Tempting Kate

A low growl from the corner made him glance toward Tom, who apparently took exception to the offer of such hospitality. He hitched up his trousers and glared at Grayson in a decidedly menacing fashion. “He looks to be well enough right now. I can take him back to London soon as I ready the horses.”

“Nonsense,” Kate responded in that take-charge tone of hers. “He needs food and rest. Now let us leave him to it.” Turning to Grayson, she said, “I shall send Tom up with another tray, since the other was spilled.” For the first time, her amazing composure seemed to desert her. She cast her eyes downward, and as Wroth watched the slow bloom of color in her cheeks, he felt an answering stirring in his loins.

Then, with a nod, she took her leave, dragging a reluctant Tom along with her, and Grayson felt oddly bereft at her absence. Damn, but she was an extraordinary creature! He found it difficult to reconcile all his images of her: the filthy boy; the gentle healer; the competent woman who took charge of an awkward situation without blinking an eye; and the innocent who had returned his kiss with tentative passion.

Grayson frowned grimly. He did not care to examine that small lapse in his judgment. He had waited for one of his jailers to arrive, not expecting to see the begrimed urchin again until she had walked through the doorway. Although it took Grayson a moment to recognize the demure young girl as the pistol-wielding pup of the night before, he had had no doubts once he looked into those eyes. Luminous eyes, they were like none he had ever seen, serious and clear. Guileless. Lovely.

Enthralled, Grayson had made a feeble attempt to question her before giving in to the lust that seized him in a grip that was truly remarkable, considering his recent injury. But all thoughts of his shoulder had been forgotten when he took her mouth. She tasted of mint and sweetness and delight, with an underlying passion that took him by surprise. He shuddered to remember the first bold forays of her tongue. She had ignited him effortlessly, and he had wanted nothing more than to feel her breast beneath his palm again, without a layer of boy’s clothing to cover it More than that, he had wanted her naked beneath him, small and slender and…

Hearing the rapid rise of his breathing, Grayson pushed such images forcefully from his mind. It must be his condition, he decided. Never before had he let himself be carried away by the thought of fondling a female. He was a skilled lover, but he never lost his head. Nothing disgusted him more than a supposedly intelligent man who made a cake of himself over the latest fashionable female.

But Kate was neither, and Grayson knew he had been extremely careless to let himself be so distracted from his situation. He was lucky to find himself a victim of mistaken identity, rather than at the hands of someone truly dangerous—though he had an odd suspicion that the inimitable Kate could be dangerous enough, in her own way.

Who was she? Although her speech and bearing proclaimed her a woman of quality, her gown was faded and ill-fitting. And despite her eventual response to his kiss, it was obvious that she was an innocent. As beautiful as she was, Grayson thought she must have lived a protected existence to remain so pure and unaffected, but what sheltered female would dress up as a boy, break into a nobleman’s study and shoot him? He knew a few women who could handle a pistol, but none who could have succeeded in besting him.

And how had she become the leader of this odd trio? If her sister truly had been ruined, why was a male relative not seeing to her welfare? Instinctively Grayson knew that the rough-looking Tom was not a part of the family. Yet why was he treated as an equal, rather than as a servant?

And what of the sister’s alleged seducer? Had the man truly claimed to be Wroth, or had the girl concocted the story to placate her sister? She would not have been the first to claim that a nobleman, and not the traveling tinker, had sired her child. And, if so, she would not be happy to have her ruse exposed.

Really, the whole business was more entertaining than the theater. From the identity of the players to the country home that formed the backdrop, it was a fascinating puzzle, and Grayson could not wait to begin putting all the pieces together. Not’surprisingly, he no longer felt the suffocating press of ennui that had plagued him for months, and the realization made him release a sigh of relief.

Hell, if it were not for the bullet hole in his shoulder, he would be enjoying himself thoroughly.

Chapter Three

Grayson lifted a brow in contempt when Tom came barging in with his breakfast tray. The old man was the worst excuse for a servant Grayson had ever seen, plopping down his burden with total disregard for the tea that sloshed over the rim of the cup. Obviously, Tom was not accustomed to waiting at table.

