ble, the pain of her hand almost forgotten. Moments later he entered again, carrying a bowl of water in which large chunks of ice and snow floated.

  "Here you are," he said gruffly. "Put your hand in that. Cold is the best thing for burns, the colder the better."

  Her burnt hand seemed utterly irrelevant now. Kate blinked at him, bemused. It was too late—no walls of ice could withstand this man. She loved him. The only ice she could feel were the few chunks in the bowl. Everywhere else around her was warm. Very warm. She glowed.

  "Oh, for God's sake, don't look at me like that," he groaned. "Put your hand in the damned bowl and forget what just happened. I. . .I must still be drunk from last night."

  He ran his fingers through his hair. Kate watched them. He saw her watching and swore again.

  "I said stop it, damn you, Kate! It was an aberration, a mistake. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. You have my word on it. Just stop looking at me like that, will you?''

  "It won't happen again?" Kate whispered. If she couldn't build walls against him, then why resist?

  "No, it damned well won't."

  "Then I'm sorry too."

  He clenched his fists, unable to believe what he had just heard. "Oh, for God's sake!" he muttered. "I can't take much more of this." And he limped quietly from the room.

  She shouldn't have said it, Kate knew. It was not what a respectable girl should do, but since she wasn't considered respectable any more, then. . .

  And she liked his kisses, more than liked them.

  Never had she experienced anything like the emotions she felt whenever Jack Carstairs took her in his arms and lowered his mouth to hers. His kisses left her feeling so devastated, alive, exultant, vulnerable and. . .most gloriously invaded.

  And she wanted more.

  "I'm going to write to my grandmother asking her to take you into her house immediately," Jack announced, entering the library where Kate was busy dusting books.

  She whirled from her task. "But why?" she whispered, her eyes wide with distress.

  He could see she'd been working hard; her hair was start­ing to fall out of its knot, she had a smudge of dust on her chin and a blur of beeswax over her right eyebrow. Lord, was there ever a chit so unsuited to a domestic occupation? She
needed to marry a rich man, if only to keep her face clean. He tried to keep the amusement out of his eyes, forcing himself not to soften towards her.

  "We can't go on like this."

  "Like what?"

  His eyes grew hard. "Like this morning and the evening before."

  She flushed and clutched the book she had been dusting to her chest. "Well, I do not wish to go to London to stay with your grandmother."

  "That's beside the point. If you stay here, this will get out of hand."

  Kate's eyes were fixed on him. "Will it?" she asked softly.

  Jack swore under his breath and turned away. Dammit! Those big grey-green eyes made him lose all resolution. He had to make her understand once and for all.

  "God deliver me from naive virgins!" he growled in frus­tration.

  Kate stiffened, but he didn't notice.

  "You don't realise the danger you're in," he said.

  Oh, don't I? Kate thought.

  "Men have needs, Miss Farleigh, carnal needs. They are not like women. If the need is upon him, a man will turn to a woman to fulfil those needs. Do you understand me? I said a woman, any woman, whichever woman is available to fulfil those carnal needs."

  Kate bit her lip.

  Jack cursed again. Dammit, he had no choice but to be as brutal as he could to her, to stop that soft glow that shone in her eyes every time they rested on him. He had no future to offer her. God's truth, but he could not even dance with her, and if anyone was born to dance it was Kate Farleigh, this­tledown maiden. He couldn't allow her to bury herself in obscure poverty, especially since she had no idea of what she was missing.

  She had never been to London, never danced until the wee small hours at a glittering ball in the arms of a succession of handsome blades, never attended the Opera, Covent Garden, Drury Lane, Almack's. She had seen death, far too much of it, but never experienced the sort of life which London and his grandmother could offer her. She could have a splendid future; if brutal words were what it took to get her to London, then he would speak them.