Tempting Kate

Chapter Four

Grayson clutched the silky strands that clung to his fingers and wondered if he was dreaming. She had been stroking him again, but not just his brow, and there was nothing maternal about it. He had felt her unmistakable touch on his back, on his buttocks— hell, even between his legs! Yet the shocked look on her face spoke only of innocence and horror.

No dream, this was a nightmare. A nightmare of heat and sensual caresses that came to nothing but a throbbing groin, a thudding head, and the frightened face of a lovely young girl. Uttering a foul curse, Grayson fell back upon the pillows and heard her scramble away, only too eager to escape him.

She was back in a moment, trying to force some cold tea on him, when the only thing he wanted to taste was her. Pushing away the obnoxious stuff, he turned over and buried his face in a pillow that held her scent. The darkness drew him in, and he went, eager to lose himself in its depths.

Even the nightmare was preferable to a reality such as this.

Tom hitched his trousers and walked into the empty kitchen, his stomach growling at the lack of breakfast smells. Usually Kate was already up baking bread long before now. And there was always a little something ready for him. Where was she?

Abruptly he remembered where she had been when he left her last night, and he hurried toward the servant’s stairway, taking the worn steps as fast as his aged legs could carry him. He didn’t even stop at Kate’s door, but went straight to her father’s old room and walked in, without bothering to knock.

His fears, vague and formless, faded away as soon as he saw her. She was asleep in a chair beside the bed, curled up like a kitten, her dark curls tangled, her lovely face serene. The smile that formed at the sight of her disappeared when he glanced at the man stretched facefirst out on the bed. Barely covered by a pile of blankets, the fellow was a sprawling mass of hard muscle.

He didn’t look like any marquis.

Tom’s eyes narrowed at the broad expanse of naked male back while he contemplated a quick trip to London. If he couldn’t take this gent with him, then maybe he could at least put his ear to the street and see what he could hear about the real Wroth. Yes, he thought, scratching the stubble on his chin, after breakfast he would do just that. But meanwhile, his belly was rumbling, and since he didn’t want to disturb Kate, he backed out of the room, pulling the door shut silently behind him.

In a few minutes, he was down in the kitchen, lighting a blaze in the big fireplace and slicing some of yesterday’s bread for toast. Lucy liked hers just so, with a dab of butter and jam. And if she didn’t get it, they would all suffer.

He had just poured the tea when she arrived, a vision in one of her mama’s dresses that she had reworked into a new style. Not that he knew what was what with ladies’ gowns, but Lucy always looked lovely, even if she spoiled the effect with her manners sometimes. Like now.

“Where’s Kate?” she asked in a petulant voice.

“Up tending His Lordship.”

Lucy frowned. “Really, you would think that man was more important to her than her own family. See how she is neglecting us?”

Tom grinned at her inclusion of him among those of her exalted heritage, but hid his amusement from her. She would not like to be reminded that she had just adopted a coachman. He placed her plate before her, and was rewarded with one of her beautiful smiles.

“Oh, bless you, Tom!”

He brushed off the careless compliment as he sat down to join her. Although the eggs he had fetched from the henhouse were cooked as well as he could manage, they were not as tasty as any of Kate’s dishes, and his thoughts drifted back to the girl upstairs.

“She’s got that wounded-pup look again,” he muttered between bites.

“Who?” Lucy asked, absently, as she reached for her cup.

“Why, Katie, of course!”

Glancing over at him with some surprise, Lucy drew herself up regally. “Katie may not be a great beauty, but at no time has she ever resembled a canine.”

“No! Katie don’t look like a dog. She has that expression she gets whenever she brings home one of her injured curs, or a bird with a broken wing, or that one-eyed cat.” Tom shuddered and looked around, half expecting the mention of the feline to conjure up the creature. The furry devil was well-known to steal your supper when you weren’t looking.

Once convinced the cat was not lurking about, he turned his attention back to Lucy. “You know how she must take in every sorry creature that she comes across.”