Eyeing the spill askance, Grayson wondered if Kate and her cohorts were hiding him from the rest of the household, for he had yet to see a maid or serving girl. He was determined to investigate later, but right now he was hungry. He watched, amused, when Tom pushed the food at him, as if begrudging every bite, then stepped back and hitched his trousers in an irritating manner.

Situating the tray neatly on his lap, Grayson glanced at the man, who was glowering at him. “Is there something else, Tom?” he asked.

“That there is, my lord,” Tom answered, drawling the address as if he did not believe Wroth to be himself. “Kate’s a bit kindhearted, but I won’t have her suffering for it.” His thick, peppery brows drew together. “Fair warning. I’ve got my eye on you.”

“Do you now?” Grayson asked, undisturbed.

“That I do,” Tom growled, as if taking exception to Grayson’s attitude. “And I’m thinking that maybe you’re Wroth and maybe you ain’t.”

“And maybe you’re an extremely incompetent servant or simply a kidnapper who botched my murder,” Wroth said, calmly spreading thick country jam upon his toast.

When he glanced up, Tom had paled significantly. Frowning at the reminder of his criminal activities, the old man slunk out of the room with a disgruntled expression that entertained Grayson enormously. He settled down to eat with a slight smile.

When he had finished, Grayson set the tray neatly on the floor, annoyed at himself for missing his phalanx of servants and the French cook he kept at his country seat. Although edible, the meal had been small and simple, certainly not the elaborate fare he was used to in homes such as this. Which brought him back to one of the myriad puzzles that he had yet to solve.

Slowly easing his way out of bed, Grayson winced at the pain in his shoulder. The meager breakfast lurched in his stomach, and he was thankful it had been small. Obviously he was not up to his old self, as yet, but he gritted his teeth and rose to his feet. He did not care to be bedbound.

More importantly, he needed to do some investigating, not only to satisfy his curiosity, but to protect himself, as well. Although his hostess was both intriguing and appealing, Grayson had nothing except her assurances that these people did not mean him harm. He intended to make sure they were as innocent as they pretended before closing his eyes again.

Pushing the bed pillows into the shape of a body once more, Grayson slipped to the door and silently turned the handle. Outside, the hallway stretched before him, the carpeting elegant, if a little worn, and the silence palpable. The quiet spoke for itself, for he had never been to a country home where servants were not bustling to and fro and guests were not idling in their rooms or gathering for cards and entertainment.

Not here. Grayson did not meet a soul as he prowled the upper rooms. Indeed, the first few he entered appeared as though they had been empty for some time, a thin layer of dust making him wonder again about the mettle of the staff. When he finally came upon some signs of occupation, Grayson lifted a brow in surprise, for clothing and hats and gloves littered a crowded collection of furniture that looked to have been taken from other suites. Surely, no selfrespecting servant could endure this mess.

Lifting a silk gown of bishop’s blue to his nose, Grayson drew in the cloying scent of gardenias. Not Kate’s. He let the dress fall to its place, draped over a chair-backed settee, and glanced around. A large mirror rested on a vanity where a number of perfume bottles and a quantity of other female paraphernalia could be found. Lucy’s, he suspected, remembering the auburn-haired chit with the grating voice. Although it was cluttered, there was nothing really unusual about the place. He went on.

A connecting door led to another room that was obviously Kate’s. Grayson knew its owner at once, because it reflected the somber, clear-eyed girl. Neat and spotless, without the romantic trappings and lace-trimmed pillows of her sister’s boudoir, it housed little more than a bed, a dresser and cupboard, a chair and an inlaid writing desk. The mirror that lay atop the pristine dresser top was small, part of an ivory-handled set of brush and comb that spoke of necessity, not vanity. No perfume. The mysterious Kate had smelled faintly of mint—or had she simply tasted that fresh and inviting?

Grayson frowned. He pulled open drawers and cupboards, but could find nothing except a rather pitiful wardrobe that included some boy’s clothing, like that she had worn into his study. Incredibly, he was seized by an odd agitation at the possibility that a husband or other male might be in residence here with Kate.

