Tempting Kate

It was an accident. Kate knew she had never even touched the trigger, but who would believe her? She had snuck into the marquis’s home and threatened him. From the way Tom was glaring at her, it seemed even he had judged her guilty.

“Damn it, girl, I should never have agreed to this fool errand,” the coachman muttered. “Breaking in was bad enough, but did you have to kill him, too?”

Kate stilled the panic that threatened to cloud her thinking and shot a stern look at Tom. “He’s not dead, yet. Now, help me get him to his feet”

“What for? Are you going to bury him in the garden?”

Kate ignored her coachman’s sarcasm. “No. We’re taking him with us.”

“What?” Tom’s gravelly voice rang out loudly, and the marquis stirred in her arms.

“You heard me,” Kate said, pushing her small frame under one of Wroth’s wide shoulders. “Now help me, Tom, before we’re both arrested.”

“And you think that kidnapping the gent’s going to help?”

“Lower your voice! I’m not going to kidnap him, just make sure that he doesn’t pop off. Now hurry!” Kate urged, firmly eyeing the man who had become much more than a servant in the past few years. Their gazes locked and held until Tom’s skidded away in resignation. Blowing out a disgruntled sigh, he heaved the marquis up and moved across the room.

“He ain’t no lightweight, this one,” he muttered as Kate slipped away to retrieve the errant pistol. She could see no blood upon the carpet, thankfully, and went swiftly to the window to help Tom lift Wroth through the opening.

“He’s got the looks of the devil himself, and muscles, besides,” Tom said, gasping for breath as he dragged the body out into the night. “You’re borrowing trouble with this one, Katie. Make no mistake about it!”

“You just get him to the coach,” she answered sharply. “I can handle the marquis.”

Kate’s confidence flagged when Tom draped Wroth over the cushioned seat and climbed out onto the box, leaving her alone with the injured man. He was still unconscious, and the front of his coat was soaked with blood, making Kate wonder whether he would survive the trip to Hargate. She leaned across the space between them to get a good look at his wound in the dim light of the interior lantern.

Probing the spot as gently as she could, Kate was relieved to find no sign of the bullet. He was lucky, for it appeared to have gone straight through his shoulder, but she still needed to stop the bleeding with something. She was shrugging out of her coat when a jolt sent Wroth sliding precariously near the cushioned edge.

Muttering one of Tom’s favorite oaths, Kate swiftly slid into the opposite seat and laid the marquis’s head on her lap. His dark lashes lifted, and he groaned before closing them again. “Hang on, Wroth,” she said softly. Her lips trembled over his name, and she pursed them tightly together, angry at her own reaction. Turning her grimy coat inside out, Kate pressed the clean lining to the wound while she tried to recapture the outrage that had driven her to his town house.

“Conniving bastard! If you had kept your breeches on, you wouldn’t be in this predicament,” she whispered, but her soft tone robbed the accusation of some of its sharpness, and the shadowy confines of the coach seemed to close in on the two of them. Wroth stirred, turning his face toward her, and the movement heightened Kate’s awareness of him, resting upon her thighs, his head cradled so intimately.

Her knowledge of males was limited to Tom and memories of her father, a rather distant but kindly figure. Vaguely she recollected the presence of stable boys and footmen, but they were nameless and faceless, long gone now. She had never been this close to a man in her life.

It was disturbing. Her breath grew ragged, and her fingers faltered as they held the cloth tightly to his shoulder. Under her palm, Kate could feel the muscles that spread from his broad chest, and she knew that this was no idle-rich dandy, but a strong, virile man. She shifted, dismayed, yet she could not escape the weight of him—or the feel of him.

Her cheeks flaming, Kate tried to concentrate on his sins, but, in all honesty, the marquis of Wroth had surprised her. She had never expected her sister’s lover to be so mature, so confident. So…dangerous. He had caught her off guard with his dark good looks and the disdainful lift of his brow. Unfazed by her threats, he had stared, cool as you please, at the pistol she pointed at his heart. Apparently he had just been waiting for his opportunity to strike.

Her color rose higher as Kate remembered the ease with which he had knocked her down and the way his body had covered hers. Hot and heavy and… something indescribable. Then his face had hovered over hers, shadowy with intent, and his hand had… Gad! Kate flinched, startled by the vivid recollection off his fingers closing upon her breast. A strangled noise escaped from her throat

Bloody hell, it was easy enough to see how Lucy had been seduced! Indeed, Kate felt as if she owed her sister an apology. Although she had never blamed Lucy aloud, she had silently accused her many times. All those uncharitable thoughts about her sister’s lack of common sense and weakness of will returned to mock her.

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.