Chapter Fourteen

Darkness was falling rapidly as the two men neared the outskirts of a village. Francis deliberately reined in his mount and after a moment Jack, too, slowed his horse, with obvious reluctance. He’d set a killing pace. Their horses were nearing exhaustion. As the pace slowed, his tension increased—this village was probably their last chance.

Jack’s shoulders slumped. His face was grey with pain and anxiety. He’d expected to catch Cole long before now. The longer the search, the less chance they had of catching up. The consequences of that were too appalling to even think of. And of course he could think of nothing else. They must be on the right track; they had to be!

Enquiries had revealed that Cole had exchanged his gig for a hired closed carriage and was heading north. Informants had further disclosed that Cole had his sick sister with him and was conveying her home. Armed with a description of the carriage, Jack and Francis had ridden furiously onwards, enquiring at every village.

The moon rose; its pale beams silvered the countryside. Francis cast a worried look at Jack. It was perfectly obvious that Jack was almost at the end of his tether, and in a great deal of pain. “We should rest up for a short time, old chap. Give the horses a break, you know.”

“And leave her a moment longer than necessary in the hands of that fiend?” Jack’s tone brooked no argument. “He has kidnapped her to force a wedding. He cannot possibly reach the border in less than two nights. That means he intends to force her, Francis. Tonight. Do you think I can rest, even for a short while, while she is in the hands of that madman?”

“Ah, don’t torture yourself, Jack. I agree, the direction seems to indicate he is making for Gretna, but he has no reason to know he is pursued. He has no reason to force her tonight.”

Jack opened his mouth to reply when something caught his eye. He wrenched his horse to a halt, backed up and peered down a narrow lane. “Do you see what I see?”

Down the lane, silhouetted against the silver sheen of a small pond, was a shape which could have been that of a travelling carriage. Beside it was a small cottage. Exchanging silent glances, the men quietly walked their steeds down the lane.

The cottage was old and run-down. It was clear from the weeds that surrounded it that no one had lived there for years. They dismounted and crept closer. A figure moved inside, illuminated by a candle. It was Cole, bending over a motionless shape on a pallet on the floor.

The door crashed open. Cole swung round in fright. The high colour drained from his face and his lips began to writhe in a ghastly attempt at a smile as he perceived the face of the large black shape in the doorway. “Er…ah…”

“Get away from her,” said Jack in a soft voice that chilled Cole’s bones to the marrow.

Cole scuttled sideways as far as he could.

“If you have touched so much as a hair on her head, you’re a dead man,” Jack said in that same chilling tone, moving towards the pallet. He laid a gentle hand on Kate’s cheek, smoothing the hair back from her forehead. Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned.

“What the devil have you done to her, you blackguard?”

“Nothing, nothing on my life, I swear it!” gabbled Cole. “She is not hurt, only drugged.”

“Drugged!” said Francis from the open doorway.

Cole started and turned towards the door. “Only a little laudanum, I swear it…it was just that she strugg—” He found himself grabbed by his collar and flung against the wall.

“Struggled, did she, you filthy swine?” snarled Jack. “And do I have to ask why she felt the need to struggle?” A rock-like fist slammed into Cole’s stomach, and he doubled over, gasping for breath. Another one crashed into his jaw with a resounding crack. Then he was ruthlessly dragged up by the hair and shaken like a rat. Blazing blue eyes met his.

“I’ll teach you to abduct innocent girls!”

Two more punches smashed into Cole, almost simultaneously. His nose felt as if it had exploded. Cole collapsed.

“Get up, you blackguard,” roared Mad Jack Carstairs. “I haven’t finished with you yet! Not by a long shot!” He reached down and grabbed the blubbering Cole by the throat. He smiled, a peculiarly sinister smile which sent the blood draining from Cole’s face, and said softly, “I’m going to kill you, you know that?”

Cole had always thought himself a big man, but now he found himself dangling by the throat, being slowly choked to death by an enraged madman. He struggled, but it was as if he was a rabbit in the grip of an eagle. His face began to turn purple and his eyes bulged as the powerful hands tightened their relentless grip around his throat.

