Untamed (21 page)

“And for dessert, let there be plum pudding and bride cake. Why, ’tis our wedding day, Kate. We must have cake.” He grasped her wrists and raised her joined hands to meet his smacking kiss.

She jerked away. “If you’ll recall, we had a lovely cake at the breakfast you insisted we leave.”

Rourke softened his voice. “You’ve only to name your fancy, Kate. Ask for what you want, and it shall be brought forth as if by magic.”

As she’d so far seen no servants about, Kate doubted it. Late though it was, ordinarily someone—a housekeeper or butler—would have risen to see to their needs.

All at once, he stalked off, calling, “Cheevers! Cheevers, where are you, you lazy lout?”

“Rourke, really, is that necessary?”

Before now, he’d always been so soft-spoken. Even when he’d carried her off from their wedding breakfast, he’d never once raised his voice. Now that he was home in Scotland, however, it seemed bellowing was his preferred method of communicating—another facet of married life to which she could look forward.

Hands covering her ears, Kate followed him into what apparently served as a dining room these days. A long wooden trestle table, of the sort once used in monastery refectories, dominated the room, a dozen or so carved high-backed chairs thrust around it at intervals. A heavy epergne sat in the center, several of the wax candles melted to stubs. From what Kate could see, there was no electric or even gas lighting. It was as if she’d stepped back into the Middle Ages.

An old man emerged from the shadows and ambled forward, hunched over and dragging one leg behind him, Quasimodo-fashion. “Here I am, sir, milady?” Brownish eyes, remarkably clear and lively for one so decrepit, lifted to Kate’s face.

Rourke banged a fist on the table’s edge. “Send word to the kitchen that I am arrived with my bride and that no time is to be lost in bringing forth the feast.”

“The, uh … feast, good master?”

“Aye, our wedding supper, and be quick about it.”

Given Rourke’s humble beginnings, Kate was shocked to hear him barking at a servant, and an elderly one at that. If she didn’t know better, she might suspect he’d been drinking. She tried reasoning with him.

“At this hour, surely the cook must have retired to bed long ago and the kitchen maids dismissed for the night, as well.”

Her tentative tone took her aback. She scarcely recognized herself. It wasn’t like her to mince her words. Good God, was she settling into wifedom already?

Her husband’s gaze hardened. He slammed a fist upon the table, sending one pewter candlestick crashing onto its side. “Then we’ll rouse them, by God, the lazy lot.”

Kate sighed. Even she could see it was pointless to argue. Let him call for the food and discover for himself that what he bespoke was impossible. Perhaps then he would believe her and let them sit down to a simple but filling cold supper. Even bread and cheese would do at this point.

Dividing her gaze between the men, she said, “If one of you would point me the way, I’ll go and wash up and be back down in time for supper.” Given the primitive state of everything else she’d so far seen, she doubted the bedchambers were outfitted with plumbing, but perhaps there was a water closet somewhere in the main area.

Rourke reached for her hand. Apparently oblivious to muck and slobber, he carried it palm side up to his lips. “You seem fresh as a daisy to me.” He held on to her hand.

A daisy dipped in mud, perhaps. “Nonsense, we are not animals, at least I am not. I will sit down to sup as soon as I wash the filth of the road from my face and hands.” She tugged her hand free. “I shall be a few minutes at most. If you cannot stave off your hunger that long, then by all means begin without me.”

“Are you suggesting I would sit down to our nuptial feast without my wife?”

Kate let out a snort, an unladylike gesture to which under the circumstances she felt fully entitled. “Our nuptial feast, as you call it, was this morning’s breakfast, which, thanks to you, I missed. It is too late in the hour, sir, to profess a gentleman’s manners.”

She would find a place to wash on her own. Mustering as much dignity as she might under the circumstances, she grabbed a fistful of her skirts, fast drying to a stiff mess, and hobbled toward the staircase.

Watching her go, the dog opened his mouth and yawned, the sound emerging as a cross between a sigh and a whine. Rourke held in a chuckle. What a woman he’d married. He couldn’t help but admire her. Even his dog admired her, which was saying a lot, as Toby was as big or bigger as she.

Tiny though she might be, her petite frame housed a lioness’s heart. Since that morning, he’d tested her sorely, and yet still she kept her chin up and her back straight—and her spirit unbroken. Subjected to similar circumstances, most London misses would be watering pots now. Not so his bold, brave Kate.
His
Kate—when had he begun thinking of her as his? To do so was folly, for she had yet to so much as say his given name.

He waited until “his Kate’s” footfalls disappeared down the corridor, and then whipped about to Ralph. “Bring the food in and be quick about it. The devil only knows how soon she’ll be back. Hurry, man!”

Ralph reached up to the white beard slipping partway down one side of his face. In retrospect, he really should have been more generous with the spirit gum, but thanks to the slow-moving cabbie he’d taken from the train station, he’d been pressed for time.

“I am hurrying, sir, but it’s difficult to be quick about much of anything with my leg strapped into this brace.”

Fortunately he need not go all the way down to the kitchen to fetch the food. The prearranged meal waited in covered serving dishes on a cart in the adjacent room.

Rourke scowled. Ordinarily he was the most good-natured of employers. Ralph could tell this taming business must have him on edge. “We all have our crosses to bear, Sylvester, and mind I’m paying you handsomely to bear yours. Now, go.”

Heading off, Ralph was beginning to regret bringing the play to his old friend’s attention. Rourke’s lady didn’t strike him as a shrew in need of taming so much as an overburdened young woman inclined to snappishness. The younger sister, Beatrice, was positively sublime.