Lucy assumed a thoughtful expression, then frowned slightly, as if the effort had pained her. “Well, I suppose he is rather like all her pets, in that he is hurt, but she will nurse him back to health and then he shall be on his way.” She lifted a pale hand and dismissed the stranger with a languid wave.

Tom paused over a mouthful of eggs. “I don’t think it will be that easy, Miss Lucy.”

“Whyever not?”

Tom laid down his fork. “Remember how she looked when that pigeon flew away? And that lamb with the bad leg disappeared?” At Lucy’s reluctant nod, he continued. “Well, this fellow is a lot bigger than any of those dumb animals. What do you think she’ll do when he takes off?”

“Rejoice, as I will!” Lucy said, not bothering to hide her distaste for the gent. “Really, it is not at all the thing to have a strange man recuperating in Papa’s room, and when he is sufficiently recovered, Kate will demand his departure!”

Tom shook his head. “No, I tell you, a man’s a bit different from a dog or a bird. What if she gets attached to him? What happens then, when he up and leaves her?”

“I am sure I don’t know what you are suggesting, Tom,” Lucy said, obviously bored with a conversation that did not focus upon her. Having finished her breakfast, she pushed her plate aside and rose to her feet. “But I refuse to worry my head about Kate. She always knows what she is doing.”

Tom let her leave the dishes to him without a protest, but he could not agree with her assessment of the situation. As usual, Lucy could not see farther than her nose; nor could she be bothered with any problems. But Tom could feel trouble brewing, could feel it in his bones. He had known it the moment he set eyes on the big fellow that Kate had shot.

“Whatever happens, it won’t be pretty. I can tell you that,” he muttered to himself. “Not pretty at all.”

Kate bathed him again. Sliding her cool cloth along his hot skin, she tried to suppress the guilty warmth that spread through her at the feel of him beneath her fingers. It was a vain effort, as was her attempt to keep one eye on his face, just in case he suddenly roused to awareness, for her attention was ever diverted by the muscles bunching under her touch.

So engrossed was she in her task that when the door opened, she started, snatching up the cloth furtively as she turned to greet Tom, who stood frowning near the threshold. He took a few steps into the room to survey the scene and then scowled disapprovingly at the man in the bed. “Ye gods, Katie, let me put a nightshirt on the fellow, at least. It isn’t seemly for him to be lying there half-naked, and you caring for him.”

Glancing down swiftly, Kate was relieved to see that the covers were neatly pulled up to Grayson’s waist. She had washed and hung out his breeches earlier, but obviously Tom had not seen them—or he would be complaining about more than the marquis’s bare chest.’

She pulled herself upright. “And just who is going to tend to him, if I do not?” she asked, unmoved by Tom’s frown.

He glanced at Grayson’s bronzed torso and mumbled something about the man not looking like a marquis. Then he turned back toward Kate. “I will,” he offered glumly.

Kate snorted. “I can imagine that easily enough. You would have the man drowning and the mattress ruined in no time. No, Tom. He is my responsibility, and I will see to him.” Realizing that her fingers had tightened possessively around the cloth in her hand, Kate purposely released them, dropping the soft material into the nearby bucket of springwater.

“Well, if you can tear yourself away from the lad for a moment, I have something that needs discussing,” Tom said, grudgingly giving way on the issue of Grayson’s treatment.

Kate’s relief at his capitulation was brief, for she recognized all too well the gruff tone in his voice that bespoke ill news. Her heart, already burdened by so much, sank anew. What more could she face? What more could they all manage? Drawing a deep breath, she forcibly shored up her flagging spirits and nodded slowly. And with one last look at the man in the bed, she followed Tom through the doorway.

Lucy was waiting in the drawing room. It was her habit to prepare tea for these little talks, just as though they were enjoying nothing more than a pleasant social visit. Of course, Kate had to admit that Lucy’s contribution to the exchange was normally limited to the refreshments.

