Chapter Nine

For perhaps the twentieth time that evening Carlos glanced towards Kate with foreboding. The little mouse was behaving more like a cat tonight, pacing back and forth, clearly disturbed about something, and from the looks that she was casting towards the ceiling it concerned Major Jack.

Naturally. Carlos sighed gently. If she was touchy and moody, it was nothing to what his master had been. Ever since Major Jack had been unable to disguise his body’s response to her.

Carlos shook his head. It was the simplest matter in the world. These English made such a fuss over things. So the Major was attracted to the little mouse. It would be something to be concerned about if he was not, in Carlos’s opinion, for she had blossomed lately and was looking very pretty. But instead the Major must go to all lengths to avoid her, even having Carlos sneak around heating oils in secret, in case she found out he was continuing the massage treatment without her. Such foolishness.

Kate kicked one of the logs in the fire angrily, releasing a shower of sparks up into the chimney. How could he give up after only one attempt? she asked herself for the hundredth time. She was utterly convinced that massage would improve his leg, possibly even enable him to ride again.

Obviously he didn’t have her faith. But to try it only once and then give up! Merely because he was affected by lust.

That was what was so upsetting. It was partly her fault—men were unable to control their baser natures, she’d been told. They took their lead from women, she’d been told. And she’d behaved so indelicately.

Assuring him she was not embarrassed to see his leg! Telling him she was no innocent! That she was well acquainted with the male form! No wonder he’d reacted as he had.

It was clearly eating away at him, for every evening since he had retired to the upstairs parlour and commenced to drink himself into oblivion. He even seemed to have given up on his morning attempts to ride.

Well, she would not stand for it any longer. There were two faces to guilt, she knew—it could fester inside a person, or it could be got rid of, by turning it outward, by turning it to anger. And a healthy dose of anger, Kate decided, was exactly what Mr Jack Carstairs was going to receive.

Carlos eyed the slender, pacing figure with misgiving. If she had a tail she would be lashing it. A wise man would hide himself discreetly away until the fireworks were over. Stealthily he rose. His movement caught Kate’s eye. She stopped and turned towards him, decision and resolution in every inch of her. Carlos’s heart sank. Too late, he thought mournfully.

“Carlos, come with me if you please. And bring that large bucket from the scullery.” Dolefully he did so and followed her out of the room. She marched upstairs to Jack’s private parlour. Carlos felt his hands growing damp. Surely she would know better than to disturb Major Jack at this time of night, when he would be in his blackest, bitterest mood—he would have consumed two bottles, maybe, by now. Ay de mí! It was madness.

Jack lay sprawled in a chair before the fire, a glass of brandy dangling perilously from his long, strong fingers. He gazed into the dancing flames, his eyes half-closed. Damn her. Damn her. Damn her! It had been so much easier before she had come into his life. So much easier…and so much duller. He should have forced her to go off with his grandmother.

She wouldn’t have been here long enough to plague him, to provoke him, to insinuate herself into his…life.

She had no business being here, scrubbing his floors, cooking his meals, with no one to talk to in the evenings but a foolish old woman, a rascally Spanish groom, two illiterate farm girls and a crippled wreck. She should be in a ballroom, dressed in silk and satin, swirling round the floor as light as thistledown, engaging in light social badinage with a score of men hanging on her every word.

Six months! How would he ever stand it? It was hard enough to keep his hands off her as it was. She was like no woman he’d ever met. She’d been through so much. And yet, to look at her, see that fresh, sweet face, no one could believe she had spent three years at war, seen death, destruction, men at their worst, while in the process losing her entire family.

Curse her father! What the devil did he think he was about, taking a young girl into that hell-hole? Getting himself killed so that she had nobody to look after her, nobody to call her own. Jack lit a cheroot and puffed sullenly, brooding on the iniquities of the Reverend Mr Farleigh. His grandmother had said the damned fool had even refused to let Kate’s grandparents settle money on Kate’s mother. Stiff-necked bloody idiot. Pride was one thing—but to leave his daughter in such straits! Good thing he was dead, Jack thought, or he’d probably have throttled the man…

Dammit, his grandmother had no business leaving her here. She should be in London, finding herself a rich husband, some titled fellow who would pamper her and protect her for the rest of her life, who could give her all the fine things she had been denied. Any man should be grateful to win her…His mouth twisted at the unpalatable thought.

She was so damn na?¨ve. She had no idea what her touch had done to him that time when she was massaging him. She was so full of unconscious sensuality and unawakened passion. Would probably fall for the first handsome face she saw. The ton was infested with damned blackguards. He would have to speak to his grandmother about it. Make certain she protected her from the wrong type, make sure she chose well for little Kate.

He drained the glass, then carelessly refilled it, slopping brandy on to the fine polish of the table at his elbow. Whatever he did, he was going to have to get her out of his house and up to London soon, for, the Lord knew, he was having the devil’s own job keeping away from her. And that simply would not do. She was too fine a person to get herself chained to a poverty-stricken, embittered cripple. Scrubbing his floors the rest of her life. He thought of those small, work-roughened hands. No. If it killed him, he would get her out of here and into a fine London drawing-room.

