Gallant Waif. Anne Gracie

her into the custody of the housekeeper, who’d set her to work, cleaning and cooking.

      The youthful Kate had despised the work, but years later she’d become grateful for knowledge generally considered unnecessary and unbecoming to a girl of her class. It had proven invaluable. Most girls of her station in life would have recoiled with genteel disgust at the task she faced, but Kate’s experiences in the Peninsula War had inured her to the horrors of filth and squalor.

      This kitchen was nothing compared to some of the unspeakable hovels where she and her father and brothers had been billeted during Wellington’s campaigns. In those hovels, the Vicar’s impossible daughter had discovered an ability to create a clean and comfortable environment for her family, wherever they were. And had glowed in the knowledge that for once she, Kate, had been truly needed.

      Her skills were needed here, too, she could see.

      Almost an hour and a half later Kate looked around the room with some satisfaction. The kitchen now looked clean, though the floor could do with a good scrub. She’d washed, dried and put away all the crockery, glasses, pots and pans. She’d used sand, soap and water to scrub the table and benches. And she’d even taken her courage in both hands, tackling the worst spiderwebs and killing two spiders with a broom. A fire now burned merrily in the grate and a huge iron kettle steamed gently. She poured hot water into a bowl in the scullery and swiftly made her ablutions.

      A rapid search of the provision shelves unearthed a dozen or so eggs. Kate checked them for freshness, putting them in a large bowl of water to see if they sank to the bottom. One floated; she tossed it out. A flitch of bacon she found hanging up in the cool room. And, joy of joys, a bag of coffee beans. Kate hugged them to her chest. It had been months since she had tasted coffee.

      She roasted the beans over the fire, then used a mortar and pestle to crush them, inhaling the aroma delightedly as she did so. She mixed them with water and set it over the fire to heat. She sizzled some fat in a pan, then added two thick rashers of bacon and an egg.

      The floor did need scrubbing, Kate decided. She would do it after breakfast. She went to the scullery to fetch a large can of water to heat. The largest can she could find was wedged under a shelf, stuck fast. She tugged and pulled and cursed under her breath, then the heavenly aromas of bacon, egg and coffee reached her nostrils. Oh, no! Her breakfast would be ruined! She raced into the kitchen and came to a sudden halt.

      Lady Cahill’s grandson sat at the table, his back and broad shoulders partly towards her. He was tucking into her breakfast with every evidence of enjoyment.

      “What do you think you’re doing?” Kate gasped crossly.

      He didn’t stop eating. “I’ll have another two eggs and four rashers of bacon. And some more of that excellent coffee, if you would be so good.” He lifted his empty cup without even turning to face her.

      Kate stared in growing indignation.

      “More coffee, girl, didn’t you hear me?” He snapped his fingers impatiently, still not bothering to turn around.

      Arrogance obviously ran in the family too! “There’s only enough for one more cup,” she said.

      “That’s all I want.” He finished the last bite of bacon.

      “Oh, is it, indeed?” Kate said, pulling a face at his impervious back. The exquisite scent of the coffee had been tantalising her for long enough. She’d cleaned and washed his filthy kitchen. All morning her mouth had been watering in anticipation of bacon and eggs and coffee. And he’d just walked in and without so much as a by-your-leave had devoured the lot!

      “There’s only enough for me,” she said. “You’ll have to wait. I’ll make a fresh pot in a few minutes.”

      He swung around to face her. “What the deuce do you mean—only enough for you?”

      Jack was outraged. To his recollection, he’d never even heard a kitchen maid speak, let alone answer him back in such a damned impertinent manner. And yet who else would cook and scrub at this hour of the morning?

      She stared defiantly back at him, hands on hips, cheeks flushed, soft pink lips pursed stubbornly. One hand moved possessively towards the coffee pot and her small chin jutted pugnaciously. She was a far cry from the pale, exhausted girl he’d met by candlelight the night before.

      Despite his annoyance, his mouth twitched with amusement—there was a wide smear of soot reaching from her cheek to her temple. She stared him down like a small grubby duchess. Her eyes weren’t grey, after all, but a sort of greenygrey, quite unusual. He felt his breath catch for a moment as he stared into them, and then realised she was examining his own face just as intently. He stiffened, half turned away from her, keeping his scarred side to the wall, and unconsciously braced himself for her reaction.

      She poured the last of the coffee into her own cup and proceeded to sip it, with every evidence of enjoyment.

      Jack was flabbergasted. He was not used to being ignored—let alone by a dowdy little maidservant with a dirty face. And in his own kitchen! He opened his mouth to deliver a crashing reprimand, but she met his eye again and something held him back.

      “I think I’ve earned it, don’t you?” She gestured at the sparkling kitchen.

      He frowned again. What else did kitchen maids do but clean and scrub? Did the chit expect to be thanked? Did she realise who she was addressing? He opened his mouth to inform her, then hesitated uncertainly, a novel sensation for Major Carstairs, late of the Coldstream Guards.

      How the devil did one introduce oneself to a kitchen maid? Servants knew who one was, and acted accordingly. But this one didn’t seem to know the rules. And somehow it just didn’t seem right to roar at this pert little urchin when only a few hours before he had held her in his arms and felt just how frail she was. Despite her effrontery.

      He cleared his throat. “Do you know who I am?”

      “Lady Cahill’s grandson, Mr Carstairs, I presume?”

      He grunted.

      Why had he mentioned it? Kate looked gravely at the tall dark man leaning back in his chair. He didn’t look particularly out of place in the kitchen, sprawled at the large scrubbed table, his long booted legs crossed in front of him. He was very handsome, she realised. Maybe he felt it would not be appropriate to eat in here with her when they had not been properly introduced.

      “Would you rather I brought your breakfast to another room? A breakfast parlour, perhaps?”

      His scowl deepened. “I’ll eat it here.” Long brown fingers started to drum out an impatient tattoo on the wooden surface of the table.

      “Please try to be patient. I’ll finish my coffee, then cook enough bacon and eggs for both of us.”

      Jack stared at her, debating whether to dismiss her instantly or wait until she’d cooked the rest of his breakfast. The egg had been cooked just how he liked it, the bacon had been crisped to perfection and she did make the best coffee he’d tasted in months. But he was not some scrubby schoolboy, as she seemed to imagine—he was the master of the house!

      Jack’s lips twitched with reluctant amusement. His manservant’s cooking had, he perceived ruefully, seriously undermined his authority and his resolution. The men in his brigade would have boggled at his acceptance of this little chit’s effrontery, but they had neither drunk her coffee nor looked into those speaking grey-green eyes. Nor had they carried her up a flight of stairs and felt the fragile bones and known she had been starving. He couldn’t dismiss her—he could as soon rescue a half-drowned kitten then kick it.

      She sat down opposite him at the kitchen table. He stiffened awkwardly as her gaze fixed on his face.

      “So,” she said, “it was you in my bedchamber last night.”

      His mouth tightened abruptly, his face dark with bitter cynicism. What was she going to accuse him of?

      “When I woke up this morning I couldn’t quite remember