Anne Gracie - Gallant Waif

Kate, too, reached out instinctively and found herself clasped against a broad, strong, very naked male torso. His chest was deep and lightly sprinkled with dark hair, his shoulders broad and powerfully muscled. His skin was warm and smooth and his scent, the scent of a powerful male, surrounded her, filling her awareness.

“Oh!” she gasped, and tried to pull away.

“Not so fast, my girl!” he grated. “How dare you toss that thing at us? You could have caused a serious injury.”

“Nonsense,” she scoffed, tugging at his grip, “I’ve played cricket for years—I’m an excellent shot and I aimed to miss.”

“Cricket? Rubbish! Girls don’t play cricket. You need a lesson in behaviour, young woman!”

“Let go of me,” she spat, struggling in his arms. “How dare you?” She wriggled and writhed, but he held her effortlessly. It was no use trying to fight him, she realised; the big brute was far too strong. He chuckled, a low rumbling from deep inside his chest.

“If you keep wriggling against me like that, little spitfire, I just might begin to enjoy this,” he murmured into her ear.

Kate froze. The wretch was seeking to put her to the blush—she would have to use other tactics.

“Ohh, ohh, you’re hurting me…ohh…” She sighed dramatically and sagged abruptly in his arms.

“Bloody hell!” he muttered.

Kate felt the hard grip on her arms instantly gentle.

“Hell and damnation,” he muttered again. The girl was so small and frail. And he had caused her to faint. A wave of remorse passed over him. He felt a brute, a savage. He’d known she was half starved. There was no need to frighten her to death, even if she had hurled a pot of hot coffee at his head. He’d have to carry her to her room, he supposed. His grip shifted and he bent to swing her into his arms.

Instantly Kate moved. In a flash she escaped his arms and dealt him a smart slap across the face. “Brains before brute force every time!” she flashed, and took to her heels down the corridor.

As she reached her room, she turned. “And girls do play cricket!” She slammed the door behind her, turned the key and leant against it panting, laughing, oddly exhilarated.

He stared after her, frustrated, cursing her in English and Spanish. Then he turned and limped as quickly as he could towards his grandmother’s room, his face black as thunder.

“Grandmama!” He burst into her room. “Who the devil is that…that little hell-cat?”

The beady blue eyes examined her grandson’s face closely. He was in a fierce temper—it was positively blazing from his eyes. Splendid! Lady Cahill thought. No sign of the lacklustre absence of spirit that Amelia spoke of. Something, or rather someone, by the sounds of it, had stirred him up beautifully. And his loving grandmother would continue the process.

She glared at him. “What the devil do you mean, sir, to come storming into my boudoir at this time of day, cursing and swearing and raising your voice?” The blue eyes were frosty with displeasure. “In my day, no gentleman would dream of entering a lady’s presence in such indecent attire, or should I say lack of it? Be off with you, boy, and don’t return until you are properly clothed! I am shocked and appalled, Jack, shocked and appalled!” She turned her head from his naked chest in a pained, offended manner.

Jack opened his mouth, then shut it with a snap. Blast it, he could hardly give her a piece of his mind. She was his grandmother, dammit. He glared at her, fully aware of her game. She was the most outrageous old lady he knew—he would bet his last guinea that she was no more shocked at seeing a man without a shirt than he was. And as for his swearing…the old hypocrite, peppering almost every phrase she uttered with oaths, then pretending to blush at his! He was damned if he’d stay and let his grandmother rake him over the coals for the entertainment of herself and her dresser! Jack bowed ironically and left the room.

He slammed the door and Lady Cahill relaxed back against the pillows, grinning in a most unladylike way.

“Oh, how shocking, milady,” said the hovering woman dressed severely in grey.

“Oh, don’t be such a ninny, Smithers. You’ve seen a man without his shirt before, haven’t you?” Lady Cahill cast a quick glance at her poker-faced maid. “Well, perhaps not. It’ll widen your education in that case.”

“Milady!” said Smithers indignantly.

“Oh, fetch me my wrap,” said the old lady. “I’m getting up.”

“Before eleven!” gasped Smithers.

Lady Cahill regarded the shocked face of her maid in amusement. “Perhaps not,” she decided. “You can fetch that child I brought with me. Ask her to come and take hot chocolate with me here, if such a thing can be found in this benighted place.”

Her maid stiffened in displeasure. “That…that shabby young person, milady?”

The old lady’s voice turned to ice. “That ‘shabby young person’, as you refer to her, is the daughter of my beloved goddaughter, Maria Farleigh, and as such, Smithers, is to be treated as my honoured guest. Do you understand?”

The woman curtseyed. “Yes, milady,” she murmured humbly.

Kate stiffened at the knock on her door. She hunched her shoulder away from it and remained curled up on the bed. The knock sounded again. “Go away!” she said.

There was a short silence.

“Miss?” The voice was unmistakably female. Kate slipped off the bed and ran to the door. The disapproving face of Smithers met her eye. “Lady Cahill invites you to join her in her bedchamber to take chocolate.” The cold, pale eyes ran quickly over Kate’s shabby outfit and the long nose twitched almost imperceptibly in disdain.

Kate’s chin rose. “Have you prepared the chocolate?” she asked bluntly.

The stare grew contemptuous. “I am her ladyship’s dresser, not the cook. I will direct Mr Carstairs’s man to arrange for the cook to prepare it immediately.” The cold stare informed Kate that even a guttersnipe would know better than to expect an important personage like Lady Cahill’s dresser to lower herself with the preparation of foodstuffs.

Kate repressed a grin and took two steps in the direction indicated by Smithers. She would have liked to see this woman’s face when she realised there was no one to prepare breakfast for herself or Lady Cahill. Then a stab of compunction halted her. Lady Cahill was an elderly lady who had been exhausted by her journey into the country. And Kate knew that she had eaten nothing at all during the trip.

“Please inform Lady Cahill that I will join her directly. I will see to her ladyship’s breakfast first.”

The eyebrows rose in displeasure. The prim mouth opened. “But her ladyship gave me the clearest instructions—”

“If you would be so good as to convey my message to Lady Cahill,” Kate interrupted in a cool voice which, despite its soft huskiness, left no room for argument.

“Very good, miss.” The woman sniffed disparagingly, but left without argument, hiding her surprise. Despite her hideous clothing, this girl had some breeding in her.

Kate ran downstairs, keeping a wary eye open for the two men, but they were nowhere to be seen. In the kitchen she quickly built up the fire and set the kettle to boil. There was no chocolate to be had. She surveyed the barren storeroom ruefully and shrugged. She’d just have to do the best she could.

She found a large tray and set it with a cloth. In a few minutes it bore crockery, a pot of tea, two soft boiled eggs and some lightly buttered toast. It was not what Lady Cahill was used to, no doubt, but it would have to do. She carried the heavy tray upstairs.

“Ah, my dear,” said Lady Cahill. “But what are you doing carrying that heavy tray, you foolish child? Get one of the servants to do that for you.”