Deborah Simmons - Tempting Kate

When his tongue touched hers, Kate gasped, astonished. One of his hands closed around the back of her neck, holding her steady, and then the dance began. His tongue swirled and delved and stroked, coaxing hers to do the same. Hesitantly she assented, and knew another dizzying drag on her senses, for he tasted like nothing she had ever known—like warmth and shadows and forbidden longings. Her fingers slid down to his shoulders, seeking purchase on that hard flesh.

Then, suddenly, he was gone, swaying away from her, and Kate blinked up at a face devoid of color. Alarm cleared her head quickly as she saw a red stain that had not been there before mark his bandage. She had reopened his wound!

“Sit down!” she cried, urging him backward to the bed. He seemed bemused by her concern, but willingly took a seat on the edge. Tossing aside the pillows that had disguised his exit, Kate pushed him down against the blankets just as the door swung open.

“Here now, what’s this?” Tom asked, in a voice rife with suspicion and warning. Obviously, the sight of her straddling the covers with a half-naked man did not please her old coachman.

“He’s bleeding again!” Kate answered. Although she slid to the side of the bed, she refused to turn around, unwilling to let Tom see her crimson face. She had no desire to explain that the damage had been done by her own questing fingers! Nor did she wish to describe what had gone before. Busying herself with changing the dressing, Kate schooled her face to show nothing to either the curious coachman or the man who had so shattered her composure.

What had she been thinking? All this time she had chastised Lucy for being seduced, while she had just let herself be kissed by a total stranger. Not only that, but she had returned his attentions willingly. Eagerly! Just the thought of that hot, dark place to which he had taken her made Kate’s hands fumble with the wrapping.

“Still, you should not have come in here alone, Katie girl,” Tom scolded, walking toward her. He stopped nearby to study the man, who lay quiet under her ministrations. “This gent might be dangerous. What’s that mark on his arm?”

“That’s where I bit him,” Kate answered, her face flaming anew. “Last night,” she felt compelled to add. A muscle jerked beneath her touch, as if the stranger were amused by that small admission, and she yanked on the linen angrily.

“Ahem…” Tom mumbled. “Well, if you’re done coddling him now, move away from the fellow. I’ve a mind to get some answers.”

Far from appearing concerned about the upcoming interrogation, their guest only leaned back on the pillows in a more comfortable position, his muscles flexing as if to taunt her. Hurriedly Kate finished her task, jerking her hands away from the warmth of his skin and shifting her attention to his face.

Her eyes caught his, and without speaking, he lifted one dark brow in the arrogant manner she remembered from the confrontation in the study. She had known then that this man would always be in complete control of any situation in which he found himself. It had annoyed her yesterday; now it alarmed her. Who was he? And how would he treat those who had done him ill? Kate shivered at the thought.

“Comfy now?” Tom jeered. Apparently he was oblivious of the threat posed by this man, but Tom had never been particularly perceptive. It fell to Kate to read the more complex nuances of those few people with whom they came in contact.

“Actually, no,” the stranger answered evenly. “I would be a lot more at ease if you would tell me just who the hell you are and who you are working for.”

Tom’s mouth dropped open, and Kate felt a shudder of admiration for the wounded man’s composure. Despite his prone position, stretched full length on the bed, he was cool as you please, and subtly menacing, besides.

Recovering himself, Tom grunted rudely. “Don’t tell him anything, Kate,” he advised. His face had taken on that stubborn cast that made her want to groan. So much for her peace offering! So much for trying to make the man feel like a guest. The breakfast! Biting back one of Tom’s oaths, Kate ran to where the tray had fallen and tried to clean up the mess. Perhaps if she washed off the precious piece of ham…

“I’ll be asking the questions, gent,” she heard Tom say in a belligerent tone. “Just who the hell are you, and what were you doing in the marquis of Wroth’s study last night?”

“As puzzling as it may seem to one of your intellect, I am Grayson Wescott—”

“Aha!” Tom said, turning triumphantly toward Kate.

She scrubbed at the carpet with a linen napkin, trying vainly to remove the jam stain. “I believe Wescott is the marquis’s family name.”

“Eh?” Tom looked puzzled. “Some relative, are you? Were you staying with Wroth? He’s not saying he is Wroth, is he, Katie?”

“He is not Wroth! I told you last night that he does not resemble Wroth in the slightest,” a haughty voice declared.

Kate glanced over to see Lucy standing in the doorway, looking fetching in one of her best gowns. Her condition barely showed. Still, the sight of it was enough to make Kate swallow hard. How could she possibly have let the stranger kiss her, even if he was the most handsome, confident and powerful of men? Was that how Lucy had begun, melting in a warm embrace, only to end up carrying a child?

“I assure you, Miss—?”

“Don’t tell him who you are, Lucy!” Tom warned. It was the wrong thing to say to Lucy, of course. She immediately lifted her head and tossed her auburn curls in rebellion.

“And why not? I am proud of my family name! I, for one, have nothing to hide from this…this ruffian! When he finds out whom he is dealing with, he will take himself off soon enough.”

Kate eyed Lucy with some alarm, dismayed by her efforts to sustain their position. Although the stranger did not look like a gossip, what if he carried the tale of his imprisonment here back to London? Their ruination would be complete. “Lucy, be a dear, and return the tray to the kitchen, will you? I’ll take care of this,” Kate said, her casual tone belied by the look she sent her sister.

Although Lucy obviously wanted to refuse the request and remain right where she was, she contented herself with glaring at their guest. “I shall leave it to you to put him in his proper place!” she declared, before turning on her heel and regally exiting the room.

“Now, Mr. Wescott, or whoever you may be—” Tom began.

“Is that the sister you spoke of, the one with child?” the stranger asked, inclining his head toward the door through which Lucy had departed.

Kate felt her cheeks bloom again, but she held her head high. “Yes,” she answered honestly.

“Well, it seems that we have quite a coil to unravel,” he said, gazing at her from under heavy-lidded eyes. Bedroom eyes, Kate reflected, annoyed at the turn of her thoughts. He had propped one knee up, and appeared thoroughly at home in her father’s bed, his dark hair tousled, his chest bare. Suddenly, Kate wished he would cover himself, if only so her eyes would not continually drift to that beautiful, dark expanse.

“What coil? What are you talking about, man?” Tom asked.

Her mouth thinning determinedly, Kate walked to a dresser and pulled open a drawer, rummaging for one of her father’s old nightshirts. Most of his clothes had been commandeered for their own wardrobes, but such intimate wear remained intact. Grabbing one, she turned and tossed it to her guest. “’There. You can put that on,” she instructed.

“He won’t be needing your Papa’s underthings! He ain’t staying long enough.” Tom protested. “I’ll take him back to London today, whoever he is.”

“No, you won’t, Tom. He’s still shaky from loss of blood,” Kate argued, trying not to remember just how solid he had seemed a few minutes ago, when she was pressed up against his muscular form. “And what if he gets a fever?” she asked. Although it had not been her intention, she had shot this man, and being responsible for his injury, she felt obliged, to nurse him back to health—or at least until he could get up and around without bleeding anew.