Tempting Kate

Unfortunately, her streak of bad luck was holding firm, for as soon as she opened the door, she heard Lucy’s voice from the landing. “Katie, is that you?” her sister called, in a wavering whisper that made Kate feel guilty for having left her alone.

“Yes, it’s me. Go on back to bed, dear.”

“What are you doing at this hour? Is that Tom with you? What on earth has he got?” Groaning, Kate looked up to see Lucy descending the stairs with a candle while Tom started up, the marquis at his side.

“Go back to bed, Lucy,” Kate ordered, knowing she was wasting her breath. Lucy had as strong a will as the rest of the Courtlands, when she chose to exercise it.

“What have you got there, Tom? My God, is that a man? What happened? Who is he?”

Tom, who was faltering under the strain of the marquis’ weight, heaved himself up the last few steps and said, “It’s your fellow, Miss Lucy.”

“Mine—? Katie, what have you done?” Lucy rounded upon her sister just as Kate reached the top of the stairs.

“There was an accident. I didn’t shoot him on purpose, I can tell you that much,” Kate said, brushing past her outraged sister to open the bedroom door for Tom. She followed the grunting coachman into the room and watched him dump the marquis upon the bed with a groan, just as a bloodcurdling shriek erupted behind them.

Lucy stood in the doorway, clutching the frame as if to hold herself upright. “You shot him! Katie, how could you?”

“Never mind that. Tom, help me get this coat off of him,” Kate instructed, bending over to remove the blood-soaked material.

“Don’t you dare touch him!” Lucy wailed. Before Kate could respond, Lucy rushed to the side of the bed and pushed her away. “Wroth! What have they done to you?” she cried dramatically as she threw herself at the prone body of the marquis.

Kate watched dispassionately as Lucy, ever mindful of her limited wardrobe, stopped short of the wet coat. Her lashes fluttered as if she might swoon for a moment, but then they flew open and she stared at the marquis with a horrified expression on her lovely face. Jerking back from the bed, Lucy settled her hands on her hips, arms akimbo.

“That is not Wroth,” she announced, lifting a finger to point it accusingly at the man in the bed.

“It most certainly is,” Kate said.

“I ought to know better than you, and that is not him!” Lucy protested. “Why, Wroth is young and handsome, not old and cruel-looking.”

The strain of the evening’s events made Kate raise her voice in exasperation. “This man is certainly not old! Nor is he cruel-looking.” She paused to eye the marquis. He was definitely not soft, but it was power and determination that hardened his features—not a mean streak, she would swear upon it. And handsome? Kate had never seen a man more beautiful in her life.

“I don’t care what you say, he is not Wroth!”

“Who is he, then?” Kate asked.

“I don’t know, nor do I care!”

“Girls! Girls!” Tom’s admonitions rose above the squabbling, drawing Kate’s attention. She swiveled toward him, just as Lucy did, with the same question on her lips.

“What?” Lucy fairly shrieked.

The coachman heaved a great sigh. “You had better quit arguing and do something, before the fellow bleeds to death all over the best bed linens.”

Chapter Two

Grayson drifted in and out of the nightmare. Just when his head began to clear, he would feel a jolt, followed by a sharp rush of pain that sent him back into oblivion. He was not willing to surrender, but each time he thought to struggle, he heard a deep, soothing woman’s voice, lulling him into the darkness once more.

She stroked his forehead. It was not a sexual touch, but rather a gentle, maternal motion. His mother? No, she had been dead for years. And this woman was whispering something about temptation. Had he fallen asleep in a brothel? That was not his style. He had been either drugged or attacked by some ruffians, who had obviously left him the worse for the encounter. And the woman?

With great effort, Grayson managed to lift his lashes. At first he couldn’t focus, but then he saw a shadowy face take shape, and in it, eyes the color of amethyst. Her eyes. Who was she? He opened his mouth to speak, but then his whole body lurched and rough hands grabbed at him, lifting him and… nothing.

She was touching him again. Grayson felt the intriguing brush of fingertips across his shoulder, gentle, but capable. She was wrapping something around him. Had he been injured? He could not remember.

“I refuse to stand here while you…handle a strange man’s chest!” A different woman’s voice, high and grating, sounded, followed by footsteps.