Once she had taken her seat, Kate received her cup and saucer and hid a smile at Tom’s desperate attempt to balance the delicate china on his knee. Then she thanked Lucy for her preparations and, without delay, glanced toward Tom, who had called this session.

“I went to London this morning, after finishing my breakfast,” he said grimly, and panic flared in Kate’s breast at his words. Why had he gone without telling her? And what had he learned? Were the Bow Street runners after her even now? Murderess! Kate’s fingers trembled as she sought to control herself. She would need her wits about her now, more than ever, and she drew a deep, steadying breath as she listened to the coachman.

“I sniffed around our man’s neighborhood, and I can tell you one thing. He’s Wroth all right.” His disgruntled admission caught Kate by surprise. Of course the man was Wroth! She had had no doubt of it, really, since the moment she faced him in his study.

“He is not!” Lucy argued. Kate turned toward her sister, who was tossing her auburn curls indignantly. “I have told you before! That old, ugly fellow upstairs in not my Wroth!”

Poor Lucy. For once, Kate could see through the haughty surface to the wounded woman who refused to believe the truth. Although never the bloodthirsty type, Kate fervently wished that she had managed to shoot the real culprit—the man who had so cruelly deceived her sister—instead of the innocent marquis.

“The gent in your papa’s bed is Wroth, Lucy, and you must accept it,” Tom said, gently. “I asked around, and there is already some concern about his whereabouts. Although he’s gone off for days before on a gambling streak, some of his staff are worried that he’s sent no word after two nights, especially since he was last seen heading home from one of those fashionable balls.”

“A coincidence, nothing more!” Lucy protested. “That proves nothing.”

Tom silenced her with a look and continued. “He sent his driver on and walked, which has a few people fearing that he was attacked by footpads, but” most scoff at the idea of anyone daring to take on Wroth. Apparently the man has quite a reputation for being able to handle himself.” Tom said, pausing to eye Kate meaningfully.

She flushed. Of course Grayson was dangerous. Tom had no idea just how much. “Go on,” she said evenly.

“Then there’s the business about the gloves. A few of the servants think he actually was home, since his gloves were inside, but no one knows for sure if those were the pair he was wearing when he set out. Seems as if there’s a bit of confusion, because the staff had been let off for the night after a little celebration. It was his birthday, you see.”

His birthday. Kate wanted to squeeze her eyes shut against the news. Resolutely, she kept them open, but she refused to look at Tom. “How old is he?”

“Thirty-two,” Tom answered in a surprised tone.

Kate watched as a light drizzle began to tap on the window pane. Thirty-two. He was exactly ten years older than she, and far more experienced with titles, power, life…and kisses. But he was not aged. No, not as ancient as Lucy would claim. “Well, at least there is no trail to us.”

“No, not as I could gather,” Tom said, and Kate nodded with relief at their reprieve.

“But I don’t understand,” Lucy protested. “I tell you the man is not Wroth! Why do you persist in pretending that he is?”

Tom turned to her, his grizzled face wearing a tender expression. “I saw his portrait, Lucy. He’s Wroth, which means your fellow isn’t”

“How can that be—?” she cried. Her voice rose, loud and high, before breaking in confusion, and Kate flinched. As annoying as Lucy’s petulance sometimes was, Kate did not like to see it stripped away, leaving her sister naked and vulnerable.

“I don’t know, Lucy,” she said, her throat suddenly thick with emotion. “We can only guess at his reasoning. Whether to hide his true identity or to play at being what he was not, your gentleman lied about his name.”

“No!” Lucy stood, her hand at her throat. “No! He is rich and famous and powerful, and he is coming back for me. You’ll see! You will both see!” she promised, before rushing from the room in tears.

Kate watched her leave, then glanced at Tom, who was shaking his head sadly. Although Kate knew he expected her to go after her sister, she did not have the heart for it. And right now, she had more pressing concerns than Lucy’s disappointment. The real Wroth was gravely ill, and she must return to him.