“Jack…?” The faint, wavering voice came from the pallet.

Cole was tossed aside like a bundle of rags. He lay on the floor, gasping for breath like a beached and battered fish. Jack bent solicitously over Kate, his arms lifting her off the dirty pallet until she lay cradled against his chest.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” A gentle hand smoothed back her tangled curls with infinite tenderness.

“Oh, Jack, I feel so strange,” she murmured, trying to sit up.

“No, no, don’t try to move, sweetheart. It’s all right. You’re safe now.” He pulled her more closely against him. His arms were hard around her, holding her protectively, whilst he crooned soothing nonsense in her ear, interposing it with small kisses on her hair, her ears, whatever he could reach.

Kate, bewildered, ill and dizzy from the effects of the drug, burrowed into his chest and lay there, clutching him, understanding nothing except that Jack was there, holding her, and that everything was therefore perfect.

Francis watched them, a soft look in his eyes, then a movement to his left caught his attention, and his gaze hardened as he took in the sorry sight of Cousin Jeremiah. Blood was oozing from cuts over his eye, and gushing from his nose and lips. His jaw was beginning to swell and both eyes were puffing up.

Francis’s lip curled contemptuously as he took in the snuffling, sobbing creature. Silently he opened the door, and curtly jerked his head. Casting fearful glances towards Jack, who was still wholly absorbed with Kate, Cole lurched to his feet and tottered out. Francis followed.

“Not the carriage, I think,” he said softly as Cole headed towards it. “We will need that to convey Miss Farleigh home.”

“But how will I get home myself?” Cole whimpered. It was a freezing night.

“I have not the least notion,” said Francis coldly, “but once my friend realises you are out here I have no doubt that you will return home snug and cosy enough—in a coffin.”

Cole gasped in terror and set off down the rough track towards the main road, stumbling and crashing, casting frequent fearful glances behind him. Francis watched until he was out of sight, and out of earshot, then quietly re-entered the ruined house.

Kate was curled up almost in a ball, cradled in Jack’s lap, nestled against his chest like a child. She seemed to be asleep. The eyes of the two men met. Francis’s eyebrow rose in a silent question and Jack nodded imperceptibly. Francis heaved a sigh of relief. She was all right, then. Cole had drugged her, but no violence had been done.

He glanced at the pair on the pallet and sighed. Neither of them were in any condition to move tonight. Kate was exhausted by her ordeal and still partly drugged; as for Jack, he might have had enough strength to give Cole a thrashing while his body had been functioning on rage, but now that his anger had died away Francis would hazard a guess that Jack would barely be able to walk.

“I’ll see to the horses,” he said quietly, and left the room. Jack did not appear to hear him. All his attention was on Kate. She murmured something in her sleep and his hold on her tightened.

Over her head Jack stared blankly at the wall. What a fool he’d been. He’d thought he could give her up, convinced himself that she would be better off without him, that the best thing he could do for her was to send her to his grandmother…

He didn’t want to send her anywhere. He wanted to hold her like this for the rest of his life. He shifted slightly and winced as his bad leg reminded him of his uncomfortable position. Well, not exactly like this. Not on a grubby pallet on a hard cold floor in a squalid little tumbledown cottage.

Kate shifted and wriggled against him, and despite his discomfort he felt his body respond to her. No, he didn’t want to hold her like this for the rest of his life. Hold her, yes. In his bed. Caressing her and loving her and introducing her to the delights of passion. Oh, yes, she had passion in her, his little Kate. He felt his body tighten just thinking about it as it had so many times recently. Too many times. He had barely been able to control himself. The slightest look or movement of hers had been enough to force him to battle with his body’s response.

She shivered and moved against him again. Damn his stupidity, she was cold, he realised. Blasted fool that he was, thinking of himself when all the time the girl was cold. It was his body warmth she wanted, not his body. Selfish, bloody, stupid, insensitive fool! Gently, trying not to disturb her, Jack shrugged himself out of his greatcoat and wrapped it snugly around her.

