sister is not a liar!” the boy said, stepping forward angrily. It was the move Grayson had been waiting for, and he lunged, taking the boy to the floor with the speed that had made him an excellent boxer. He wrested the gun away, but the youth fought like a hellion, knocking it from his hand, and it skidded away. Nor could Grayson easily retrieve it. He had his hands full trying to subdue the body beneath him, which was kicking and flailing like a wild thing.
It was only when his groin came up against that of his opponent that Grayson began to suspect the truth. Startled, he looked down at the face below him. It was contorted in fear and rage and marked with dirt, but beneath the grime was a clear complexion, gently curved cheeks, thick, dark lashes and eyes the color of amethysts. What the devil? Thrusting a hand beneath the youth’s baggy coat, Grayson found his answer when his fingers closed over a small but perfectly formed breast. A female!
The stunning discovery distracted him just as the girl, obviously taking exception to his groping, settled her teeth into his arm. She bit down hard enough that he released her with a curse, and then Grayson was not quite sure what happened. He saw her reach for the pistol, but before she could even lift the weapon, it discharged.
Grayson felt the sharp, searing heat of metal ripping through his flesh, but he managed to surge shakily to a standing position and lurch toward the desk that held his own pistol. Having no intention of dying at the hands of this dangerous female, he knew he must not give her a chance to reload.
He needn’t have made the effort, for she leapt up and dropped the weapon as if it were suddenly distasteful. Facing him with an expression of horror on her delicate features, she cried, “Gad! You’ve been shot!”
It seemed that the pup had quite a grasp of the obvious. “Yes,” Grayson agreed, before crumpling to the floor at her feet.
Kate Courtland stared numbly at the prone body of the marquis. She had come here to scare him, maybe even to get some badly needed funds to support the child that her sister was carrying, but, angry as she was with the man, she had never intended to harm him.
Her first inclination was to flee from the terrible scene, but how could she leave him here like this, his tall, graceful form prostrate, his dark vitality quenched? Kneeling down beside him, Kate saw the telltale red stain upon his coat and bit down on her knuckles to stifle a gasp. What if he bled to death? The house was silent as a tomb, and she had no idea when the servants would return.
His tanned skin had gone pale, and Kate leaned over him, noting the lock of dark hair that had fallen over his forehead. His eyes were closed now, but she had seen them. Clear and gray they were, and fringed with dark lashes under elegant brows. His was a man’s face, with sharp planes and a strong jaw, but he was also beautiful, like an archangel fallen to earth.
Gad! Kate leaned back on her heels and swore more forcefully under her breath. The man was injured, and she was admiring his looks! Yes, he was handsome and polished, yet every inch a male, with an underlying strength that spoke of steely determination, but these very attributes were presumably what had plunged Lucy into disgrace. Kate shook her head. She had never thought to agree with her younger sister, but, apparently, they concurred on one thing. The marquis of Wroth was as appealing as he was dangerous.
He presented no threat now, Kate thought, although the realization gave her no satisfaction. Whatever his sins, she could not leave the man to die. Bending over, she tried to lift his shoulders, but he was heavy. All muscle, she remembered with a blush, for she had felt the press of his body weighing her down during their struggle.
Pushing such thoughts aside, Kate continued her efforts. She had just managed to get him into a sitting position when she heard a low sound at the window. Whistling softly in answer, she soon saw the grizzled head of her coachman poking over the sill.
“I thought I heard a shot,” Tom said, and then his dark eyes grew wide. “Cor, Katie, what have you done now?”
“I put a bullet in him.”
Letting loose a stream of foul curses, Tom climbed through the opening. “Damn it, girl, now you’ve done it! The likes of him ain’t worth a murder charge, or do you fancy a rope around your lovely little neck?”
Tom’s words froze Kate in the act of trying to get the marquis to his feet. She had never considered the repercussions should her carefully laid plans go awry, but they had, and the consequences were more serious than she could ever have imagined. She cringed to think what would happen to them all if she was caught here, dressed as she was, with the wounded marquis.
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