The thought made her rise suddenly, and if Kate felt more connected to the man lying upstairs than she did to her own flesh and blood, she was reluctant to admit it.

Grayson tossed and turned for three more days, lost in the grip of a fever that Kate did not know how to ease. She neglected her duties, snapped at Lucy and Tom and rarely left the side of the bed where her victim thrashed and groaned. She forced him to drink, bathed him and soothed him as best she could, but now, as the evening set on the fifth day since she had boldly climbed through his study window, Kate felt exhausted, physically and emotionally.

It was the latter that dismayed her. Lucy was the sensitive one. She was the sister who was prone to vapors, who wore her feelings like a banner for all to see, soaring from the heights of excitement to the depths of despair so swiftly that Kate could only blink in amazement.

Kate, on the other hand, was the quiet one. Calm and capable Kate. Strong and sensible, she was the sister counted upon to think things through, to arrange and execute whatever needed to be done. The past few years had been a struggle, but she had managed—until now. Even her foolish confrontation with Grayson had seemed like a practical solution at the time. They needed money, and the father of Lucy’s child, by rights, ought to help them. Perhaps she had taken some pleasure in intimidating the man into the bargain, but she had never intended to hurt him.

For once, her carefully laid plans had gone awry. Not only had she crossed the wrong man, but she had wounded him, besides. And now, unable to help him, she felt overwhelmed with despair at the loss. It was an emotion so deep and painful as to confuse her.

Kate told herself that her grief stemmed from her own culpability. After all, if not for her, he would not be here, suffering so. Yet she knew it was more than that. Despite the briefness of their encounters and the terseness of their few conversations, she felt something for the marquis of Wroth that went beyond her responsibility and his powerful effect on her senses. She felt as if she had been waiting all her life for him to arrive.

And it scared her to death.

Even if he survived, the elegant, powerful Grayson had no place in her existence, other than to destroy it. Kate shivered, as if she might break apart from the excess of sensibilities. Overwrought. How often had she used that word to describe Lucy? And now it fitted her—a witless, helpless mass of nerves.

Kate felt a hot pressure behind her eyes and blinked angrily. She had not cried since her mother’s death so many years ago. Nothing, nothing, had made her give in since, and she was not about to start now. But when she looked at Grayson’s handsome face, pale and drawn, his vivid strength sapped, she dropped her head and wept.

Kate cried for all the times in the past that she had not, for all the hopes and plans of the Courtlands that had come to naught, and for the man before her, who was so much more than anything she had ever known. She wept silently, the tears coursing down her cheeks and clogging her throat until she turned her face and snuffled. She might have remained there, spent, but for the soft tickle of hair that was not her own.

Gad, she had laid her cheek against his chest! Kate sniffed abruptly, both horrified and comforted by her strange berth, for even after days and nights in the throes of a fever, Grayson still emanated strength and power. The sensation of safety, of protection, was so strong that Kate let herself drift in it. How long was it since she had counted upon anyone but herself? She smiled, imagining the great force of the marquis of Wroth behind her, surrounding her, keeping her close.

As if lost in a dream, Kate slowly rubbed her cheek against the fine dusting of dark hair that pressed against her. Dampened by her tears, it felt soft and slick, but did not disguise the hard muscles beneath. Drawing a deep breath, she took in his scent, underlying the smell of sweat and bed linens, and knew a heady longing such as she had never felt before.

“Is this some new torture?”

Kate jerked up her head so swiftly that her sight blurred. She blinked, not daring to move, as Grayson’s face came into focus, his eyes clear and one dark brow gently cocked in question. Or was it amusement? Kate blushed scarlet and hopped back into her seat by the bed.

“I was…uh, listening for your heartbeat. You’ve been very ill.”

“Well, I’m not dead yet,” he said dryly. And Kate wondered just how a man who had been sick for days managed to keep his aplomb. Did nothing daunt him? Did he ever doubt himself, in the long, quiet hours of the night? “But perhaps you had better check again. It seems to have accelerated alarmingly.”