He shook his head in denial, and the room itself seemed to spin. Reaching out for the bedpost, Grayson steadied himself and took several deep breaths. No, he would swear that the girl had never even been kissed before. And there were no signs of male habitation, except for a few shirts and trousers, which made him wonder where Tom slept.

Grayson realized that puzzle would have to wait. Although the dizziness seemed to have passed, he did not care to test his endurance and come up wanting. Regaining his feet, he moved silently back to his own room.

As it was the largest and most comfortable, Grayson wondered why neither of the girls used it. Perhaps they were poor relations who had no choice of housing, or mayhap the occupant of this particular bedroom was away. Many people spent more time in London than in the country. He had noted several blank spots on the walls where paintings might have hung. Had the owner of the home fallen on hard times? That would explain the dearth of servants, but how, and why, were the girls living here?

Grayson felt an ache in his head to match the one in his shoulder, and he pushed the pillows aside to lie full length upon the bed. He needed to get his strength back—and soon. Scowling at his own weakness, he closed his eyes. At least he had found nothing suspicious in the upper rooms. It confirmed his gut instinct that Kate, her sister and their grizzled companion were as harmless as they professed to be. And common sense told him that the obnoxious Tom wouldn’t be so anxious to send him packing if there was a reason for keeping him imprisoned.

Yes, they were an innocuous group, two young girls and an old man, and none of them truly dangerous, if he ignored the fact that they had broken into his town house and put a bullet hole in him. The abduction, he suspected, had been Kate’s way of making amends.

Grayson woke to a persistent pounding. It seemed to be a part of him, throbbing through his head, his shoulder, his dry throat and his eardrums, deafening him. He opened his eyes and stared at the figure of an old man. One of his grooms? No. He shook his head and swallowed as he recognized those thick, peppery brows, drawn down in disapproval.

“If you think to cozen them into letting you stay by keeping to your bed, I’m here to tell you it won’t work,” Tom said, in an excessively loud and unpleasant voice. “And I’m not waiting on you anymore, either, my lord or not. Here’s your shirt,” he said, tossing something at him. It lay on Grayson’s chest like a lump of rags. “It’s been washed and mended as best it could be, so you can dress for supper. We keep early hours, so see that you’re down by seven o’clock.” With a scowl, he hitched up his trousers and marched to the door.

Grayson blinked. Even his eyelids hurt. Damn, but he could not recall ever feeling this bad. With a groan, he sat up and grabbed his discarded garment. Once the finest money could buy, it now sported a new seam along the shoulder. He shuddered, aware of just how close he had come to taking his last breath.

The effort it cost him to get the damn thing over his head and properly situated at his wrists had him dizzy and gasping. What the devil was the matter with him? Leaning over, he managed to put his boots on without the aid of a valet, but he was panting from the exertion.

He looked around for his waistcoat and coat, to no avail. Obviously his other clothing had not yet dried, and though he was not accustomed to dining in his shirtsleeves, it was an improvement over eating in bed, wasn’t it? Grayson was not sure, His shoulder and head were aching so much that his stomach was forgotten.

Courtesy, if not curiosity, required that he make an appearance, so he opened the door and moved along the hallway. The main stairway curved down to a tiled entranceway, but no butler or footman met him when he reached the bottom. Pausing to catch his erratic breath, he stood blinking up at the painted ceiling and was seized by a sense of familiarity. Had he been here before, staring at the historic scenes, or was this a hazy memory from the night before, when he had faded in and out of consciousness?

With no attendant to lead him, Grayson was forced to follow the sound of voices along a columned gallery. His steps faltered, as he again wondered if he had walked this way before, even though he knew he could not have done so last night. The strange feeling persisted, however, and, coupled with the need to find his way without help, created an eerie sense of unreality.

It continued when he reached the large dining hall, where his motley band of abductors waited: Kate, as lovely and untouched as an angel; her sister, scowling shrewishly; and the ubiquitous Tom, who looked as if he’d be more comfortable in the stables than surrounded by fine china and crystal.

“My lord,” Kate said. “You look a bit pale. Should you be up and about?”