“Mmm, nice,” she muttered, and he grinned wryly, realising that she had indeed been cold. Carefully he moved, gritting his teeth at the jarring pain, tenderly manipulating her until he was lying half on his side, half on his back, with her small body tucked into the warm curve of his. He opened his jacket and shirt to pull them more closely around her and give her more of his body warmth. Instantly she snuggled her arms around his bare torso and moved closer on top of him, nuzzling her mouth against his throat.

Steadfastly ignoring his body’s tumultuous response, he closed his shirt and jacket over her and tucked the greatcoat carefully around her. She would be warmer now, with his body and his coat sheltering her from all possible draughts. He could feel his pulse thundering. His body throbbed for release. He was torn between savouring her closeness, the feel and scent and touch of her, and battling the demands of his body to further that closeness. An electric jolt passed through him as she wriggled again. He swore silently and gritted his teeth, willing his body into obedience.

Damn it all! He was little better than Cole, he thought. She was drugged. She didn’t know what she was doing. He should be protecting her, not lusting after her like a mindless beast! She had just come through a dreadful ordeal and all he could think of was how desperately he wanted to make love to her. He stared at the stained and sagging ceiling and tried desperately to think of other things.

He was failing miserably at this task when Francis reentered the cottage, staggering under a load of wood. Swiftly he cleared the grate and soon had a fire crackling briskly. From his position on the pallet Jack grinned approvingly. Francis left again, and soon returned with several rugs.

“Found ’em in the carriage.” He tossed one over Jack and Kate. “Brought you something else, too.” Grinning, he produced from his pocket a substantial flask of brandy.

“Good man!” whispered Jack, and reached out. He took a long pull on the flask and sighed, feeling the liquor burn a cosy trail through his body. “Ah, that’s better.”

“Leg paining you much?”

“Not too bad.”

Francis grunted. “Always were a shocking bad liar, old man. Have another drink. It’s going to be a long, uncomfortable night for you. She’s all right?”

Jack nodded. “Just cold and the after-effects of the drug—filthy swine. I gather you let the bastard go.”

“Couldn’t have you clapped up for murder, old thing. You gave him a good enough hiding and I sent him out into the night. Bloody cold at that. Might not survive. If not, no bad thing. If he does, well, he’s still been punished.”

“Not enough.”

“Try and get some sleep, old man. Or worry about young Kate if you must, not Cole. I’ll sleep in the carriage, keep an eye on the horses.”

The cottage fell silent, the only sound the occasional crackling of the fire and the blowing of the wind in the trees outside.

Kate was the first to waken next morning. She came slowly to consciousness, her mind still fuzzy from the drug she had been given. Despite a slight headache and a stomach that was insisting it be fed, she was aware of a tremendous feeling of rightness. Still with her eyes closed, she inhaled slowly, moving her cheek sensuously against its pillow. She stopped. Her pillow felt…odd.

She opened one eye. Her pillow was a naked male chest, lightly sprinkled with dark hair. Good God! Cautiously she lifted her head and looked at the owner of the chest. Jack? She had slept with Jack? Swiftly, with a minimum of movement, she glanced around the room. She had never seen this place in her life.

The last time she had wakened with no recollection of the previous day she had found herself in the hands of the French. But Jack was here. Grimly she forced her mind to recall its last memory. Arguing with Cousin Jeremiah…and drinking that bitter coffee. Had she been drugged? Or had she passed out for some other reason? It was no use. She couldn’t answer. She would have to wait until Jack woke.

She looked down at Jack as he lay sound asleep and her mouth curved in a tender smile. He looked so young and boyish and handsome, the harsh bitterness wiped away in sleep. Gently she stroked the lines of his face, smoothed the tousled thick dark hair. Unable to help herself, she touched her lips to his in the lightest of kisses. She froze as he stirred, then relaxed as his breathing returned to its previous regularity.