He drank deeply again, and his mood darkened, recalling each and every time he had touched her. His body responded even at the memory and his mouth curled cynically. He had to stop this, had to get her out of his mind and out of his life. He was finished with women, finished with ladies anyway—even floor-scrubbing ladies with tender, beguiling eyes who smelt so sweet and fresh. They were a trap. Women thought differently from men.

Even the best of them wanted a man for what they could get.

He thought of Julia and the heavy bitterness rose inside him again. Was Kate any different? What would a penniless, homeless orphan want with him—a crippled wreck—an ugly, crippled wreck…? A home, perhaps? Even a run-down one like this might look good to a homeless waif. And, while he might consider himself poor, his sort of poverty was relative; he would never be in danger of starvation—she had already experienced that, several times. No, he would never be in danger of having nowhere to go, no one to turn to.

He had a home, a family and he was his grandmother’s heir. It didn’t take a genius to realise that all of that would look good to a girl with nothing. And if the price was having to live with a broken-down ruin of a man, well, Kate was a girl full to overflowing with good Christian virtues—charity, selflessness, pity…Yes, it wasn’t hard to see what Kate might see in him. A girl could put up with a lot for the sake of a home, security and family…

“Se?orita,”Carlos whispered tentatively. “I do not think this is a good idea.”

Kate glanced at him scornfully. “No, naturally you would not,” she snapped. “You are the one who purchases those bottles of poison he pours down his throat every night.”

Carlos shrugged. “He is my master, after all.”

“Well, if you had any concern for your master, you would refuse to do his bidding in this. Can you not see, he is destroying himself?” She stamped her foot. “Well, I won’t have it! I am employed by his grandmother to see to his welfare and I will put a stop to this right now.” She stepped towards the door.

“Se?orita, I beg you, it is not a good time.” Carlos grabbed her sleeve in desperation. “Please, wait until morning.”

“By morning, he will have consumed a great deal more of that filthy stuff,” she responded briskly. “Now, let go of me, Carlos.” She flung open the door.

“Se?orita, it is too dangerous to cross him when he is like this,” Carlos hissed urgently.

“Coward!” Kate flung off his hand and strode boldly into the room. She lit a brace of candles from the flickering fire and, placing them on the carved wooden mantelpiece, turned to face Jack. He remained silent and motionless, the glittering eyes regarding her broodingly from under heavy dark brows. She noted the glass balanced carelessly between long, elegant fingers, the half-empty decanters on the low mahogany table by his chair, the splatters where he had spilled the liquor while pouring it with unsteady hands, the mess of half-smoked cheroots where he had stubbed them out in a particularly beautiful china bowl.

“Carlos,” she said. “Bring the bucket here at once if you please.”

Reluctantly, Carlos shuffled forward, irritating Kate by throwing a sheepish grimace of apology towards Jack as he did so.

“Hold it up,” she ordered, and before Carlos or Jack had any idea of what she was planning she hurled the decanters and bottles into the bucket. The sound of smashing crystal echoed shockingly in the silence. With a sweeping movement she tossed in the cheroot stubs and ash and finally nipped the glass from out of Jack’s hand and tossed it into the mess in the bucket.

“There, that’s better,” she said, brushing her hands together. “That will be all, Carlos.”

“Madre de Dios! It will indeed,” he mumbled, and fled the battlefield.

Kate took two steps back. Jack was beginning to recover from his astonishment, exhibiting all the signs of a man in the beginnings of the black throes of rage. Kate hid her satisfaction.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing, woman?” he roared, rising from his chair and moving purposefully towards her.

“What I should have done a long time ago,” she answered composedly, and skipped behind a chaise longue. Her heart was beating fast, but although she was a little nervous of what he might do to her in his drunken state she didn’t think he would actually kill her, despite the fury in his eyes. And besides, there was something exhilarating about confronting him like this, just the two of them in the darkened room.

“You must know it is very bad for you to be up here like this, night after night, brooding and being miserable and drinking yourself into a stupor.” She moved from behind the chaise longue to a small refectory table. “So I decided it was time you stopped drinking.”

“Oh, did you, indeed?” he growled, and made a swipe to grab her. She darted from the shelter of the refectory table to that of a wing chair. “And just what the hell business is it of yours what I do, madam?”

She watched him warily. “Your grandmother employed me to look after you—”

“The meddlesome old harpy foisted you upon me to drive me insane!” he roared, and made another grab in her direction. She eluded him just in time. “And, by God, she has succeeded beyond her wildest expectations!”

“Oh, nonsense!” responded Kate sensibly. “If you feel a trifle put out just now, I can understand that, but you are undoubtedly finding the effect worse because of all that brandy or port or whatever the horrid stuff is you’ve been drinking!”