Grayson watched her move toward him, as if in a dream, her face gentle with concern, her fingers reaching for him. Perhaps she would stroke his brow again, he thought dazedly. She came to a stop before him, her dark curls shining gloriously in the candlelight. He wanted to touch them.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Grayson tried to execute a bow, but dizziness overcame him. “No,” he managed to answer her formally, before everything went black.

For the second time in two days, Kate watched in horror as the marquis of Wroth collapsed onto the floor. She knelt beside him and put her hand to his forehead, her worst fears confirmed.

“He’s burning up! Tom, carry him upstairs again!”

“Really, Kate!” Lucy exclaimed, obviously disgusted. “You should never have brought him here. Now look at him.”

Kate did, and her heart ached to see him brought low again, his handsome face pale and wan, his eyes closed, his tall body felled by fever. She swallowed painfully. “I’ll see to him,” she whispered.

“Oh, very well. I’ll keep supper for you,” Lucy promised, “but I might as well eat his portion. No sense letting it go to waste, after all.”

“No, of course not,” Kate replied, in response to her sister’s cold-blooded behavior. It was a defect of her character that Lucy rarely considered anything more important than her own wishes, but she had suffered much in recent years, and could be forgiven for selfishly wanting an extra helping for herself and her child.

“I would have left him upstairs, if I’d known I’d have to drag him back up again,” the coachman grumbled as he hefted the marquis’s prone body.

“Then you should not have let him come down,” Kate said, without sympathy. “I should have checked on him, as I planned, rather than let you talk me out of it.”

“I tell you, it ain’t proper for you to be tending a gentleman!”

Kate gave an inelegant snort as she followed the coachman through the gallery and up the stairs. “As if that matters now!” Was she the only one with any sense in this household? The marquis of Wroth was injured and sick, suffering by her own hand, and no one seemed the slightest bit concerned. Indeed, the others appeared put out. “How inconvenient of the man to fall ill from the bullet I sent through him!” she said, tossing the biting sarcasm at Tom’s head.

He ducked and hurried forward, dumping the marquis unceremoniously on the bed that had once been her father’s. “Guess I’ll have to get his boots off of him again.”

“Yes, and the shirt, as well.” Kate spoke calmly enough, but she felt panic beating at the back of her mind, and pushed it away. She had to think clearly now, if she was going to save him. And there could be no “if” about it. Although they had been buried here in the country for a long time, she had heard Wroth mentioned before. Rich, powerful, dangerous. Those were words that were used to describe him, and although Kate had not heeded them when she was bent upon revenge, now they returned to taunt her.

For one fleeting moment, she pictured herself dangling at the end of a rope while an eager crowd chanted, “Murderess!” Then she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. “Fetch Mother’s recipe book, please,” she told Tom as she sat down beside the marquis to check his dressing. “And see if there are any spirits in the house. There might be some brandy in the cellar. And bring up a bowl of water, straight from the spring, so it is especially cold.”

Tom hesitated, and she shot him a look that questioned his delay. “It’s not proper,” he protested, with a mulish expression.

Kate nearly gave in to the hysterical laughter that bubbled in her chest. “Proper? Proper? How could that possibly matter now? Lucy is already with child by a man who pretended to be someone he isn’t!”

“Well, that doesn’t—”

Kate cut him off with a sharp glance. “We must fend for ourselves, Tom. You know that.”

The two shared a poignant look until Tom dropped his eyes and mumbled one of his oaths. “Well, it ain’t right.” He gazed at her again, suddenly apologetic. “I’ll take care of him.”

“No,” Kate replied firmly. She had entrusted Wroth to Tom today, and he had failed her, whether by accident or by design. It had only reinforced the lesson she had learned a long time ago: The only way to ensure that anything was done was to do it herself.

Waving Tom away, she waited until she heard his footsteps leave the room before she checked her charge. Beneath the unnatural flush that stained his cheeks, she could see the strength and beauty of his face. He had kissed her, this elegant, assured nobleman, Kate thought, still amazed by the memory.

She had no notion why he had done it. Perhaps he thought her a housemaid, eager for a tumble, or maybe he thought any girl who would dress as a boy fair game. Whatever his motivation, Kate was secretly thrilled by his fleeting interest. In the quiet struggle her life had become, she had never thought to visit the dark, sensuous world she had known in his arms. Now she would have that small wonder to carry with her always.

