bah!” snorted Lady Cahill.
“Besides, ma’am, I have no social skills to speak of. You seem to have overlooked the fact of my upbringing. I have no musical skills, I have never learnt to paint watercolours, I can patch and darn anything, and have even sewn up wounds, but I cannot do fancy embroidery. I can dance, but I do not know how to chat of nothing day in and day out. I have worked for most of my life, ma’am, and that is what I do best. I simply do not have it in me to act the social butterfly and that is what you want me to do.”
Oh, Lord, Kate prayed, let me not have to tell her the truth. Her arguments were valid enough; it would be difficult for Kate to accept charity—that was true. She knew herself to be overly stiff-necked about such things. But to attend routs and balls, to learn her way in society, to bury herself in frivolity for a time—a foolish part of Kate longed for those very things.
Lady Cahill stared, utterly appalled. “Child, child, you have no idea what you are saying. Most of those things are not necessary and the others you can learn. Entering society does not mean becoming a social butterfly and chatting of nothing—though, I grant you, a great many people do little else. But there are fools in every stratum of society.”
She fell silent for a moment, then waved her hand at the girl sitting so silently at the end of the bed. “You fatigue me, child, with your foolish intractability. I must give this matter further consideration. Leave me now. We will talk of this further.”
Kate rose, feeling a trifle guilty for causing the old lady distress. It was not her fault, she told herself defensively. She had not asked to be brought here. She had the right to make decisions for her own life and she owed Lady Cahill nothing except politeness. So why did she feel that she was in the wrong? Was it wrong to wish to owe nothing to anybody? Was it wrong to want to earn her own money, to refuse dependence on others? No, it wasn’t wrong…it just felt wrong when she had to refuse an old lady’s kindness, she reluctantly acknowledged.
She picked up the breakfast tray and left, closing the door softly behind her. A door ahead of her opened and Jack Car-stairs appeared in the hall. Kate halted abruptly. He was between her and the stairs. She could flee to her own room, return to Lady Cahill’s bedchamber or face him out.
Folding his arms, Jack leaned against the wall and awaited her arrival, a sardonic look on his face.
Kate’s chin rose stubbornly. She would not be intimidated by mere brute force! Even if he was over six feet and with shoulders as wide as…well, as wide as any shoulders had a right to be. But she wasn’t nervous of him. Certainly not! She gripped the heavy tray more tightly in her hands, taking obscure comfort in the fact that it was between them, and walked forward, her head high.
A faint glimmer of amusement appeared in Jack’s eyes. She was calling his bluff, was she? After tossing that coffee pot, she had a right to expect that he might want to throttle her. And then she’d slapped him—slapped the master of the house. So foolhardy. He could snap her in two if he chose; she would surely know that. She wasn’t to know he’d never hurt a woman in his life. But did she quail? No, on she came, chin held defiantly high. His amusement deepened. Such a little creature, but with so much spirit.
Even if she didn’t fear violence from him, after that outrageous act of hers in the kitchen, she must surely expect to be dismissed without a character. It was, he knew, a servant’s biggest dread, for it meant they were unlikely ever to gain employment again. She must know that. Her dreadful shabby black clothes, clearly made for another woman and adapted to her thin frame, showed she was well acquainted with poverty. And starvation was obviously a recent experience.
But her precarious position hadn’t stopped her hurling that pot of hot coffee straight at his head. Or over his head, as she claimed. Cricket, indeed! He almost snorted. But why had she thrown it in the first place? Unlikely though it seemed, perhaps this little English kitchen maid did speak Spanish. Jack decided to test the theory. He remained leaning casually against the wall, watching her.
Kate swept past him, apparently indifferently, though her heart was beating rather faster than usual. She reached the steps, and he said in Spanish, “Señorita, there is an enormous black spider caught in your hair. Allow me to remove it for you.”
He waited for her to turn around, to scream, to start tearing at her hair or to continue, ignorant of what he had said.
She simply froze. Jack waited for a moment, puzzled, and then strode towards her. “Señorita?”
She did not move. Jack touched her shoulder. Good God! The girl was shaking like a leaf. He could hear the crockery on the tea tray rattling faintly.
Swiftly he turned her around to face him and was appalled to see naked terror in her eyes. Her face was dead white and the clear smooth forehead was beginning to bead with perspiration. She was swallowing convulsively. Through dry, pale lips she whispered piteously, “Please get it off me.”
Jack stared at her for a few seconds, stunned by the unexpected intensity of her reaction.
“Please,” she whispered again, shuddering under his hands.
“My poor girl. I’m so sorry,” he said remorsefully. “There is no spider. None at all.”
He took the tray from her unresisting hands and laid it on a nearby table, not taking his eyes off her.
She stared at him, uncomprehending. He placed his hands on her shoulders again and gave her a tiny shake to jolt her out of her trance-like terror.
“There is no spider. I made it up,” he explained apologetically. “It was a trick.”
Her mouth opened and she started to breathe again in deep, agonised gasps.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I wanted to see if you understood Spanish.”
She looked up at him in confusion, her mind still numbed by the remnants of her uncontrollable fear of spiders.
“I spoke in Spanish, you see.” His hands rested warmly on her shoulders. She was still trembling and, despite himself, he was moved. Not knowing what else to do to atone, he drew her against him, wrapped her in his arms and held her tight against him, uttering soothing noises in her ear. He inhaled slowly. What was that fragrance she wore? It was hauntingly familiar. His arms tightened.
It did not occur to him that it was utterly inappropriate for him to be behaving in this way with a mere kitchen maid. As a boy, Jack had frequently brought home creatures in distress—half-drowned kittens, injured birds—and if he had thought of it now he would have explained to anyone who asked that he was merely offering comfort and reassurance. And she felt so right just where she was.
Kate’s cheek was pressed against his chest, her head tucked in the hollow between his chin and his throat. She could feel the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his unshaven cheek catching in the silk of her hair as he moved his face gently against it. She heard the steady thud of his heart. His strong body cradled hers, protecting, calming.
It had been so long since Kate had been held so comfortingly, the impulse just to let herself be held was irresistible. She felt his broad, strong hand moving soothingly up and down her spine and a shiver of awareness passed through her.
Gradually, Kate realised just who was holding her and why. She tried to wriggle out of the strong arms. He did not immediately release her, so with all the strength she possessed she thrust hard at his chest and emerged from his embrace dishevelled and panting, her face rosy with embarrassment.
“I
