Gallant Waif (25 page)

Kate, with every reason in the world to insist on complete propriety, had failed to do so. If that was what was bothering him, she would ensure that the kisses stopped. She was sure she could manage it, especially if the consequence for failure was for her to be sent away to London.
Away from him.

After a few moments she said shakily, “You are mistaken about a great many things, Mr Carstairs, but you are quite correct about one—this behaviour must stop.” She took a deep breath and continued in a cold little voice, “I apologise for my part in any impropriety that has taken place. Rest assured
,
it will not occur again. You will have my full cooperation in that. But I will not go to London.”

Jack stood and watched her, his eyes sombre. He nodded briefly and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Kate picked up her dust rag. Tears began to spill from her eyes.

The days passed, but there was no more mention of sending Kate to Lady Cahill. There was little mention of anything at all, for she and Jack rarely spoke unless they couldn’t help it.

Christmas came and went as if it were just another day. But it wasn’t, not for Kate. After church, she went to some trouble to make an especially good dinner, but Jack did not join them, so it was a very subdued meal with just Martha and Carlos attending. The farm girls had been given the day off, and in any case it was too bitterly cold to do much else but huddle near the fire.

For Kate it was a day of intense, searing loneliness, recalling Christmases past with her brothers playing all sorts of silly tricks and games…

She tried to be strong about it, to tell herself that it wasn’t so bad really, that she had food, and shelter, and was better off than many. But this was only the first in a lifetime of solitary Christmases facing her. The realisation seeped into her bones, leaving her feeling chilled and forsaken, despite the roaring fire.

Eventually, at the end of a long, miserable day, she crept into bed, and allowed herself the luxury of crying herself to sleep.

Jack, returning from a day passed in self-imposed isolation at a local tavern, heard the muffled sobbing as he passed her door. He froze, listening. Every fibre of his body urged him to enter her room, to take her into his arms, still the sobbing with his mouth. To hold her, comfort her, lo—
But
he could not. Even drunk as he was, he knew that to go to her was to ruin her life for ever. He leaned against her door in anguish, each sob reverberating silently in his body, until at last silence fell and he knew she slept.

One morning, well into the
new year
, as Kate stood taking her customary view out of the window to greet the dawn as it lit the snow-covered landscape, she heard the muffled thunder of hoofs beneath her window. Her heart leapt into her mouth. Would he be thrown again? She flung open the window and leaned out into the chill air, straining to see. The big roan stallion galloped past her, his mane streaming in the breeze. Clinging firmly to his back was Jack Carstairs, riding adequately, if not as stylishly as he once must have done. Kate’s hand crept to her cheek, her eyes filling with tears as she realised what he had accomplished.

It was the end of his humiliation. He could ride. Jack Carstairs would once again ride with the Quorn or any other hunt. She watched him as he galloped over the small rise and then slowly she washed and dressed. It was a great day. He would probably not even mention it to her, but she would celebrate the occasion by cooking him an especially delicious breakfast.

Kate was out fetching eggs when she heard the clatter of hoofs on the cobblestones behind her. She whirled and almost dropped the basket of eggs as the roan clattered to a halt in front of her, held firmly in check by a masterful hand. He grinned elatedly down at her, slid off the big horse and grabbed her with eager hands.

“Did you see me, Kate? I can ride again. And it’s all thanks to you.” Without warning he swept her up into his arms and whirled her around and around, laughing delightedly. Kate laughed too, wishing she had put down the basket so she could hug him back. Finally he slowed and, still holding her above him, looked up into her face.

“Well, Kate? Shall we call pax? I am too pleased with the world today to continue our armed truce.”

Her heart too full to speak, she blinked back tears.

“What’s this?” he said.
“Tears?”
The smile died from his face and he slowly let her slide down to the ground, still holding her hard against his body.

“Oh, no,” she mumbled, putting down the basket and groping for a handkerchief. “L
..
I often cry when I’m happy. It
. .
.it is the most ridiculous thing.”

He smiled down at her. “It is, indeed,” he said softly, “but then, that’s Kate, isn’t it?”

She looked up, startled at the warmth in his voice.

“Never does anything the commonplace way,” he murmured. “Here, allow me.” Taking the handkerchief from her unresisting grasp, he proceeded to dry her eyes and cheeks with one hand, the other gently cupping the back of her head.

Kate found she couldn’t move. She was overwhelmed by the sensation of his hard, strong body against hers, the warm breath of him on her cheeks, his soft, deep voice murmuring in her ear. She knew she should move away from him. Her inner voice told her so, but she could not bring herself to move. Eventually he finished drying her cheeks and they stood still, unmoving, in silence. Kate found she could not look at him. She was oddly breathless and stared at the buttons on his shirt, totally aware of the warmth and strength of his embrace. Finally he placed a gentle finger under her chin and lifted it until their eyes met.

“Thank you, Kate,” he said softly, and bent his mouth to hers, his tenderness undermining every resolve she had made to push him away. At first his lips were soft and warm and gentle, then, as she opened her mouth beneath the pressure of his, he groaned deep in his throat and the kiss deepened. Kate gave herself up completely to the delicious, disturbing sensation of his tongue seeking, caressing, entwining with hers. She pressed her body hard against his and ran her hands up through his thick dark hair, clutching it in mindless delight. With a groan, he lifted his head and stared down into her face, her eyes dazed with pleasure, his almost black with passion. “Oh, God,” he muttered, and kissed her again, a hard, long, passionate kiss, which sent shudders of sensation coursing through her body.

