Her amusement fled when she touched the golden skin that covered his taut muscles. Languor, sweet and drugging, stole over her, gentling her hand, slowing the strokes that cooled his fever but stoked her own. The feeling was so foreign and compelling that Kate took her time, letting her fingers drift over smooth flesh and her gaze linger over ridges of hard male muscle. There was no harm in it, after all, she told herself, for he needed to be bathed, and he would remember none of this.
He was so beautiful, Kate mused, as she wiped down firm thighs dusted with dark hair. If only she could keep him… The thought startled her so that Kate dropped the cloth onto the sheet. Retrieving it from between his legs, she tossed it into the bowl, heedless of the splash.
This would not do at all. It was one thing to admire his body and treat his wounds, but Kate wanted no bond forming between her and this man. It was bad enough that she had shot him, making her feel responsible for him, and bad enough that he had kissed her, making her feel grateful to him, but she had no room for any other sentiment concerning the marquis of Wroth.
As Kate stared at him in dismay, the lethargy that had settled over him under her ministrations abruptly departed and he rolled onto his back, throwing out one long arm to reveal the dark shadow beneath. He groaned, as if protesting her decision, or at the very least the end of his bath, and his fist banged against the headboard.
“There, there,” Kate said. “Stop thrashing about. Wroth!” What had he said his name was? Grayson Wescott. “Grayson. Sh, Grayson.” She was leaning over him, dragging his arm back beside him, when suddenly she found herself pulled down on top of his chest. His strength, even when he was so obviously ill, was alarming, and too late Kate remembered the subtle aura of danger that clung to him.
“Oh!” she cried as she felt his fingers tangle in her curls. She pushed her palms against the damp hair that covered his broad muscles, but she was trapped, held tightly against him. Heat surrounded her, along with the heady scent of clean sheets, male sweat and…Wroth. Kate felt dizzy, disoriented, as she hovered only inches from his face. Then his lashes lifted, and the eyes that met hers were bright from fever, but surprisingly lucid. Was he awake? So stunned was she that Kate could only stare into the gray pools, her breath caught, her wits flown.
Slowly she felt his fingers tighten in her curls. “Are you trying to kill me again, pup?” he asked, as clear as day.
Grayson clutched the silky strands that clung to his fingers and wondered if he was dreaming. She had been stroking him again, but not just his brow, and there was nothing maternal about it. He had felt her unmistakable touch on his back, on his buttocks— hell, even between his legs! Yet the shocked look on her face spoke only of innocence and horror.
No dream, this was a nightmare. A nightmare of heat and sensual caresses that came to nothing but a throbbing groin, a thudding head, and the frightened face of a lovely young girl. Uttering a foul curse, Grayson fell back upon the pillows and heard her scramble away, only too eager to escape him.
She was back in a moment, trying to force some cold tea on him, when the only thing he wanted to taste was her. Pushing away the obnoxious stuff, he turned over and buried his face in a pillow that held her scent. The darkness drew him in, and he went, eager to lose himself in its depths.
Even the nightmare was preferable to a reality such as this.
Tom hitched his trousers and walked into the empty kitchen, his stomach growling at the lack of breakfast smells. Usually Kate was already up baking bread long before now. And there was always a little something ready for him. Where was she?
Abruptly he remembered where she had been when he left her last night, and he hurried toward the servant’s stairway, taking the worn steps as fast as his aged legs could carry him. He didn’t even stop at Kate’s door, but went straight to her father’s old room and walked in, without bothering to knock.
His fears, vague and formless, faded away as soon as he saw her. She was asleep in a chair beside the bed, curled up like a kitten, her dark curls tangled, her lovely face serene. The smile that formed at the sight of her disappeared when he glanced at the man stretched facefirst out on the bed. Barely covered by a pile of blankets, the fellow was a sprawling mass of hard muscle.
He didn’t look like any marquis.
Tom’s eyes narrowed at the broad expanse of naked male back while he contemplated a quick trip to London. If he couldn’t take this gent with him, then maybe he could at least put his ear to the street and see what he could hear about the real Wroth. Yes, he thought, scratching the stubble on his chin, after breakfast he would do just that. But meanwhile, his belly was rumbling, and since he didn’t want to disturb Kate, he backed out of the room, pulling the door shut silently behind him.
In a few minutes, he was down in the kitchen, lighting a blaze in the big fireplace and slicing some of yesterday’s bread for toast. Lucy liked hers just so, with a dab of butter and jam. And if she didn’t get it, they would all suffer.
He had just poured the tea when she arrived, a vision in one of her mama’s dresses that she had reworked into a new style. Not that he knew what was what with ladies’ gowns, but Lucy always looked lovely, even if she spoiled the effect with her manners sometimes. Like now.
“Where’s Kate?” she asked in a petulant voice.
“Up tending His Lordship.”
Lucy frowned. “Really, you would think that man was more important to her than her own family. See how she is neglecting us?”
Tom grinned at her inclusion of him among those of her exalted heritage, but hid his amusement from her. She would not like to be reminded that she had just adopted a coachman. He placed her plate before her, and was rewarded with one of her beautiful smiles.
“Oh, bless you, Tom!”
He brushed off the careless compliment as he sat down to join her. Although the eggs he had fetched from the henhouse were cooked as well as he could manage, they were not as tasty as any of Kate’s dishes, and his thoughts drifted back to the girl upstairs.
“She’s got that wounded-pup look again,” he muttered between bites.
“Who?” Lucy asked, absently, as she reached for her cup.
“Why, Katie, of course!”
Glancing over at him with some surprise, Lucy drew herself up regally. “Katie may not be a great beauty, but at no time has she ever resembled a canine.”
“No! Katie don’t look like a dog. She has that expression she gets whenever she brings home one of her injured curs, or a bird with a broken wing, or that one-eyed cat.” Tom shuddered and looked around, half expecting the mention of the feline to conjure up the creature. The furry devil was well-known to steal your supper when you weren’t looking.
Once convinced the cat was not lurking about, he turned his attention back to Lucy. “You know how she must take in every sorry creature that she comes across.”
Lucy assumed a thoughtful expression, then frowned slightly, as if the effort had pained her. “Well, I suppose he is rather like all her pets, in that he is hurt, but she will nurse him back to health and then he shall be on his way.” She lifted a pale hand and dismissed the stranger with a languid wave.
Tom paused over a mouthful of eggs. “I don’t think it will be that easy, Miss Lucy.”
“Whyever not?”
Tom laid down his fork. “Remember how she looked when that pigeon flew away? And that lamb with the bad leg disappeared?” At Lucy’s reluctant nod,