Jack watched her, still faintly dazzled by the sweetness of her smile. She was pretending uninterest in the food, he realised, even though she was starving. Well, who was he to quibble at pride? But she was certainly an enigma, with her pride and her shabby clothes.
“Who the devil are you?”
The sudden question jolted Kate out of the rapture of her first meal in days.
“My name is Kate Farleigh.” She returned to the food.
“And who is Kate Farleigh when she’s at home?”
Kate pondered as she chewed. Who was Kate Farleigh now? She was no longer the Reverend Mr Farleigh’s daughter, nor Jeremy and Benjamin Farleigh’s sister. She certainly wasn’t Harry Lansdowne’s betrothed any more. And she didn’t even have a home.
“I don’t suppose she’s anyone at all,” she replied in an attempt at lightness that failed dismally.
“Don’t play games.” The frown had returned to his face. “Who are you and what are you doing here? I know you came with my grandmother.”
His grandmother? So this was the master of the house, Mr Jack Carstairs. His food was doing wonders for her spirits. She felt so much better. Kate almost smiled at his aggrieved tone. He obviously didn’t want her here. Well, she hadn’t asked to come.
“Oh, you mustn’t blame me for that.” She licked the last crumb delicately from her lips. “It wasn’t my choice to come, after all.”
“Why? What the deuce do you mean by that?” He scowled, watching the movement of the pink tongue. “What is your position in relation to my grandmother?”
What was her position? Kidnappee? Charity case? Spurious great-goddaughter? None of them would exactly delight a doting grandson. Besides, it would be very ungrateful of her to upset the man who’d fed her a delicious meal by calling his relative a kidnapper. Although the idea was very tempting.
“I’m not at all sure I can answer that. You will have to ask Lady Cahill.” Kate got to her feet. “Thank you so much for your kind hospitality, sir. The meal was delicious and I was very hungry after my journey.”
She took two steps towards the door, then faltered, belatedly realising she had nowhere to go. “Could you tell me, please, where I am to sleep?”
“How the deuce should I know?” he snapped. “I don’t even know who you are, so why should I concern myself where you sleep?”
Rudeness obviously ran in the family, decided Kate. It mattered little. With a full stomach, she felt quite in charity with the whole world. She would find herself a bed without his assistance—having found billets all over Spain and Portugal she would be lacking indeed if she could not find a bed in one, not terribly large English country house.
“Very well, then, sir, I will bid you goodnight. Thank you once again for your hospit…” She paused, then corrected herself wryly, “For the food.” She began to climb the stairs in a determined fashion. Halfway up, her knees buckled.
“Dammit!” Jack leapt stiffly towards the stairs and caught her against his chest as she fainted for the second time. He carried her into a nearby bedchamber and laid her gently on the bed. He stood looking down at her for a long moment. Who the devil was she?
In the soft light of a candle, he assessed her unconscious form. She was thin, far too thin. Clear delicate skin was stretched tightly over her cheekbones, leaving deep hollows beneath them. His gaze lingered where the neck of her shabby, too loose dress had slipped, revealing a smooth shoulder, hunched childlike against the chill of the night. Had he not chanced to be watching when she fainted, she would still be lying unconscious on the front driveway. It was an icy night. Doubtless she would not have survived.
He’d get no answers tonight. Best to tuck the girl up in bed and take himself off. He bent and removed her shoes, then stopped in perplexity. He was sure he should loosen her stays, but how to go about that with propriety? His mouth quirked. Propriety! It was quite improper enough for him to be in this girl’s bedchamber. He shrugged and bent over the supine body, searching gingerly at her waist for stay laces. God, but the chit was thin! With relief he ascertained that she wore no stays, had no need of them, probably didn’t even own any.
Carefully he covered her with warm blankets. She shifted restlessly and flung an arm outside the bedding. He bent again to cover it and as he did so her eyes opened. She blinked for a moment, then smiled sleepily and caressed his face with a cool, tender touch. “Night, Jemmy.” Her eyelids fluttered closed.
Jack froze, his breath caught in his chest. Slowly he straightened. His hand crept up to his right cheek, to where she had touched him. As they had done a thousand times before, his fingers traced the path of the ugly scar.
He grimaced and left the room.
The thunder of galloping hooves woke Kate at dawn next morning. She stared around the strange room, gathering her thoughts. It was a large chamber. The once rich furnishings were faded, dusty and worn.
She sat up, surprised to find herself fully clad except for her shoes. How did she get here? She recalled some of the previous night, but some of it didn’t make sense. It was a frightening, familiar feeling.
Kate could have sworn she saw her brother Jemmy last night. She vaguely remembered his poor, ravaged face looking intently into hers. Only that could not be, for Jemmy lay cold and deep in a field in Spain. Not here in Lady Cahill’s grandson’s house. She got out of bed and walked to the window, shivering in the early morning chill.
The view was beautiful, bare and bleak. The ground glittered silver-gilt with sun-touched frost. Nothing moved, except for a few hardy birds twittering in the pale morning sunlight. Immediately below her window was a stretch of rough grass. A trail of hoof prints broke the silvery surface of the frost.
Her eyes followed the trail and widened as she saw a riderless horse galloping free, saddled, reins dangling around its neck. It seemed to be heading towards a small forest of oaks. It must have escaped its restraints. She could sympathise. She too would love to be out in that clear, crisp air, galloping towards the forest, free and wild in the chill of dawn. How she missed her little Spanish mare and her early morning rides, that feeling of absolute exhilaration as the wind streamed through her as if she were flying. Dawn was the only time she could ride as fast and as wildly as she liked. Her father was never an early riser.
Turning, Kate caught a glimpse of herself in the glass that hung on one wall. She giggled. It looked as if she’d been dragged through a haystack backwards. Wild brown curls tumbled in every direction. The veriest gypsy urchin—how many times had she been called that? Swiftly she pulled out the remaining pins from her hair and redid it in her customary simple style. She brushed down her clothes, pulling a wry face at the wrinkles. She looked around for a pitcher of water with which to wash, but there was nothing in sight.
Walking softly, so as not to disturb the sleeping household, she left her room and went downstairs in search of the kitchen. There was not a soul around. A house of this size should surely have many servants up and about their duties at this hour, in preparation for when their master woke.
The more she saw, the more Kate goggled with surprise. What kind of establishment had Lady Cahill brought her to? The floors were gritty underfoot. Dustballs drifted along skirting boards and under furniture. The furniture, no longer fashionable, was covered in a thick layer of dust. The early morning sunshine was barely able to penetrate the few grime-encrusted windows which were not shrouded by faded curtain drapery. She shuddered at the number of cobwebs she saw festooned across every corner—she loathed spiders. Everything spoke of neglect and abandonment, yet the house was, apparently, inhabited.
This shabby, dirty, rambling house did not at all fit in with the impression given to her by Lady Cahill’s manner, clothes, and servants. It was her grandson’s home. Why did he not command the same sort of elegant living his grandmother so obviously took for granted? Kate shrugged. The mystery would be solved sooner or later; in the meantime she