A snort, but a female one. His female. “Seems to me that’s what got us in this mess, Lucy,” she muttered. “You and some stranger’s chest.”

“Cor, Katie, it weren’t the chest what caused the problem!” A man. A rough baritone. Chuckling coarsely. How many people were here? Grayson tried to clear his head, but the woman rested a hand on his forehead, distracting him with her smooth palm. He remembered it. Soft and soothing.

“Better dose him up with laudanum,” the man said, and Grayson fought to rouse himself.

“He isn’t conscious,” his female protested. Good girl, Grayson thought, relaxing once more.

“He’ll be awake soon enough,” the man muttered. “And then I promise you that there’ll be hell to pay.”

How right you are, Grayson thought grimly.

When his mind finally cleared, Grayson had the good sense to keep it to himself. He had enemies, and though he had thought himself untouchable, there was always a chance that one of them had gotten reckless. Unfortunately, the dull ache in his head and his shoulder assured him quickly enough that he had been hurt, and badly.

It all came back to him then. The begrimed urchin who was not a boy. The gunshot. And then what? All he had was a hazy memory of the young pup and flashes of conversation. Had he passed out? Damn, it was hard to believe that he could go a round with Gentleman Jackson himself, yet a bullet had rendered him helpless as a babe.

He was not accustomed to feeling helpless.

And no longer would he, Grayson decided. It was time to wrest control of the situation from whoever was behind it. And he was fairly certain that someone had to be paying the pistol-wielding pup who had attacked him, for he had ruined no one’s sister. With the possible exception of Charlotte Trowbridge, innocent virgins held no allure for him, and he certainly had never gotten one with child. His father had lectured him early on about a man’s responsibilities, and he had sired no bastards.

Keeping his breathing low and even, Grayson listened for any sound that would indicate he had company. Vaguely he remembered the presence of a man and a woman, along with the girl with the gentle touch and pleasing voice.

Nothing. Grayson heard only the call of birds outside his window. Deliberately he fluttered his lashes, while snatching a quick look at his surroundings. He was alone. Opening his eyes, Grayson first inspected his shoulder, where he found a clean dressing covering the wound. Moving his arm experimentally, he sucked in a breath. Although it hurt like hell, he was grateful that the bullet had not struck him any lower.

Glancing downward, he realized that he was naked from the waist up, and the discovery brought back memories of the girl’s light caresses. Fool, he told himself immediately. The chit was probably some street thief who would do anything for money, including shooting an unarmed man.

But he was in no grimy prison. With increasing amazement, Grayson studied the room. Spacious and open, it glowed with the morning sun that shone through the open draperies. The walls were white panels with touches of gilt, and the ceiling was elaborately carved. Although few, the pieces of furniture, including the large bed in which he lay, were fine examples of Louis “XIV.

With some effort, Grayson managed to ease himself to his feet He swayed and righted himself with a swift grab at the bedpost. Blood loss, he thought, willing away the trace of dizziness. Slowly he put one foot in front of the other until he reached the window. Keeping to the wall, he peeked out through the draperies and drew in a long, slow breath at the sight that met him. Instead of the sooty skies of London, he was met with green lawns and the unmistakable outbuildings of a country home.

Where the devil was he?

Neatly arranging the toast and jam and tea upon the tray, along with the last of the ham, Katie headed toward the stairs. It was a peace offering for their guest, as she had come to think of him. She had no idea who he really was, but she was responsible for shooting him in Wroth’s study and dragging him here, and now she was going to make her apologies.

Although Kate sincerely hoped he was the understanding sort, from the looks of him, she doubted it. Perhaps a nice breakfast would make him more amenable to explanations. Drawing a deep breath, she started up the steps, cursing the skirts that got in her way. Out of deference to their visitor, she had forgone her usual breeches for one of her old gowns, but even at a size too small, it was cumbersome. Snatching at the material with one hand, she balanced her burden in the other as she hurried toward Hargate’s largest bedroom.

Pushing open the door with her hip, Kate peeked in, relieved to see that the man was still abed. Although she was sorry for his injury, she suspected that the mysterious stranger would be much easier to handle prone than upright. Well she remembered his cool confidence in the study, and it made her wary.

