Jack stopped and glared furiously down at her, his fingers biting into her shoulder.
“All right,” she said hastily, meeting that fiery blue gaze. “I have said my piece now and I promise you I will say nothing more on the subject.” She began to head once more towards the house, forcing him to move too.
They made slow, painful progress to the house, Kate silently cursing her runaway tongue. For the first time ever, they’d been completely easy with each other, even joking and laughing, despite his awkwardness at being discovered, helpless on the ground. And then she’d ruined it. Knowing what she knew.
As she’d sat on the cold ground, cradling his head against her, the whole picture had come together—the sound of a galloping horse when she first arrived, hoofprints on frosted grass, day after day, his early morning bad temper, white lines of pain around his mouth.
He’d been doing this for weeks, sneaking out before dawn to try and learn to ride again. His mental anguish, the desperation that drove him to try to ride, secretly, day after day,knowinghe would fall—Kate’s heart contracted at the thought. It had taken courage—mad, proud, stubborn courage. But without treatment he would never be able to do it. And sooner or later he was bound to do himself a grave injury.
It need not be that way, she was sure of it, and so she had spoken—too much. Offending the very pride she admired. He would never listen to her now, never forgive her. She was only his housekeeper, existing, not to put too fine a point on it, on the goodwill of his family.Whenwould she learn to accept it?
Finally they reached the house and she helped him to a chair in the kitchen. “I’ll fetch Carlos,” she said quietly, and moved towards the door.
He did not acknowledge her; he just sat there, his face a white and bitter mask.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What’s this? Looks delicious.”
Before Kate could say a word, Jack had scooped a fingerful of the creamy mixture and popped it in his mouth. She clapped a hand over her mouth, attempting unsuccessfully to repress her mirth. Giggles escaped her as his eyes filled first with disbelief, and then with disgust. He rushed outside and she heard the sounds of vigorous spitting, as he attempted to rid his mouth of the foul taste of her latest domestic effort.
Kate collapsed in a chair, and laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks. It served him right. He had been hanging around the kitchen all day, popping in and out for no apparent reason—lurking! Several times she’d asked him if there was anything he wanted, but he’d almost snapped her nose off! It was his kitchen, wasn’t it? Well, of course it was, the silly man! She knew that!
Normally it wouldn’t have bothered Kate so much, but today was proving to be one of those days; first a bird’s nest had fallen down the chimney right into the bouillon which had just reached aromatic perfection. And it was baking day, but the dough stubbornly refused to rise. And the kitchen had been cluttered with damp washing for days.
And she’d been sleeping badly, ever since the accident. That was his fault, too!
Kate saw him only at breakfast. She would not have admitted it to a soul, but she knew she only really started to breathe each morning when he limped through the kitchen door, those tell-tale white lines of pain around his mouth. It was only a matter of time before he injured himself seriously, and they both knew it, but the man was so stubborn!
Last night she’d slept even worse than usual, alternately dreaming of him and worrying about him. She’d awakened feeling scratchy and irritable. And then the wretched man had lurked! Underfoot! All day! Observing each disaster!
So now justice was served, and the sounds of his violent expectorations were as music to her ears. Still chuckling, Kate wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. He re-entered the kitchen, wiping his mouth, which was still puckered at the lingering after-taste.
“Are you trying to poison me?” He grimaced again and scrubbed at his mouth with his handkerchief. “What the hell was that foul stuff anyway?”
“Spermacetti oil, white wax, almond oil,” she said, between giggles. “I haven’t yet added the lemon oil and lemon juice.”
He choked. “Spermacetti oil? You were planning to feed mewhale oil? That’s for burning in lamps!”
Kate giggled again. It was a new recipe she was trying—guaranteed to remove freckles. “I do not usually feed my cold cream to gentlemen, no matter how hungry—or greedy—they are.”
“Cold cream?”
“Cold cream.”
“Hrmph!” He turned away. His ears turned slightly pink.
Another giggle escaped her.
He continued to fidget for some minutes, then finally he spoke. “Pour yourself a cup of coffee and sit down, Miss Farleigh. I wish to talk to you.” His voice was serious.
She fetched two cups and placed them on the table, still trying to keep a straight face. Eventually she met his gaze. He looked away, and the laughter died in her eyes. This really was serious.
“That brother of yours—you say he was able to regain the use of his leg?”
“Yes, completely,” she murmured, her pulse beginning to race.
“Because of the treatment you described to me?”