Snorting at the strange, sentimental turn of her thoughts, Kate leaned forward, turning her attention toward the sick man. He was her responsibility, and if she had other reasons for saving him besides selfpreservation, she did not care to examine them.

Kate opened bleary eyes and turned them toward the bed, lit by a brace of low-burning candles. Wroth had thrown off all the covers and was tossing restlessly, and the only thing she knew to do was bathe him with cool water. Originally, she had just wiped his face, but as the evening wore on and his body warmed, she had boldly pressed the wet cloth to his arms and his chest. It had gained him some respite, but now he was thrashing again, hotter than ever. Kate’s eyes darted down to the breeches that still covered him.

Tom would never approve.

Lucy would have an apoplexy.

To the devil with them, Kate thought, determination firming the line of her lips. She would do whatever was necessary to save this man’s life, and if she had to see him in his underclothes to do so, it was no one’s concern but her own.

Pulling the covers down to the bottom of the bed, Kate moved toward his waist. She knew how to work the fall, for she often wore boy’s trousers, but it was one thing to dress herself and quite another to undo the buttons that covered the front of the tall, virile marquis. Her fingers fumbled against the body beneath, but finally she had his breeches open. Grabbing a fistful of material at either side of his hips, she tugged hard, and nearly fell facefirst upon his thighs at the sight that met her eyes.

He wasn’t wearing any drawers.

Sitting back on her heels, Kate drew in a deep breath and stared at the large male member that lay nestled in a thicket of dark brown hair. “Gad,” she whispered to herself over the pounding of blood in her ears. Suddenly she felt as hot as the man on the bed. Feverish. Out of her head.

Swallowing hard, Kate forced herself to look away. There was something positively common about a woman who stared at a prone man’s private parts, she decided. Perhaps all these years of struggle and solitude were taking their toll and her wits were fleeing her. God forbid. Her wits were the only thing that held them all together.

Drawing in a deep breath, Kate positioned herself over his hips again and tugged at his clothing while trying not to look at what she had uncovered. Unfortunately, the breeches would not give way easily. They fitted like a second skin and clung tenaciously to his sweat-soaked body, and Wroth did nothing to help. In fact, he abruptly turned over, nearly taking her with him.

Swaying on her knees, Kate righted herself once more and gripped the material, which was now twisted around his thighs. “Good,” she muttered. “Now I no longer have to look at…that.” Instead, she found herself staring at his narrow, tightly muscled behind. “Bloody hell,” she whispered, flushing anew.

As if in reply, Wroth groaned, and, alarmed at the possibility that she might be caught admiring his nether regions, Kate gave the breeches a swift yank. Although she fell back upon the blankets, gasping from the effort, she had them at last. Scooting off the bed, she tossed the garment to the floor and refilled the bowl from the bucket of spring water Tom had reluctantly left with her.

It was a good thing her old coachman could not see her now, she thought, a bit giddily. Not only had she wrestled the clothes from a man, but she had enjoyed her view of the resulting naked form. A strained giggle bubbled in Kate’s chest as she placed the cloth on Wroth’s back, away from the dressing that covered the wound.

Her amusement fled when she touched the golden skin that covered his taut muscles. Languor, sweet and drugging, stole over her, gentling her hand, slowing the strokes that cooled his fever but stoked her own. The feeling was so foreign and compelling that Kate took her time, letting her fingers drift over smooth flesh and her gaze linger over ridges of hard male muscle. There was no harm in it, after all, she told herself, for he needed to be bathed, and he would remember none of this.

He was so beautiful, Kate mused, as she wiped down firm thighs dusted with dark hair. If only she could keep him… The thought startled her so that Kate dropped the cloth onto the sheet. Retrieving it from between his legs, she tossed it into the bowl, heedless of the splash.

This would not do at all. It was one thing to admire his body and treat his wounds, but Kate wanted no bond forming between her and this man. It was bad enough that she had shot him, making her feel responsible for him, and bad enough that he had kissed her, making her feel grateful to him, but she had no room for any other sentiment concerning the marquis of Wroth.