Kate eyed him skeptically, noting the ever-soslight curve of his lips. Was he laughing at her? She tried to look detached as she laid a palm against his forehead. It was cool. Blessedly cool, at last.

“Your fever’s broken!”

“That one, at least,” he whispered. He seemed to lean into her hand, and Kate could not resist stroking a strand of dark hair from his forehead. For one long moment, her eyes locked with his, and she felt the drugging warmth that came with touching him. It seeped into her bones, threatening to steal her wits, as she stared, fascinated, into his gray eyes, eyes that were alive with a wealth of knowledge and experience. Thirty-two years of it, to be exact.

Kate sat back abruptly, pulling her fingers from his skin and tearing her gaze away. It lighted upon the teapot. “Here. Have some of the tea I brewed you. It is a restorative from my mother’s recipe.”

He lifted his brows at that, but obediently took a drink from the cup she held out to his mouth. Obedient? Grayson? Kate nearly laughed at her misjudgment. This man would do nothing but what pleased him, and Kate could not help envying that kind of enlightened selfishness. It was something she could never indulge in.

But she indulged in an altogether different luxury as she watched his lips close over the rim, reminding her of the way they had taken hers. She blinked, trying to force away the sweet, hot image, but then she found herself entranced by the muscles in his throat as he swallowed.

This was madness! She had never been one to prevaricate or hide herself. That was Lucy’s venue. Hers was the direct gaze, the clear truth, and yet she found her eyes faltering, her hand trembling as it held the fragile china. Her attention dipped lower, but the hairy, muscled expanse of chest that was so close to her was just as disconcerting. Heat rose in her cheeks, swamping her limbs and clogging her throat, as she stared at one dark male nipple.

“That is all I can manage at present”

Startled to hear him speak, Kate glanced up at his face. He had leaned his head back against the pillows, his thick lashes hiding his eyes, but the slight smile that played upon his firm lips left her wondering if there was some hidden meaning to his words.

The subtle threat was there, destroying her pleasure at his well-being, for with his recovery came a host of problems, not the least of which was Grayson himself. One of the things she had heard about the great marquis was that one did not cross him. His revenge was always swift and sure and merciless. Ruthless, Kate had heard him called, and she shivered, imagining the strength that had drawn her so compellingly being used against her.

What would he do to someone who had had the temerity to shoot him, albeit accidentally? And how could she defend herself—and them all—when he was back on his feet?

Chapter Five

Grayson closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted from the simple effort of drinking her obnoxious brew. He was tired, deathly tired, but he was not accustomed to sleeping in front of an audience. It smacked of a vulnerability that he did not care to embrace.

He had never been vulnerable.

Grayson drew in a long, slow breath, waiting for some sound of her departure. He fully expected her to go. There was no need for her to stay, because he obviously was not going to die. Not now, anyway. But she did not leave. Instead, he heard her sink back down into the chair by his bed, the sweet perfume of female warmth wafting over him, along with a gentle hint of mint.

He could order her from the room. He was used to commanding. Unlike some of his peers, he wore the mantle easily. He never drank to excess, never ate too much or let lust rule him. Sometimes he gambled a little recklessly, and he had been known as a daredevil in his youth, but his mind had never been fogged or his body weakened—until now.

It was a strange feeling, this loss of his own abilities. He did not like it, and yet, he did not feel as threatened as he might have expected because she was here.

The pup who had shot him.

That ought not to comfort him, he thought wryly, but he accepted her little tale of mistaken identity. More than that, he believed the stark regret apparent in those amazing eyes of hers. How could he distrust a woman who woke him by weeping all over his chest? And hers had not been the delicate tears of a lady feigning distress. Hers had been the deep, soulful cries of someone hurting, and he had wanted to heal her wounds, assuage that ache, solve every last one of her problems. But he could barely sit up.