Gallant Waif (23 page)

“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 rejected.

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.