Gallant Waif by Anne Gracie (the alpha prince and his bride full story free .txt) 📗

His grin grew wider. “Sore loser,” he said softly, and left.

In a whirl of temper Kate flung off her old clothes and donned new ones—new underclothing, the soft, warm, dove-grey dress she had liked so much and a grey spencer, smartly frogged with black and gold braid. The sensual pleasure of the fine new clothes did nothing to alleviate her annoyance with Jack Carstairs. He had no right to force her to accept them. . .after all, she was entitled to choose what she wore, wasn’t she? She wasn’t his slave or anything, was she? If they truly did come from Lady Cahill, she supposed she had

no moral qualms about accepting them. But whether she did so or not was her choice—not his!

Oh, but the man was infuriating—always sticking his nose in where it was neither needed nor wanted! She kicked her old clothes into a heap in the corner, wishing they were Jack Carstairs instead.

A short time later there was a knock on the door.

“What do you want now?” she exploded. There was a brief silence.

“If you please, miss,” said Millie’s hesitant voice, “Mr Carstairs sent me up to fetch the rest of the things to go to the parson.”

Kate handed the bundle to Millie and watched as the girl took the last remaining remnants of her old life.

It was not such a bad thing, she realised suddenly. Her old clothes had carried old associations—and none of them good. Some had been given to her after she’d escaped from the French—reluctant charity to a disgraced woman. Some dated from her girlhood before they all went to war. All of them were dyed black with grief. She had put those times behind her now, and was building a new life. The new clothes were symbolic of that.

She smoothed down the long woollen sleeve of the grey spencer. Never had she worn such lovely, fashionable, expensive clothing. She noticed Millie’s sidelong glance as she did so and smiled a little ruefully.

Millie grinned back at her. “Aye, “tis sad to lose old clothes—some seem like old friends, don’t they, miss? But, well, it’s a beautiful jacket, miss. And all the rest. The old lady sent them, I hear.” There was a question in her voice, and Kate hastened to reassure her.

“Yes, Lady Cahill. It was very kind of her.”

Millie nodded. “Ah, well, that be all right, then.” She paused. “Like a cup of tea, miss?”

Kate hesitated.

“It’s all right,” said Millie, reading her thoughts accurately. “Mr Carstairs is off up the Bull.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Bull, miss—the Bull and Boar Tavern. He’ll not be back till late, I reckon.”

“Oh, well, then, in that case, yes, I’d love one.”

Later that evening Kate donned one of her new nightgowns and slipped into bed, shivering. The nights were getting very cold—soon she’d have to think about heating a brick to take to bed with her. Or perhaps using that bedwarmer she’d found. She burrowed down into the bedclothes, enjoying the feel of the soft linen nightgown against her skin. She had taken out the silk one and looked at it for a moment of two, then put it wistfully away. She could not imagine a time when she might have a use for it. Such a garment was not meant as clothing to warm a girl at night—rather, it aimed to warm a man…

For the first time in months, Kate thought of Henri and the things he had done to her in the privacy of his tent. She had not disliked them. . .but any pleasant memories had been driven out by the realisation that she was not wed to him after all, that he was a stranger who’d lied to her, tricked her, taken marital rights illicitly. And she’d felt used and angry and guilty…

She wondered what it would be like to share those pleasures with Jack. She thought of the silken nightgown—as it had looked draped incongruously against his big, masculine body. Having seen the creamy silk sliding through his fingers, it was easy to imagine the same creamy silk sliding over her body, and those same tanned fingers stroking, caressing, exploring…

Suddenly her face flamed in the dark. Such thoughts! It was shocking. She knew now why girls were kept so ignorant until marriage—the whole thing was far too unsettling. She burrowed her face into the pillow, cooling her cheeks on the cold linen.

She’d been blaming that quarrel over the clothes on Jack Carstairs but, in truth, she’d provoked most of it herself. It had been Kate who’d thrown down the gauntlet, not him— she’d known very well how he would react if she refused the clothes, and he had. Giving her the excuse to defy him…

She squirmed in mortification as she realised it was she who had first laid hands on him, she who had provoked that whole physical tussle. Worse, she’d enjoyed it, had liked the feeling of being in his arms, had wanted him to keep touching, stroking, caressing. . . imagining Jack doing to her what Henri had done…

Bleakly Kate faced the truth: those women in Lisbon were not so wrong about her after all—she was a wanton hussy—she’d just proved it. Miserably she pulled the covers over her head and tried to think pure thoughts. It didn’t work. All she could think of was the way she had felt when Jack Carstairs held her. Kate curled herself into a ball in the big bed. The only thing to do was to recite every psalm, prayer and passage from the Bible that she knew and hope they would drive the thoughts from her head. It would take a long time, for she had frequently been made to memorise passages from the Bible as a punishment. And she had been a very naughty child…

At the Bull and Boar Tavern, Jack sat nursing a brandy, staring into the fire, oblivious of the noise of his fellow drinkers.

His face softened into a