He stopped and stared at her in stupefied fury. “A trifle put out? A trifle put out? I’ll show you a trifle put out! I’m going to teach you a lesson, my girl, a lesson that damned father of yours should have taught you a long, long time ago, about not interfering with a gentleman’s pleasures!” He lunged clumsily forward again.

“Don’t be rude about my father,” snapped Kate.

“I’ll do whatever I please in my own damned house, my girl, and that includes giving you that beating that your father should have given you the first time you treated him to the first taste of your damned impudence!”

“I was never impudent to my father in my life!” Kate lied indignantly, resolutely ignoring the dozens of birchings she had received for impudence and worse. “And how dare you threaten me, you big bully? If you dare to lay one finger on me, I…I’ll scream.”

“And who will rescue you, pray tell?” He grinned evilly. “If I know Carlos, he’ll be as far away as possible from this little fracas, Millie and Florence will be home by now, and as for Martha—” he grinned even wider “—well, you know as well as I do that I can do no wrong in Martha’s eyes. She will probably egg me on.”

Kate gritted her teeth. Within minutes of stepping over the threshold of Jack Carstairs’s house, Martha had conceived the absurdest tendre for him. And he dared to make mention of it! Boast of it, even! Kate glared at him across a bowl of greenery that she’d placed there only that morning.

“I don’t need to scream,” she panted, “I can protect myself.” She picked up the bowl and flung it. It missed him, smashing on the wall behind, but the foliage and water hit their target most satisfactorily. Kate grinned triumphantly.

Jack plucked greenery from his hair and dashed the water from his face. “Ha! Missed, little vixen! So much for cricket.”

“That was deliberate,” she said airily, “but I promise you, I won’t miss next time.”

He leaned over the table. “You certainly enjoy throwing things, don’t you? I suppose I ought to be grateful that there is not a pot of boiling oil to hand, or no doubt you would fling that at me, wouldn’t you?”

“Probably.”

“Well, just for that, I’m going to give you the biggest beating you’ve ever had in your life.”

There was amusement in his eyes, despite his anger. Kate resolved to remove it—she was certainly not going to let this deteriorate into a game.

“Well, at least now you’ve got an ambition in life! And about time too.”

Jack stiffened. “And just what do you mean by that?”

Kate’s chin lifted defiantly. She hadn’t meant to be quite so blunt—it had just slipped out—but she couldn’t back down and ruin the effect she had worked so hard to achieve.

“I said, at least you have an ambition in life now,” she enunciated, quailing inwardly as she did so. “I mean, of course, apart from that of drinking yourself to death! Not that threatening to beat a woman is exactly an ambition to be proud of…”

Jack’s face whitened with rage and shock. “How dare you? I’ve never beaten a woman in my life!” he grated. “Now, get out of my house now—before I break your neck and throw you down the stairs,” he added, sublimely unaware of his inconsistency. His long fingers dug into the back of the Queen Anne chair between them. Kate could hear the fine old brocade shredding under the pressure.

Kate was shaking, her pulse was pounding with excitement, unsure whether she was thrilled or terrified. It looked as if he really did want to kill her, now. But something deep inside her told her that, no matter how he was behaving and what he threatened, he would not actually harm her. Not really.

“Oh, yes, that would suit you very well, wouldn’t it?” she taunted, dancing from behind one piece of furniture to the next. “Get rid of me and there would be no one to prod you out of your shell again. Well, if you want me out of here, you will have to throw me out, Mr Carstairs, for I will not leave here unless of my own free will and I do not choose to go just yet.”

He made a lunge for her and as Kate skipped out of his way her foot caught on a loose rug. Without hesitation his arm shot out, preventing her from falling.

“I have you now, little vixen,” he growled, drawing her closer. Kate struggled against the unbreakable grip and he stared down at her, his eyes blazing. Effortlessly he pressed her back against a nearby table, imprisoning her legs with one muscular thigh and enclosing her narrow wrists in one large hand. Ignoring her struggles, he pulled her hard against him, chest to chest, breathing heavily, causing a light, tantalising friction. Silence fell, except for the sounds of their breathing and the crackling fire.

“I really ought to beat you, you know,” he murmured at last, his eyes darkening.

Kate knew she was in no such danger. His hold on her might be unbreakable, but it was also quite gentle. Almost possessive. It was another kind of danger altogether she was in. She gazed up at him for a long moment, her eyes clinging to his, then dropping to his mouth. She should not encourage this, should not allow it. She might want it with all her heart, but it was not proper to want it. “Please…” she gasped, and wriggled, meaning him to release her.

He looked down at her enigmatically and groaned. “If you must look at me like that with those eyes…” he muttered, and lowered his mouth to hers.

It was no gentle embrace and Kate had never experienced anything like it. She struggled half-heartedly against the invasion of her self-possession, but his lips, at first hard and demanding, softened and were tenderly teasing and coaxing hers until, without conscious volition, she responded to their demands and her lips parted.

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 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.