Deborah Simmons - Tempting Kate

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.