She watched the broad chest moving up and down with each breath and marvelled that she had slept all night on it without realising it. She bent and kissed the warm, slightly salty skin. She feathered tiny damp kisses up his chest, over his throat, along his jaw and back to his lips. She spent long moments tasting and caressing him, all in the lightest of gossamer touches so as not to disturb his sleep, revelling in the contrast of texture of his darkly rugged jaw, scraping her soft lips against its harsh texture, then placing her mouth gently against his soft, relaxed lips. Greatly daring, she touched his lips with her tongue, just to know again the taste of him. He moaned and shifted slightly and she froze again, watching him, but he was still asleep, and she returned to her illicit explorations.

Kate’s heart was pounding. She knew she should not be doing this, lying so with a man, exploring his unconscious body like a thief in the night. It went against every principle she had been raised by, every tenet of the proper behaviour for a lady—but she couldn’t help herself. She would never have this opportunity again. This was not simply a man—it was Jack, the man she longed for with every fibre of her being, the man she loved but could never have. Surely God would forgive her this once.

She gazed at his sleeping face, her body tingling all over. Oh, but he was a beautiful man. Gently she ran her hand over his naked torso, marvelling at the smoothness of his skin, the contained power in the relaxed muscles of his chest. Delicately she ran her fingers through the soft curls of his chest hair. His flat brown nipples were ringed with whorls of dark hair. She kissed them and he shuddered under her touch.

She lifted her head, waiting for signs of him awakening. Her eyes ran over his face, his dear battered cheek, his long aquiline nose, the deep grooves that ran from nose to mouth. Her gaze stopped on his open mouth and slowly she lowered her mouth to his, seeking that incredible, wonderful sensation she had experienced before, when her tongue had touched his.

Jack silently groaned as he felt her mouth come down on his again. He couldn’t take much more of this without responding. His body was aflame with the desire to hold her, return her sweet, tentative caresses, to take her and bring them both to glorious crescendo. But he couldn’t, not here, not now, not in silence and stealth, for he was too aware of their situation: the filthy cottage, the sagging ceiling, the hard floor. And Francis could walk in at any moment. No, it would be too sordid.

When he took Kate and made her his, he wanted it to be utterly perfect. But for now he would take what he could. And what he had was the most exquisite torture he had ever experienced.

He had come awake almost instantly, as soon as he had felt her stir, but had not moved, allowing her to escape from their embarrassingly intimate position if she wished to. He had waited for her to move away from him, feeling the cold rush of air as she lifted her body away from his, feigning sleep to make it easier for her to leave him.

He’d been unprepared for the shock of the first feathery caress on his skin. So light, he had almost not believed it was happening, but it had been followed by another and then another, and it had taken all his will-power just to lie there instead of gathering her hard against him in a passionate embrace. Such a thing had never happened to Jack Carstairs before. To lie still, and to all intents placid and unaware, while the little creature that had wound herself around his heart planted the tiniest, most delicately moist kisses all over him.

His pulse pounded with the effort of remaining relaxed under her innocently questing sensual onslaught. He had no choice. He had to lie here in tormented bliss, treasuring each tentative, seductive caress, as if he had no more feeling than a block of wood. It was that or lose the precious moment to sordid reality. No choice at all.

God, but she was sweet. Oh, Lord, she was kissing him on the mouth again. He braced himself for the ravaging temptation as her small pink tongue reached in and delicately touched his. The jolt of sensation swamped him, and with silent anguish he felt his tongue responding, curling around hers. He felt her alarmed withdrawal but he could not help himself and his tongue followed hers. She jerked away in panic. Gently but firmly his hand cupped the back of her head and, blue eyes blazing into hers, he pulled her mouth back to his.

The kiss was long, sweet and intensely passionate.

Outside the cottage, Jack could hear Francis getting the horses ready. He released Kate and after a moment she drew back, a dazed, bemused expression on her face. Jack yearned to pull her back into his arms and kiss her arousal into passion. Instead he smiled, an odd, twisted, tender smile.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he whispered. “That’s the nicest awakening I think I’ve ever had.”

Kate blinked, then blushed rosily. Good God, she was lying full length on top of Jack Carstairs in the most immodest position, legs entwined, her breasts resting on his naked chest and his…his manhood pressing into her. And he was awake!

Hurriedly she scrambled off Jack and stood, tugging frantically at her clothes, desperately attempting to achieve some semblance of decency and composure. Heavens! How long had Jack been awake? Had he known all that she had done?