Apparently not wary enough, for she crossed the threshold only to be halted abruptly by a hand that clamped down hard over mouth and an arm that snaked around her from behind. As she watched in dismay, the tray toppled to the floor, spilling its contents on the Aubusson carpet. A sound of horror was caught in her throat when she saw the last of the ham topple from its plate. Angry now, Kate tried to get a leg around to fell her attacker, but her fiendish skirts kept her imprisoned, and then she was pulled back against a body that she knew in an instant was that of their guest.

“Wroth!” she cried against his fingers, but it came out as nothing more than a muffled gasp. No matter, for this man was not the marquis, anyway. Perhaps he was a criminal who had been intent upon burglarizing Wroth’s town house, Kate thought wildly, before her good sense denied it. She tried to think clearly, but he leaned over her, his breath tickling her ear, and her immediate fears for her person receded in the face of a new threat. She flushed, suddenly aware of the length of him, pressed to her, touching…

“Are you alone?” he asked, in a voice that evinced no strain whatsoever. Apparently a bullet wound did little to ruffle this man’s composure! Kate nodded quickly in answer, then eyed him in amazement as he pivoted swiftly and silently closed the door behind them.

Her relief at no longer being held to his muscular form was short-lived, for he turned her toward him, and Kate found herself confronting his bare chest, only inches from her face. She had viewed it last night, of course, but in the light of day, it took on a new vitality, its muscles rippling beneath its dusting of dark hair. Remembering the feel of that expanse, Kate sucked in a sharp breath. She tried to focus her attention elsewhere, but it was caught by the sight of his exposed nipple, brown and hard, and she felt blood surge to her cheeks.

“Who’s behind this?” he asked roughly, and Kate jerked her gaze back to his face. Confident and intent, he seemed oblivious of his state of undress— and her inappropriate reaction. She swallowed hard, seeking her usual calm demeanor, but she kept being distracted by his closeness. His height. His heat. Despite her efforts to deny it, warmth stole through Kate’s limbs and pooled in the lower half of her body, leaving her brain devoid of reason. Unable to form an answer to his question, she simply stared up at his dark angel’s visage.

Despite his threatening stance, she felt no menace emanating from him. His eyes were not cold and bleak, but a clear gray that spoke of difficulties overcome, achievements won, and a solitary life that touched something deep within herself. She could admire this man, Kate suspected, slightly awed by the prospect. Then her gaze slid lower to full lips, so very near and poised to speak, and she stared, fascinated.

“You’re the one,” he whispered. “You bit me.”

“Did I?” Kate murmured. She tried to concentrate, but his fingertips slid across her mouth in a slow, exotic glide that made her breath go ragged beneath them. Her lips trembled and parted as his face moved closer, and her lashes drifted shut just as his open mouth came down upon hers, hot and firm and intense.

She was melting. Slowly, irrevocably, sinking into a netherworld of dark sensation. A heavy, delicious languor surrounded her, robbing her wits and making her arms snake up around his neck. This man was the source of it all, with his naked chest and his wonderful kiss, and she leaned into his muscular body, seeking…

When his tongue touched hers, Kate gasped, astonished. One of his hands closed around the back of her neck, holding her steady, and then the dance began. His tongue swirled and delved and stroked, coaxing hers to do the same. Hesitantly she assented, and knew another dizzying drag on her senses, for he tasted like nothing she had ever known—like warmth and shadows and forbidden longings. Her fingers slid down to his shoulders, seeking purchase on that hard flesh.

Then, suddenly, he was gone, swaying away from her, and Kate blinked up at a face devoid of color. Alarm cleared her head quickly as she saw a red stain that had not been there before mark his bandage. She had reopened his wound!

“Sit down!” she cried, urging him backward to the bed. He seemed bemused by her concern, but willingly took a seat on the edge. Tossing aside the pillows that had disguised his exit, Kate pushed him down against the blankets just as the door swung open.

“Here now, what’s this?” Tom asked, in a voice rife with suspicion and warning. Obviously, the sight of her straddling the covers with a half-naked man did not please her old coachman.

