Gallant Waif by Anne Gracíe

over me.” He pulled off his shirt, now sodden with brown coffee, and used it to mop down his dripping face and chest.
    Carlos, similarly engaged with the aid of a drying cloth, looked across at him. “You think, Major Jack, that maybe she understand what we were saying?”
    Jack stared at him. “ An English kitchen maid, in the middle of Leicestershire, understand Spanish?” His tone was incredulous. “Impossible! Though she did clean that soot off her face.”
    He absent-mindedly rubbed the shirt 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.
    “Si, si. 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