Suddenly Kate found herself abruptly released. Dazed, she slowly became aware of voices and footsteps clattering over the cobbles. As Millie and Florence rounded the corner of the house, Jack was collecting the reins of the roan stallion. Kate was still standing where he had left her, trying to collect her wits after the onslaught on her senses.

“Good morning, Miss Kate, Mr Carstairs,” they chorused. “Father says it be going to snow terrible bad again soon.”

Jack chatted easily with the girls and Kate marvelled at his cool composure. Perhaps he hadn’t experienced what she had, she concluded. He couldn’t have, if he was able to talk and chat so casually. Lust seemed to do different things to a man than to a woman. But it wasn’t only lust on her part— it was love too. Perhaps that was the difference. She forced herself to greet the two girls and then walked with shaky legs to the kitchen, where she sat on the nearest chair and tried to collect her thoughts.

She’d tried so very hard to evict Jack Carstairs from her heart, but it seemed he was embedded there irrevocably and for ever. Nothing seemed to work. She had spent weeks trying to harden her heart against him. And as soon as she felt it was under control he would look at her with those wickedly twinkling blue eyes, and all resolution would melt. Or he would say something in the deep voice that never failed to go straight into her bones. Or he’d carelessly touch her in passing—a light hand on the shoulder, the brush of a thigh against her skirts—the most harmless contact shot sensation through her.

And then there was that kiss just now…

In his joy at being able to ride once more, he was utterly irresistible. In moments like that she was willing to fling all caution, all propriety, everything to the wind and give herself to him for as long as he wanted her. And moments like that occurred all too often.

The only solution she could think of was the one he had suggested and that she had rejected so strongly—to physically remove herself from his presence—and that she could not bring herself to do. It would happen in a few months anyway, so she would stay close to him while she could…

By the time the girls entered the room, carrying fresh milk from the farm, Kate had herself under control again. She managed to get through the morning without seeing Jack again, except in the distance. For the rest of the day she found excuses to avoid his presence.

But that evening he was in too exuberant a frame of mind to dine alone, insisting on turning their evening meal into a celebration, pouring wine for them all, Millie and Florence included, and talking the most ridiculous nonsense that had them all in stitches. Kate was fascinated, never having seen this side of him before. Carlos, too, was in fine form, a wide grin lightening his dark face as he egged Jack on to further and further extremes of silly banter with the girls and Martha, causing riotous giggles to fill the room.

It appeared that all this time Jack had had Carlos heating oils and making up unguents, continuing Kate’s treatment in secret. Some of the stories of the near-misses and narrow escapes from Kate’s discovery had them all whooping and shrieking helplessly as Jack mimicked first Carlos, then Kate, then Martha, then the stuffy village apothecary.

He was utterly charming in this mood, Kate thought, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. She suddenly realised that this was probably how he had been before the war.

This was the Jack that must have been betrothed to Julia, she realised with a sinking feeling—witty, handsome and vital. A man who was at home in the upper reaches of the
ton.
Who would have all the women eating out of his hand, from the lowest born like Millie and Florence and Martha, to the highest like Julia, whoever she was, and his grandmother.

It was clear to Kate now that he was almost well enough in body and spirit to return to the world he had renounced.
A world where he would be amongst his peers and in his own element.
She wondered dully if he would go back to Julia, now that he seemed to have climbed out of his pit of misery.

She should be happy for him, she told herself. And she was—for him.

Chapter Eleven

One
afternoon in late February, in a period of clear weather which signalled the impending demise of winter, a smart curricle drew up at the front door of Sevenoakes. It was followed moments later by another, even smarter than the first, then an elegant travelling phaeton and several grooms leading a string of fine horses. From the sporting style of the vehicles, it was clear that they were driven by young men of substance and fashion. Three gentlemen alighted from the various vehicles and strode up the front steps, shouting merrily for “Mad Jack’ and exchanging good-natured insults concerning each other’s driving prowess or lack of it.

Kate opened the front door, and froze. She had not expected visitors, particularly not
tonnish
ones like these. She stood like a statue, barely noticing their hearty exuberance. A short, round-faced man rushed straight past her, tossing her a heavy, many-caped driving coat and a high-brimmed hat as he went. Peering up the stairs, he shouted, “Hey, Jack! Mad Jack Carstairs! Come out from wherever you’re hiding, man, and give us a drink!”

A tall, lanky fellow passed her another many-caped greatcoat and a curly-brimmed beaver and, laughing, followed his friend. The last handed her a heavily frogged greatcoat of military cut and said calmly, “Sir Toby Fenwick, Mr Lennox and Colonel Masterton to see Mr Carstairs.”

Colonel Masterton?
A soldier?
From the Peninsula?
Kate tried desperately to bring the panic under control. He could not see her properly—she was almost invisible under three heavy coats. “Please wait in the drawing-room to your left, sir; I will endeavour to find Mr Carstairs.”

The gentleman raised a quizzing glass to his eye. Kate huddled more firmly behind the coats. Having finished his inspection, he smiled faintly and strolled languidly into the room Kate had indicated. She backed out of the entrance hall, tossed the coats on to a chair and collapsed on top of them, her pulse racing.

She was overreacting, she told herself sternly. There was absolutely no reason to think he might recognise her.
Merely because he was a colonel.
No doubt hundreds of colonels had never even been to the Peninsula.
And hundreds more who’d never even heard of Kate Farleigh.
It was ridiculous to expect that this one might have recognised her. She certainly did not recognise him,
nor
any of the others.