“He’s bleeding again!” Kate answered. Although she slid to the side of the bed, she refused to turn around, unwilling to let Tom see her crimson face. She had no desire to explain that the damage had been done by her own questing fingers! Nor did she wish to describe what had gone before. Busying herself with changing the dressing, Kate schooled her face to show nothing to either the curious coachman or the man who had so shattered her composure.

What had she been thinking? All this time she had chastised Lucy for being seduced, while she had just let herself be kissed by a total stranger. Not only that, but she had returned his attentions willingly. Eagerly! Just the thought of that hot, dark place to which he had taken her made Kate’s hands fumble with the wrapping.

“Still, you should not have come in here alone, Katie girl,” Tom scolded, walking toward her. He stopped nearby to study the man, who lay quiet under her ministrations. “This gent might be dangerous. What’s that mark on his arm?”

“That’s where I bit him,” Kate answered, her face flaming anew. “Last night,” she felt compelled to add. A muscle jerked beneath her touch, as if the stranger were amused by that small admission, and she yanked on the linen angrily.

“Ahem…” Tom mumbled. “Well, if you’re done coddling him now, move away from the fellow. I’ve a mind to get some answers.”

Far from appearing concerned about the upcoming interrogation, their guest only leaned back on the pillows in a more comfortable position, his muscles flexing as if to taunt her. Hurriedly Kate finished her task, jerking her hands away from the warmth of his skin and shifting her attention to his face.

Her eyes caught his, and without speaking, he lifted one dark brow in the arrogant manner she remembered from the confrontation in the study. She had known then that this man would always be in complete control of any situation in which he found himself. It had annoyed her yesterday; now it alarmed her. Who was he? And how would he treat those who had done him ill? Kate shivered at the thought.

“Comfy now?” Tom jeered. Apparently he was oblivious of the threat posed by this man, but Tom had never been particularly perceptive. It fell to Kate to read the more complex nuances of those few people with whom they came in contact.

“Actually, no,” the stranger answered evenly. “I would be a lot more at ease if you would tell me just who the hell you are and who you are working for.”

Tom’s mouth dropped open, and Kate felt a shudder of admiration for the wounded man’s composure. Despite his prone position, stretched full length on the bed, he was cool as you please, and subtly menacing, besides.

Recovering himself, Tom grunted rudely. “Don’t tell him anything, Kate,” he advised. His face had taken on that stubborn cast that made her want to groan. So much for her peace offering! So much for trying to make the man feel like a guest. The breakfast! Biting back one of Tom’s oaths, Kate ran to where the tray had fallen and tried to clean up the mess. Perhaps if she washed off the precious piece of ham…

“I’ll be asking the questions, gent,” she heard Tom say in a belligerent tone. “Just who the hell are you, and what were you doing in the marquis of Wroth’s study last night?”

“As puzzling as it may seem to one of your intellect, I am Grayson Wescott—”

“Aha!” Tom said, turning triumphantly toward Kate.

She scrubbed at the carpet with a linen napkin, trying vainly to remove the jam stain. “I believe Wescott is the marquis’s family name.”

“Eh?” Tom looked puzzled. “Some relative, are you? Were you staying with Wroth? He’s not saying he is Wroth, is he, Katie?”

“He is not Wroth! I told you last night that he does not resemble Wroth in the slightest,” a haughty voice declared.

Kate glanced over to see Lucy standing in the doorway, looking fetching in one of her best gowns. Her condition barely showed. Still, the sight of it was enough to make Kate swallow hard. How could she possibly have let the stranger kiss her, even if he was the most handsome, confident and powerful of men? Was that how Lucy had begun, melting in a warm embrace, only to end up carrying a child?

“I assure you, Miss—?”

“Don’t tell him who you are, Lucy!” Tom warned. It was the wrong thing to say to Lucy, of course. She immediately lifted her head and tossed her auburn curls in rebellion.

“And why not? I am proud of my family name! I, for one, have nothing to hide from this…this ruffian! When he finds out whom he is dealing with, he will take himself off soon enough.”

Kate eyed Lucy with some alarm, dismayed by her efforts to sustain their position. Although the stranger did not look like a gossip, what if he carried the tale of his imprisonment here back to London? Their ruination would be complete. “Lucy, be a dear, and return the tray to the kitchen, will you? I’ll take care of this,” Kate said, her casual tone belied by the look she sent her sister.

