Deborah Simmons - Tempting Kate

Kate glanced down the length of him. He had put on one of her father’s nightshirts, but it barely hung to his knees and she could see the muscled calves below and his bare feet, finely boned and arched. Suddenly, she was swamped by the memory of touching those feet, of running her fingers over those toes, and her cheeks blazed.

He need not prove his manhood to her; she was all too much aware of it. Forcibly Kate jerked her attention back to his face, certain that she would see a sardonic gleam in his eyes, but they held no amusement. Their cool gray color belied the fire that leapt in their depths, sending heat stealing through her limbs until she felt weak. Kate turned abruptly, physically breaking away from the gaze that so enthralled her, and busied herself with his tray.

“You cannot keep me here forever, you know.” Kate’s hands stilled, his words slicing through her like a knife, and she sucked in a sharp breath, glad her face was hidden from him. Naturally he wanted to leave. She had always known he would, but the impatience in his voice still hurt. After all, she had spent nearly a week caring for him, tending his every need and worrying that he might die. She blinked, annoyed at herself for feeling anything for the arrogant nobleman.

“I must get on my feet in order to take care of myself.”

Kate heard his frustration, but said nothing. Disdainful, domineering ass! She stared at the milk, wishing she could force it down his ungrateful throat.

“Damn it, pup, I have to use the chamber pot!”

Kate whirled on him then. “And just who do you think managed that when you were sick?”

His features hardened into a harsh mask, while his eyes blazed fury, and Kate took a step back, suddenly aware of all the strength and power that was leashed, temporarily, by his recent illness. The dark stubble of unshaven beard on his face made him look less like a marquis and more like a very dangerous man. He would be a formidable foe, and she wished she could call back her hasty admission. He was not one to ask for help or appreciate it when given, no matter what the circumstances.

“I remember you touching me,” he said, his voice as cutting as a blade. “Do you want to do the honors again…or do you only fondle unconscious men?”

Kate felt her face flame, and she pushed away from the table so violently that the breakfast tray rattled. Striding to the door as quickly as was possible without relinquishing her dignity, she damned the skirts that hindered her. She wished for her old trousers and her old life—before Grayson had appeared to complicate everything.

At the threshold, she turned. “Fall flat on your face, then,” she said, managing to keep both her expression and her tone cool. “I’ve picked you up for the last time.” The well-aimed taunt failed to prick him, however, for Grayson neither cursed nor scowled. He simply lifted those dark brows, and she wondered how he could look so damned smug wearing nothing but her papa’s old nightshirt.

Kate did not slam the door, but went straight to her own room and tugged off the faded, tight gown, to replace it with a pair of old trousers, a shirt and a soft waistcoat. She was through playing the maid for that arrogant beast!

Marching down to the kitchens, she began to make some long-overdue bread, taking her anger out on the fat lumps of dough. If Grayson was well enough to get about, he was well enough to leave! He could go this afternoon, she told herself, denying the ache that formed in her chest. Instead, she pounded the dough more fiercely, startling Cyclops, the one-eyed cat, away from his spot by the fireplace.

Kate straightened then, astonished by her own heat. She was the quiet one. Calm, capable Kate. She never lost her temper! And as soon as she recognized that, her fury ebbed away. She was being foolish, undone by the irritating presence of Grayson and exhausted by her efforts to heal him.

Now he was well, and she had best be rid of him. Perhaps Tom could return him to London tonight, she mused. The darkness might keep him from divining their location, and he would never be able to connect the three of them to Hargate. Kate frowned. Although it sounded logical, she suspected that blindfolding the canny lord would not help. He could probably smell his way, if he wanted.

Kate felt the drag of discouragement and shoved it aside, along with her worries over her part in Grayson’s illness. Obviously, the marquis wanted nothing more than to get away from them. If they were lucky, once gone he would not pursue the matter—especially with a magistrate.

Kate took his dinner up to him only because she knew Lucy would not do it, and Tom… Well, the way Tom had been acting—like a mongrel marking his territory—it would be just as easy to do it herself. She arranged the slices of fresh bread, meat pie and cherry tart on the plate. It had been good to bake, she thought with a firm nod. She felt better than she had in days, and she was determined not to let Grayson ruin her mood.

He was abed when she entered, but not asleep, for she quickly caught his gaze, clear and assessing. Those sharp gray eyes missed nothing, she realized, swallowing at the daunting knowledge.

“Here is your dinner,” she said, putting the tray down on the bed. “After you’ve finished, I’m sure Tom would be happy to take you back to London.” There. She had said it. Let him leap for joy now. She moved to the table, unwilling to see his relief.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Startled, Kate glanced over her shoulder to find him watching her with his usual composure. “I told you that I do not intend to leave until I ferret out the scoundrel who used my name.”

So he had said, but that had been before… Kate looked down at the remains of the breakfast tray, stubbornly refusing to feel anything. “But you said you would not…be kept here forever.”

“I meant confined to the bed, pup.”

The richness of his voice seeped into Kate’s bones, warming some part of her that she had not known was cold. Declining to melt, she straightened her spine determinedly. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? Pup? Poppet, then,” he said, and she turned her head to look at him. His lips were curved into a hint of a smile, but she could see no trace of his infamous disdain. “I do not like being bound to the bed, or even to the room,” he explained, gesturing to encompass his prison. “I have never been ill before, and I cannot say I care for it”

Kate felt her own mouth twitch in reply. This was all the apology she would get, but she would take it. Hiding her pleasure, she reached out for the breakfast glass and found it empty. She swiveled toward him. “What did you do with the milk?”

He lifted a brow. “What do you think?”

She put a hand on her hip. “I imagine you tossed it out the window.

“His lips curled just enough to warm her insides. “What a poor opinion you hold of me! I drank it.”

“You what?”

“I drank it. I grew thirsty, and suspected that you would not bring me anything else until it was gone.”

“What a poor opinion you hold of me,” she echoed. He grinned, and the effect was astounding. Surely even Lucy could not deny the beauty of the man when he revealed that expanse of straight white teeth. Staring numbly, Kate watched his gaze drop.

“What the devil are you wearing?” he asked.

Kate flushed, remembering her trousers. When she put them on, she had been angry and out of sorts. Now she found she did not want to face his contempt. “I have work to do,” she said brusquely.

“What kind of work?”

“I keep busy,” she said.

“That’s no answer.”

“It doesn’t matter. These clothes make it easier to get about. I like them.” She knew her cheeks were bright with color, but she kept her chin up, and her gaze level with his.