Deborah Simmons - Tempting Kate

For if this man, with his cool, confident air and his warm, competent hands, had been Lucy’s temptation, then Kate could well understand her sister’s submission. Indeed, she found herself wondering just what it would be like to succumb to the shadowy promise in his clear gray eyes, to fall from grace with this dark angel.

Sometime during the trip home, Kate checked Wroth’s wound again. She had managed to stop the bleeding, and judging from the sound of his even breathing, she could abandon her immediate worry that he might die in the coach. However, his improved condition brought a new concern. Increasingly, Kate feared that he would wake up.

Several times she had seen his eyes flutter open, and once she could have sworn that he studied her with detached interest. Her nervous fingers had faltered then, pressing too hard against his ragged flesh, and he had gone off again with a groan.

Kate had felt guilty, but relieved. After all, what would she say if he was suddenly alive, awake and coherent? Sorry I shot you, my lord, but now I plan to undo my mistake as best I can, if you’ll just come along quietly?

Somehow, as she studied his handsome face in the dimness of the coach, Kate could not imagine this man coming along quietly. Ever. For the first time since entering the town house, she began to wonder if Tom was right. Perhaps she was borrowing trouble by taking on someone who looked to be as dangerous as the marquis. But what else could she do?

Kate was never more eager to see the soft light in her own window, welcoming her home, as she was this night. Her relief at reaching her destination lasted until Tom pulled open the door of the coach, took one look at the marquis cradled in her lap and swore in disgust. “Mind that you don’t find yourself in the same fix as your sister, Katie, girl,” he muttered.

Kate gave him a cold glance that conveyed just what she thought of his warning. “I’ve stopped the bleeding, but I’ll need to clean and dress the wound thoroughly, if he’s not to pop off from a fever. You can put him in Papa’s old room.”

With a grunt of disapproval, Tom grabbed the marquis and heaved him half onto his back. “Careful, now!” Kate couldn’t help admonishing Tom, although the glare she received from him made her want to call back the words.

Ignoring the coachman’s attitude, Kate jumped down and hurried toward the door. If they could get the marquis to bed without Lucy hearing, she could tend to his injury, find her own rest and deal with her sister in the morning.

Unfortunately, her streak of bad luck was holding firm, for as soon as she opened the door, she heard Lucy’s voice from the landing. “Katie, is that you?” her sister called, in a wavering whisper that made Kate feel guilty for having left her alone.

“Yes, it’s me. Go on back to bed, dear.”

“What are you doing at this hour? Is that Tom with you? What on earth has he got?” Groaning, Kate looked up to see Lucy descending the stairs with a candle while Tom started up, the marquis at his side.

“Go back to bed, Lucy,” Kate ordered, knowing she was wasting her breath. Lucy had as strong a will as the rest of the Courtlands, when she chose to exercise it.

“What have you got there, Tom? My God, is that a man? What happened? Who is he?”

Tom, who was faltering under the strain of the marquis’ weight, heaved himself up the last few steps and said, “It’s your fellow, Miss Lucy.”

“Mine—? Katie, what have you done?” Lucy rounded upon her sister just as Kate reached the top of the stairs.

“There was an accident. I didn’t shoot him on purpose, I can tell you that much,” Kate said, brushing past her outraged sister to open the bedroom door for Tom. She followed the grunting coachman into the room and watched him dump the marquis upon the bed with a groan, just as a bloodcurdling shriek erupted behind them.

Lucy stood in the doorway, clutching the frame as if to hold herself upright. “You shot him! Katie, how could you?”

“Never mind that. Tom, help me get this coat off of him,” Kate instructed, bending over to remove the blood-soaked material.

“Don’t you dare touch him!” Lucy wailed. Before Kate could respond, Lucy rushed to the side of the bed and pushed her away. “Wroth! What have they done to you?” she cried dramatically as she threw herself at the prone body of the marquis.

Kate watched dispassionately as Lucy, ever mindful of her limited wardrobe, stopped short of the wet coat. Her lashes fluttered as if she might swoon for a moment, but then they flew open and she stared at the marquis with a horrified expression on her lovely face. Jerking back from the bed, Lucy settled her hands on her hips, arms akimbo.

“That is not Wroth,” she announced, lifting a finger to point it accusingly at the man in the bed.

“It most certainly is,” Kate said.

“I ought to know better than you, and that is not him!” Lucy protested. “Why, Wroth is young and handsome, not old and cruel-looking.”

The strain of the evening’s events made Kate raise her voice in exasperation. “This man is certainly not old! Nor is he cruel-looking.” She paused to eye the marquis. He was definitely not soft, but it was power and determination that hardened his features—not a mean streak, she would swear upon it. And handsome? Kate had never seen a man more beautiful in her life.

“I don’t care what you say, he is not Wroth!”

“Who is he, then?” Kate asked.

“I don’t know, nor do I care!”

“Girls! Girls!” Tom’s admonitions rose above the squabbling, drawing Kate’s attention. She swiveled toward him, just as Lucy did, with the same question on her lips.

“What?” Lucy fairly shrieked.

The coachman heaved a great sigh. “You had better quit arguing and do something, before the fellow bleeds to death all over the best bed linens.”

Grayson drifted in and out of the nightmare. Just when his head began to clear, he would feel a jolt, followed by a sharp rush of pain that sent him back into oblivion. He was not willing to surrender, but each time he thought to struggle, he heard a deep, soothing woman’s voice, lulling him into the darkness once more.

She stroked his forehead. It was not a sexual touch, but rather a gentle, maternal motion. His mother? No, she had been dead for years. And this woman was whispering something about temptation. Had he fallen asleep in a brothel? That was not his style. He had been either drugged or attacked by some ruffians, who had obviously left him the worse for the encounter. And the woman?

With great effort, Grayson managed to lift his lashes. At first he couldn’t focus, but then he saw a shadowy face take shape, and in it, eyes the color of amethyst. Her eyes. Who was she? He opened his mouth to speak, but then his whole body lurched and rough hands grabbed at him, lifting him and… nothing.

She was touching him again. Grayson felt the intriguing brush of fingertips across his shoulder, gentle, but capable. She was wrapping something around him. Had he been injured? He could not remember.

“I refuse to stand here while you…handle a strange man’s chest!” A different woman’s voice, high and grating, sounded, followed by footsteps.

A snort, but a female one. His female. “Seems to me that’s what got us in this mess, Lucy,” she muttered. “You and some stranger’s chest.”

“Cor, Katie, it weren’t the chest what caused the problem!” A man. A rough baritone. Chuckling coarsely. How many people were here? Grayson tried to clear his head, but the woman rested a hand on his forehead, distracting him with her smooth palm. He remembered it. Soft and soothing.

“Better dose him up with laudanum,” the man said, and Grayson fought to rouse himself.