Although Lucy obviously wanted to refuse the request and remain right where she was, she contented herself with glaring at their guest. “I shall leave it to you to put him in his proper place!” she declared, before turning on her heel and regally exiting the room.

“Now, Mr. Wescott, or whoever you may be—” Tom began.

“Is that the sister you spoke of, the one with child?” the stranger asked, inclining his head toward the door through which Lucy had departed.

Kate felt her cheeks bloom again, but she held her head high. “Yes,” she answered honestly.

“Well, it seems that we have quite a coil to unravel,” he said, gazing at her from under heavy-lidded eyes. Bedroom eyes, Kate reflected, annoyed at the turn of her thoughts. He had propped one knee up, and appeared thoroughly at home in her father’s bed, his dark hair tousled, his chest bare. Suddenly, Kate wished he would cover himself, if only so her eyes would not continually drift to that beautiful, dark expanse.

“What coil? What are you talking about, man?” Tom asked.

Her mouth thinning determinedly, Kate walked to a dresser and pulled open a drawer, rummaging for one of her father’s old nightshirts. Most of his clothes had been commandeered for their own wardrobes, but such intimate wear remained intact. Grabbing one, she turned and tossed it to her guest. “’There. You can put that on,” she instructed.

“He won’t be needing your Papa’s underthings! He ain’t staying long enough.” Tom protested. “I’ll take him back to London today, whoever he is.”

“No, you won’t, Tom. He’s still shaky from loss of blood,” Kate argued, trying not to remember just how solid he had seemed a few minutes ago, when she was pressed up against his muscular form. “And what if he gets a fever?” she asked. Although it had not been her intention, she had shot this man, and being responsible for his injury, she felt obliged, to nurse him back to health—or at least until he could get up and around without bleeding anew.

“I am not going anywhere,” the man announced, in the kind of voice that demanded attention. Both she and Tom turned to stare at him. His expression was polite, but Kate sensed an indomitable will behind it. Even reclining amid the pillows, he held himself just a little aloof, as if born to command, and she felt a growing unease at the enormity of her mistake. She could no more handle this man than she could a charging beast.

“And why not?” Tom demanded angrily.

“Because I intend to find out just who has been using my name to seduce young women.”

“What? What the devil do you mean? What’s he talking about, Katie?” Tom asked.

Kate’s dismay escalated as the truth dawned.

“I have never seen your sister before in my life,” the stranger explained dryly. “And the last time I checked, I was the only marquis of Wroth.”

Grayson eyed the duo calmly, while they stared as if he had sprouted two heads. Although his name was not always a welcome one, still, he could never recall receiving quite this sort of reception before. It was interesting, to say the least.

Apparently unconvinced of his parentage, the old man, called Tom, was still inclined to argue. “Here, now, Lucy says—”

Grayson halted him with his most damning look. “I am sure that the lady, Miss Lucy, is speaking the truth as she knows it, but since I am Wroth and I have not seduced her, it stands to reason that someone has been using my name, although I am at a loss as to who would be so imprudent.”

Tom gaped, scratching his bristly chin in confusion, but the dark-haired girl, obviously more intelligent, nodded. It was easy to see that she was in charge, for both Lucy and Tom took orders from her in the manner of those of long habit. Intrigued, Grayson found himself watching her closely. She did not look old enough to run a household, but she had a serious, capable air that told him she could manage very well. As if to prove his thoughts, she proceeded to draw herself up to her full height—she stood not much above five feet—and unflinchingly apologize for shooting him.

“I must tell you that I regret very much your injury, my lord, and will do my best to remedy any inconvenience that this…mis understanding may have caused you.” Despite the pain in his shoulder, Grayson found himself admiring her pluck. He could not wait to hear exactly what she had planned for him, should he have been her sister’s seducer. A wedding ceremony at gunpoint had most likely been the plan, and he could not help but be relieved at Lucy’s imperious rejection. The auburn-haired chit with the grating voice did not appeal to him in the slightest, while this Kate…

“Naturally, you are welcome to stay here until you are sufficiently recovered,” she said, as politely as if they were discussing the weather, and not the attack upon his person and his subsequent abduction. Really, she was most intriguing.