“If you’ll pardon my saying so,
sir,
playing pranks upon one’s wife hardly seems the way to go about celebrating a marriage.”

Rourke snorted. “Whatever gave you the notion this is a celebration? It’s war.”

At wit’s end, Kate lifted one of the tapers from its bracket and set out to find her own way. After several minutes of aimless wandering, she came upon a set of backstairs. The stairs led to a dormitory-style suite of rooms that must have most recently served as the servants’ wing, though the beds were stripped and empty now. The bare-bones amenities included a water closet with a sink and crude crank. She’d used her few remaining pins to put her hair back up as best she could and then washed her face and hands with the rusty water.

Her exploration took longer than she’d hoped, but eventually she found her way back down to the main hall, and from there the side door leading into the dining room. Given the snail’s pace at which the game-legged servant moved, not even a cold meal could have been made ready in her short time away. She heartily hoped someone had thought to set out some refreshment to ease the wait. A glass of sherry would be lovely, as would a hot cup of tea.

She stepped inside, the lit candles in the candelabra camouflaging the dirt and dust and adding an ambiance of mellow warmth. Her new husband was ensconced in a thronelike chair at the head of the table, a napkin tucked into his collar and a plate of chicken bones set before him.

Seeing her, he smiled and beckoned her over but made no move to rise or pull out a chair. “Ah, Kate, there you are. I feared you might have taken a wrong turn.”

“I did take a wrong turn, several.” She glanced at the drumstick in his hand. “I see you started without me after all.”

He paused to take a nibble of the meat. “Started and finished, as a fact.”

“Finished! You can’t mean to say you ate it all?”

He shook his head. “We Scots have hearty appetites to be sure, but I couldna eat all that bounty nay matter how many breakfasts I missed.”

“Where is it, then?” Kate would gladly sit down to sup in the kitchen.

“I had it carted away and tossed in the rubbish bin.”

“All of it?”

“Aye, every last morsel. The boiled round of beef was tough as leather and the roast chicken dry as bone. The salmon wasna all that bad, though. It was rare tasty, in fact.”

“There was salmon?” Kate was very partial to salmon.

“Aye, served up with buttered green beans and some sort of nuts atop.”

“Almonds, perhaps, slivered?” Kate’s watering mouth was poised to drool like the dog’s.

“Aye, I believe it was. Rough fellow that I am, such poorly prepared fare is good enough for me, but no for my lady wife.”

“But I haven’t eaten since last night’s supper. I need food—now!” Her voice, she realized, had shot up rather shrill.

“Nay worries, I saved some for you.”

“You did?”

Staring at the chicken leg in his hand, so little meat left that the bone showed through, it was all she could do to keep herself from lunging forward and wresting it away.

He pulled the meat off and fed it to the dog. “Aye, I did.” He dipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out a small green apple, and tossed it to her.

She caught it between both hands. “You are the soul of kindness, sir.” She rubbed it against her dirty gown and then bit in.

“Mind that forked tongue of yours, Katie, or tomorrow’s breakfast may well go the way of tonight’s supper.”

The apple to her mouth, she pulled out a chair for herself and sat down. “You cannot starve me—not for long at any rate.” Kate had never before spoken with a full mouth, but the present circumstances called for an exception.

“Dinna fash, Katie. I’m no out to starve you. You’ve scarce sufficient meat upon your bones as is.” He reached around and slapped her thigh, not hard enough to sting, but the surprise made her start. “Were I to feast upon your smile, were you to serve up a honeyed word every now and again as opposed to only vinegar, sure I’d see that the best of my larder and wine cellar were laid out for your pleasure.”

“I’d rather starve than cozen up to you.”

Rourke shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The apple whittled to its core, she set it on the plate of bones and pushed back from the table. “Never fear, I shall, starting by going to bed.” Picking up her sodden skirts, she stomped toward the door.

“Whose bed is it you mean to go to?”

The question stopped Kate in her tracks. Slowly, very slowly, she turned back to face him. Planting her fists upon slender hips, she dug in her heels and glared.

“If you think to bed me after the brutish treatment you’ve so far dished out this day, then you’d best think again, sir.”

“That randy, are we?” He raked his eyes over her.

Having just glimpsed her reflection, she knew full well what he was seeing—dirty hair, dirty face, dirty gown, dirty … everything, as well as pale and hollow-eyed—hardly the most provocative package.

Returning his gaze to her face, he smiled. “Nay worries, Katie. I can find the willpower to resist your charms for the night at least.”

“I intend to lock my door all the same.”

Kate’s eyes blazed with defiance, challenge. Rourke tore off the silly napkin and rose from the table. He moved toward her, closing the gap between them in three long strides until he stood before her, so close he had to be careful not to tread on her feet, the shoeless one especially. A lesser woman—make that most women—would have backed down or at least backed up a step or two. Not so Kate. She neither moved a muscle nor budged an inch. Drenched, filthy, and foodless, still she held her ground, tipped back her head, and met his gaze head-on with a fierce, unflinching look of her own.

Captivated in spite of himself, he reached down and lifted her chin on the edge of his hand. Given the drenching she’d endured, he’d expected to find her flesh cold as marble, but instead it was warm and glowing and impossibly soft. He couldn’t resist. He wrapped his hands about her forearms, reed-slender yet strong, and bent to brush his mouth over hers.

He drew back. “Make no mistake, lass, when I decide to claim my husbandly rights, no wee lock shall keep me from you.”

Mutinous eyes glared up at him. “Is that a threat?”

He dropped his hands and stepped back. “Nay, sweeting. That is a promise.”