Deborah Simmons - Tempting Kate

The effort it cost him to get the damn thing over his head and properly situated at his wrists had him dizzy and gasping. What the devil was the matter with him? Leaning over, he managed to put his boots on without the aid of a valet, but he was panting from the exertion.

He looked around for his waistcoat and coat, to no avail. Obviously his other clothing had not yet dried, and though he was not accustomed to dining in his shirtsleeves, it was an improvement over eating in bed, wasn’t it? Grayson was not sure, His shoulder and head were aching so much that his stomach was forgotten.

Courtesy, if not curiosity, required that he make an appearance, so he opened the door and moved along the hallway. The main stairway curved down to a tiled entranceway, but no butler or footman met him when he reached the bottom. Pausing to catch his erratic breath, he stood blinking up at the painted ceiling and was seized by a sense of familiarity. Had he been here before, staring at the historic scenes, or was this a hazy memory from the night before, when he had faded in and out of consciousness?

With no attendant to lead him, Grayson was forced to follow the sound of voices along a columned gallery. His steps faltered, as he again wondered if he had walked this way before, even though he knew he could not have done so last night. The strange feeling persisted, however, and, coupled with the need to find his way without help, created an eerie sense of unreality.

It continued when he reached the large dining hall, where his motley band of abductors waited: Kate, as lovely and untouched as an angel; her sister, scowling shrewishly; and the ubiquitous Tom, who looked as if he’d be more comfortable in the stables than surrounded by fine china and crystal.

“My lord,” Kate said. “You look a bit pale. Should you be up and about?”

Grayson watched her move toward him, as if in a dream, her face gentle with concern, her fingers reaching for him. Perhaps she would stroke his brow again, he thought dazedly. She came to a stop before him, her dark curls shining gloriously in the candlelight. He wanted to touch them.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Grayson tried to execute a bow, but dizziness overcame him. “No,” he managed to answer her formally, before everything went black.

For the second time in two days, Kate watched in horror as the marquis of Wroth collapsed onto the floor. She knelt beside him and put her hand to his forehead, her worst fears confirmed.

“He’s burning up! Tom, carry him upstairs again!”

“Really, Kate!” Lucy exclaimed, obviously disgusted. “You should never have brought him here. Now look at him.”

Kate did, and her heart ached to see him brought low again, his handsome face pale and wan, his eyes closed, his tall body felled by fever. She swallowed painfully. “I’ll see to him,” she whispered.

“Oh, very well. I’ll keep supper for you,” Lucy promised, “but I might as well eat his portion. No sense letting it go to waste, after all.”

“No, of course not,” Kate replied, in response to her sister’s cold-blooded behavior. It was a defect of her character that Lucy rarely considered anything more important than her own wishes, but she had suffered much in recent years, and could be forgiven for selfishly wanting an extra helping for herself and her child.

“I would have left him upstairs, if I’d known I’d have to drag him back up again,” the coachman grumbled as he hefted the marquis’s prone body.

“Then you should not have let him come down,” Kate said, without sympathy. “I should have checked on him, as I planned, rather than let you talk me out of it.”

“I tell you, it ain’t proper for you to be tending a gentleman!”

Kate gave an inelegant snort as she followed the coachman through the gallery and up the stairs. “As if that matters now!” Was she the only one with any sense in this household? The marquis of Wroth was injured and sick, suffering by her own hand, and no one seemed the slightest bit concerned. Indeed, the others appeared put out. “How inconvenient of the man to fall ill from the bullet I sent through him!” she said, tossing the biting sarcasm at Tom’s head.

He ducked and hurried forward, dumping the marquis unceremoniously on the bed that had once been her father’s. “Guess I’ll have to get his boots off of him again.”

“Yes, and the shirt, as well.” Kate spoke calmly enough, but she felt panic beating at the back of her mind, and pushed it away. She had to think clearly now, if she was going to save him. And there could be no “if” about it. Although they had been buried here in the country for a long time, she had heard Wroth mentioned before. Rich, powerful, dangerous. Those were words that were used to describe him, and although Kate had not heeded them when she was bent upon revenge, now they returned to taunt her.

For one fleeting moment, she pictured herself dangling at the end of a rope while an eager crowd chanted, “Murderess!” Then she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. “Fetch Mother’s recipe book, please,” she told Tom as she sat down beside the marquis to check his dressing. “And see if there are any spirits in the house. There might be some brandy in the cellar. And bring up a bowl of water, straight from the spring, so it is especially cold.”

Tom hesitated, and she shot him a look that questioned his delay. “It’s not proper,” he protested, with a mulish expression.

Kate nearly gave in to the hysterical laughter that bubbled in her chest. “Proper? Proper? How could that possibly matter now? Lucy is already with child by a man who pretended to be someone he isn’t!”

“Well, that doesn’t—”

Kate cut him off with a sharp glance. “We must fend for ourselves, Tom. You know that.”

The two shared a poignant look until Tom dropped his eyes and mumbled one of his oaths. “Well, it ain’t right.” He gazed at her again, suddenly apologetic. “I’ll take care of him.”

“No,” Kate replied firmly. She had entrusted Wroth to Tom today, and he had failed her, whether by accident or by design. It had only reinforced the lesson she had learned a long time ago: The only way to ensure that anything was done was to do it herself.

Waving Tom away, she waited until she heard his footsteps leave the room before she checked her charge. Beneath the unnatural flush that stained his cheeks, she could see the strength and beauty of his face. He had kissed her, this elegant, assured nobleman, Kate thought, still amazed by the memory.

She had no notion why he had done it. Perhaps he thought her a housemaid, eager for a tumble, or maybe he thought any girl who would dress as a boy fair game. Whatever his motivation, Kate was secretly thrilled by his fleeting interest. In the quiet struggle her life had become, she had never thought to visit the dark, sensuous world she had known in his arms. Now she would have that small wonder to carry with her always.

Snorting at the strange, sentimental turn of her thoughts, Kate leaned forward, turning her attention toward the sick man. He was her responsibility, and if she had other reasons for saving him besides selfpreservation, she did not care to examine them.

Kate opened bleary eyes and turned them toward the bed, lit by a brace of low-burning candles. Wroth had thrown off all the covers and was tossing restlessly, and the only thing she knew to do was bathe him with cool water. Originally, she had just wiped his face, but as the evening wore on and his body warmed, she had boldly pressed the wet cloth to his arms and his chest. It had gained him some respite, but now he was thrashing again, hotter than ever. Kate’s eyes darted down to the breeches that still covered him.