Deeply embarrassed, she busied herself with tidying her clothes and her hair, unable even to look in his direction, let alone meet his gaze. She wanted to break the fraught silence with words, but could think of nothing to say. Behind her she could hear Jack moving; presumably he was closing his shirt, buttoning his waistcoat, shrugging himself back into the coat she had found herself wrapped in…

“Morning, all. Sleep well?” Francis entered the cottage with a stamping of boots. “Brrr, it’s cold out there. I think we should try to get moving as soon as possible. Kate, how are you, m’dear?”

Kate murmured something unintelligible and slipped outside the cottage, her face flaming. Francis here as well? Who else knew of her shame? Bad enough that she had allowed herself to be kidnapped by her cousin, but to have two witnesses to it—and then to have behaved in that manner with Jack! What must he think of her, to have touched him that way…with Francis somewhere about too? It was all too mortifying.

She went in search of water in which to wash. She could find no well, nor any pump or stream. The night had been a bitter one and the small pond beside the cottage was frozen over. Kate tried to smash through the ice with a rock, but it would not break. She rubbed some icicles over her skin until they melted and dried her tingling face on her petticoat. She tore a ribbon of lace off her petticoat and tied her hair back as neatly as she could. Then she returned to the cottage, shivering in the morning chill.

By the time she returned, both Francis and Jack looked presentable, if not their usual immaculate selves. She avoided Jack’s eyes and knew her face was flaming, but hoped it would be put down, by Francis at least, to the nip of the frigid air outside.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said brightly, smiling impartially at a space somewhere between the two of them. “Anything to eat? I’m utterly ravenous.”

Francis chuckled. “The lady is hungry, old man. We can’t have that. Shall we adjourn to the nearest hostelry and obtain some breakfast? I fancy there is an inn in the next village which can accommodate our needs tolerably well.”

“Oh, yes, let’s,” said Kate immediately, beaming at him. She still could not look at Jack.

“In that case, ma’am, I shall fetch your carriage at once!” said Francis, bowing like a flunkey. Kate giggled as he left the cottage, bowing repeatedly like a Cit facing royalty.

She turned to find Jack leaning against the wall, glowering at her. “Must you flirt with him so early in the morning?”

Kate flushed and looked away. She felt his gaze scorching her.

“I wasn’t flirting.” Her heart plummeted.

Jack grunted disbelievingly.

Kate turned her back on him and walked to the open door and looked out. There was nothing she could do. He would think whatever he wished to. She could not change his mind. She shivered in the bitter cold and folded her arms against her chest then jumped as a heavy coat was dropped over her shoulders from behind.

“Here,” he said curtly. “Wrap this around you.”

The coat was still warm and smelled faintly of him. Kate didn’t move. She felt his hands coming over her shoulders, tugging the coat more firmly around her. She tried to shrug it off. “No, no. I don’t need—”

“Don’t be so stupid,” he growled. Strong hands came down on her shoulders and turned her around. She looked up at him, but he concentrated on buttoning the coat firmly over her.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He glanced at her briefly, a hard, unreadable look, muttered something under his breath, then pushed past her and went to help Francis with the horses.

He was limping heavily, she realised with dismay—his leg must be paining him dreadfully. White lines of pain were back around his mouth, deeper than they had been for months—he had hurt himself rescuing her. She wanted to run after him, do something, but she knew she could not. Hadn’t she done enough? He was clearly embarrassed by that morning kiss, and angry with her because of it, or why would he be so cross with her for responding to Francis’s nonsense? Although pain did nothing for anyone’s temper.

The carriage arrived. Francis acted as driver, and the two horses he and Jack had ridden were tied behind. Kate got in and waited while Jack and Francis had a brief altercation about who was to drive. Eventually Jack conceded, but said in a surly manner that he would sit up with Francis.

“Don’t be ridiculous, man,” said Francis acerbically. “Your leg is in no condition to be climbing up here and, in any case, you haven’t got a coat and you’ll freeze in this weather. Now shut up and get into the carriage before Kate thinks you have conceived a distaste for her company.”

