Deborah Simmons - Tempting Kate

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.

As Kate stared at him in dismay, the lethargy that had settled over him under her ministrations abruptly departed and he rolled onto his back, throwing out one long arm to reveal the dark shadow beneath. He groaned, as if protesting her decision, or at the very least the end of his bath, and his fist banged against the headboard.

“There, there,” Kate said. “Stop thrashing about. Wroth!” What had he said his name was? Grayson Wescott. “Grayson. Sh, Grayson.” She was leaning over him, dragging his arm back beside him, when suddenly she found herself pulled down on top of his chest. His strength, even when he was so obviously ill, was alarming, and too late Kate remembered the subtle aura of danger that clung to him.

“Oh!” she cried as she felt his fingers tangle in her curls. She pushed her palms against the damp hair that covered his broad muscles, but she was trapped, held tightly against him. Heat surrounded her, along with the heady scent of clean sheets, male sweat and…Wroth. Kate felt dizzy, disoriented, as she hovered only inches from his face. Then his lashes lifted, and the eyes that met hers were bright from fever, but surprisingly lucid. Was he awake? So stunned was she that Kate could only stare into the gray pools, her breath caught, her wits flown.

Slowly she felt his fingers tighten in her curls. “Are you trying to kill me again, pup?” he asked, as clear as day.

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.