over his arms and chest, then shook his head. “No. Ridiculous. She’s English.” He stood up and roughly towelled the remains of the coffee from his unruly black hair.
“Unless she has Spanish blood in her.” He considered her clear, pale skin, the grey-green eyes and the curly, nut-brown hair, then he shook his head again. “Hasn’t got the colouring for it.”
Carlos shrugged. “Then why?” His hands spread out eloquently, indicating the devastated coffee pot.
“How the hell should I know why?” Jack growled. “The chit ought to be in Bedlam for all I know. Damn her, but she’ll not get away with it this time!”
“This time?” queried Carlos, the beginnings of a grin appearing on his broad face. “Do you say, Major Jack, that the little mouse has crossed you before?”
A pair of icy-blue eyes turned on him. “Clean up this mess at once,” snapped the crisp voice so familiar to the men of the Coldstreams.
“Sí, sí. At once, Major Jack, at once.” Carlos bent to the task instantly as Jack strode from the room with a frown like a black thundercloud on his face.
“Oho, little mouse, you’ve roused the lion in him, to be sure,” Carlos muttered. “I hope you’ve hidden yourself safe away, for Major Jack is greatly to be feared when he has the devil in him.”
Jack entered the hallway and glanced swiftly around. No sign of the chit. His hands clenched into fists. He’d give the little hussy a good shaking before he sent her packing! The chill morning air quivered against his bare skin, and with a muttered curse he moved quickly up the stairs towards his room, favouring his stiff leg quite heavily. Turning the corner on the landing, he ran smack into Kate storming along the corridor. They collided with such force he had to grab her to steady himself.
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