Kate swallowed. Francis had been joking, but he had inadvertently hit the nail on the head. Jack didn’t want to be in the carriage with her. It was obvious.

Jack climbed into the carriage. Kate gazed out of the window.

Wordlessly he seated himself and stared moodily out of the opposite one.

They travelled the short distance to the next village in silence and pulled up before a small, neat inn. The innkeeper looked them over with a practised eye, taking in their crumpled clothing, the men’s unshaven chins, Kate’s loosely tied-back hair, and a knowing look crept over his ruddy features.

“Two chambers, landlord, if you would be so good,” drawled Francis. “One for myself and my friend and the other for…my sister.”

Kate flushed at the landlord’s glance. He clearly disbelieved the tale and took her for quite another sort of female. She put her chin up proudly, defying him to judge her.

Jack had noted the exchange. “My wife will want hot water and a maid to assist her,” he snapped. “Her maid and our coachman were injured in the accident we had last night. We have no time to delay, landlord. Shall we say breakfast in forty minutes? Oh, and hot water for my friend and myself as well and shaving implements.”

The landlord responded to the haughty tone of command and leapt to obey, calling his wife to come and help the young lady, a look of deepest obsequiousness replacing the sleazy gleam.

Kate blinked. His wife? She sighed. Sister, wife—it was all the same—a tale fabricated to protect her non-existent reputation. She followed the landlord’s wife upstairs in silence.

After a hearty, though not exactly jolly breakfast, during which Francis and Kate chatted while Jack ate in morose silence, they set off again. Mile after mile passed in uncomfortable silence, both passengers brooding and thoughtful. The impasse continued until the countryside began to look familiar.

Kate finally spoke. “You didn’t need to tell that man that I was your wife, you know. Francis’s sister would have been quite sufficient.”

“That’s all you know,” snapped Jack. So she would rather appear as Francis’s sister than as Jack’s wife, would she? Had this morning meant nothing, then? Women! He would never understand them.

“What do you mean?” asked Kate.

“Well, after last night, you’ll have to marry one of us, and as you slept in my arms the whole night it might as well be me,” he snarled ungraciously. Oh, God, he thought. I’ve botched it. I hadn’t meant to put it like that. Oh, you fool, fool, fool!

Kate went white. So that was why he was in such a furious temper. It wasn’t his leg or her so-called flirting with Francis at all. He thought she had trapped him into marriage.

“I don’t see that there is any need to marry you at all,” she said. “After all, nothing happened.”

A blazing blue glare forced her to drop her eyes. What did he mean by that look? He had kissed her before and not felt compelled to offer marriage.

Jack’s fingers itched to grab the little hussy and shake her until her teeth rattled. So nothing had happened, had it? How dare she lie to him like that? He could still feel the tiny moist kisses travelling slowly and delicately over his naked skin, leaving behind them a trail of fire.

“The fact remains that you were known to have been abducted by one man, and then spent the night in the company of two others, neither of whom was related to you. You have no choice. If you can’t stomach the thought of marrying me, then Francis will oblige, as I am sure you are well aware. He is a much better catch—we both know that.” His bitter sarcasm flayed her.

“There is no need to be so horrid,” she said with quiet dignity. “And there is no need to marry either of you. I have no intention of wedding anyone, as I have told you before, only you are so stupid you refuse to believe me,” she concluded, her temper getting the better of her. How dared he speak to her like that? As if she would care two hoots whether or not a man was a good “catch’, as long as she loved him! Stupid, stupid man! Did he know her so little?

“Your so-called intentions have no relevance any longer, my dear,” Jack said in a withering voice. Call him stupid, would she? “The fact remains that your reputation is now in shreds, and you have no choice but to marry one of us. I, at least, know the ways of the world, even if you do not.”

“Well, you know nothing at all!” she flashed. “My reputation cannot be destroyed by the events of last night.”

He snorted in mocking disbelief.

