Deborah Simmons - Tempting Kate

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?

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.

Frustration roused his senses, and he lifted his lashes to study her, only to find that she was warily watching him, too. Was she afraid? No. He had a feeling that not much frightened her, yet there was a strange spark in her lovely eyes. If not fear, then what? Passion?

The notion brought back his dreams of her—half lucid, half crazed offerings of an eroticism like nothing he had known before. Cool caresses. Fevered desire. They all swirled together in hazy memory, but when he looked at her now, simple and prim in a worn sprigged-muslin gown, Grayson knew they could have no basis in reality.

And yet…the stirring in his lower anatomy reminded him that he was completely naked. Who had stripped him and cared for him? He knew it had been her, but he asked anyway. “You have been tending me?”

She nodded. A blush stole up her cheeks, bringing life and color to her pale face, but she met his gaze directly. This one would not refuse a challenge, he thought, vaguely excited by the notion. At least one part of his body seemed unaffected by his injury or his illness, and although the thought heartened him, it was a bit inconvenient. He slid one knee upward, hiding the evidence as best he could.

“Why?” he asked bluntly.

“There was no one else,” she answered, just as plainly.

The mysteries that surrounded her loomed before him once more. Who was she? What was she, this girl with the serious demeanor and the courtesan’s hands? Some figment of his imagination, perhaps? Had he conjured her out of his own restless ennui? She looked nothing like Charlotte, with her small frame and boyish body, but she shone with a purity that knifed into his soul. Strength. Honesty. Intelligence.

Grayson drew a ragged breath and closed his eyes against such fancies. Obviously he was not yet in his right mind. Rest. He needed rest, and although he had never even fallen asleep in the presence of anyone, not even any of his long line of mistresses, perhaps he would relax, just this once.

Kate heard a loud thump and, balancing the tray she held in one hand, she pushed open the door to her father’s bedroom, her heart in her throat. To her relief, Grayson was not lying in a heap on the floor, as she had feared, but was sitting on the edge of the bed, obviously intending to rise.

“What are you doing?” she cried, rushing forward to place his breakfast on the nearby table.

“I cannot stay in this bed one moment longer,” he replied, in an arrogant tone that dared her to refute him.

“Well, you certainly cannot leave it!” Kate said. “Just yesterday you were consumed by fever!”

“And today I am not,” he said, his gray eyes boring into her.

Kate refused to let him intimidate her. “You must regain your strength. Look, I’ve brought you some- . thing to eat.”

“More gruel?” he asked, cocking one dark brow disdainfully.

“No,” she shot back. “Bread and milk, and a bit of stew.”

“Milk?”

“Yes, milk,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I suppose you would prefer brandy or champagne?”

“Well, I certainly will not drink milk. I am not some swaddling babe for you to nurse!”