“You cannot destroy something that was in shreds months ago!” she snapped. “And believe me, Mr Carstairs, my reputation was utterly destroyed long before last night.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You had my grandmother’s maid and then Martha with you the whole time. It may have been a trifle unorthodox, but you were well and truly chaperoned the entire time—my grandmother made sure of that!”

Kate gestured impatiently. “The damage was done long before I even met your grandmother.” Her voice broke.

She felt sick to her stomach. She had hoped never to have to tell this story ever again in her life, and now here she was, obliged to tell the one man in all the world she wished not to tell.

But he could not be allowed to sacrifice himself for the sake of her non-existent reputation. He needed to marry well, she knew. Some girl with no dark shadows in her past, who would bring her innocence to her marriage. Innocence, an untainted name, and wealth—wealth so that he could rebuild his shattered life. Kate had none of these to offer him, nothing but herself and her heart—small, pathetic offerings at best.

Innate chivalry, despite his gruff manner of expressing it, was forcing him to offer her the protection of his name. It would be rank cowardice for her to put off the inevitable…

Kate shivered. She felt like some small sea creature which had had its shell ruthlessly peeled from it and was now open and vulnerable to every hurt. The sensation was devastating.

“I will explain, Ja—Mr Carstairs, but before I do I must ask you not to say anything, either while I am explaining or afterwards, particularly afterwards. It…it is very difficult for me to tell you this, but I know I have no choice, and…if you look at me or touch me or say anything to me at all…it will destr—Well…you must promise me you will not.”

Jack stared at her, puzzled. Deep foreboding filled him—she was in deadly earnest. “And if I do not promise?”

Kate looked despairingly at him. “Well, if you do not, I suppose I must tell you anyway…but it will be much worse, much more painful for me.”

“Then I promise,” he said quietly.

Kate took a deep breath and looked resolutely out of the window, staring unseeingly at the countryside flashing past. She turned her face away, hunched his big warm coat around her and in a hard little voice related the events of her last few months in Spain and Portugal, leaving nothing out, making no excuses, making it totally clear why she had no reputation to destroy and why she could marry no one.

Jack was oblivious to the jolting of the coach and the pain of his leg. He moved not an inch towards her, but his eyes dwelt on her averted profile with passionate intensity. He regretted nothing more than that last promise he had made her, wanted desperately to pull her into his arms and kiss her grief and pain away. But he could not. He had given her his promise.

His eyes were sombre and his throat filled as he realised the desperate courage that had made her lay her life bare for his edification. His eyes were soft and heavy as they took in the brave tilt of her chin, the resolute carriage of her slender frame as she destroyed herself in his eyes. Or so she thought, his little love. Did she not know how wonderful she was, how brave and gallant and beautiful?

She finished just as the carriage was drawing in to Sevenoakes. The carriage pulled up. She gave a shaky little laugh and said, “So there is no need for you—or Francis or anyone—to put yourself out to save my reputation or defend my honour. You cannot save what has already been destroyed, nor protect what was lost long ago.”

He made an inarticulate sound of repudiation deep in his throat and reached out a hand to her, but she flinched away from him. Francis, unaware of the drama which had taken place inside, jumped down, shouting for brandy and hot food. He threw open the carriage door; Kate scrambled out and fled blindly into the house. Francis looked after her, frowning, then turned and saw the haggard face of his friend.

“Come on, old chap,” he said softly. “I’ll give you a hand.”

As Jack limped slowly up the front steps of the house, a vehicle swung in through the front gates. It was a smart travelling carriage. Jack recognised it. It bore his grandmother’s crest. It drew to a halt and an unknown man alighted and walked briskly towards the two waiting men.

“Mr Carstairs?” he said.

“Yes,” said Jack.

“My name is Phillips. I have the honour to be Lady Cahill’s man of business. I have come with important news for Miss Farleigh, whom I understand to be staying here.” He beamed at the two men, then faltered at the look on Jack’s face. “She is here, is she not?”

Jack frowned. “Yes, she is here, but I am afraid she will not be able to see you immediately. She…she is indisposed.” With an effort he gathered his composure and said wearily, “Please come inside and I will have some refreshment brought to you. I’m sure you’ll need it after your journey.”