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.
“What?” Lucy fairly shrieked.
The coachman heaved a great sigh. “You had better quit arguing and do something, before the fellow bleeds to death all over the best bed linens.”
Grayson drifted in and out of the nightmare. Just when his head began to clear, he would feel a jolt, followed by a sharp rush of pain that sent him back into oblivion. He was not willing to surrender, but each time he thought to struggle, he heard a deep, soothing woman’s voice, lulling him into the darkness once more.
She stroked his forehead. It was not a sexual touch, but rather a gentle, maternal motion. His mother? No, she had been dead for years. And this woman was whispering something about temptation. Had he fallen asleep in a brothel? That was not his style. He had been either drugged or attacked by some ruffians, who had obviously left him the worse for the encounter. And the woman?
With great effort, Grayson managed to lift his lashes. At first he couldn’t focus, but then he saw a shadowy face take shape, and in it, eyes the color of amethyst. Her eyes. Who was she? He opened his mouth to speak, but then his whole body lurched and rough hands grabbed at him, lifting him and… nothing.
She was touching him again. Grayson felt the intriguing brush of fingertips across his shoulder, gentle, but capable. She was wrapping something around him. Had he been injured? He could not remember.
“I refuse to stand here while you…handle a strange man’s chest!” A different woman’s voice, high and grating, sounded, followed by footsteps.
A snort, but a female one. His female. “Seems to me that’s what got us in this mess, Lucy,” she muttered. “You and some stranger’s chest.”
“Cor, Katie, it weren’t the chest what caused the problem!” A man. A rough baritone. Chuckling coarsely. How many people were here? Grayson tried to clear his head, but the woman rested a hand on his forehead, distracting him with her smooth palm. He remembered it. Soft and soothing.
“Better dose him up with laudanum,” the man said, and Grayson fought to rouse himself.
“He isn’t conscious,” his female protested. Good girl, Grayson thought, relaxing once more.
“He’ll be awake soon enough,” the man muttered. “And then I promise you that there’ll be hell to pay.”
How right you are, Grayson thought grimly.
When his mind finally cleared, Grayson had the good sense to keep it to himself. He had enemies, and though he had thought himself untouchable, there was always a chance that one of them had gotten reckless. Unfortunately, the dull ache in his head and his shoulder assured him quickly enough that he had been hurt, and badly.
It all came back to him then. The begrimed urchin who was not a boy. The gunshot. And then what? All he had was a hazy memory of the young pup and flashes of conversation. Had he passed out? Damn, it was hard to believe that he could go a round with Gentleman Jackson himself, yet a bullet had rendered him helpless as a babe.
He was not accustomed to feeling helpless.
And no longer would he, Grayson decided. It was time to wrest control of the situation from whoever was behind it. And he was fairly certain that someone had to be paying the pistol-wielding pup who had attacked him, for he had ruined no one’s sister. With the possible exception of Charlotte Trowbridge, innocent virgins held no allure for him, and he certainly had never gotten one with child. His father had lectured him early on about a man’s responsibilities, and he had sired no bastards.
Keeping his breathing low and even, Grayson listened for any sound that would indicate he had company. Vaguely he remembered the presence of a man and a woman, along with the girl with the gentle touch and pleasing voice.
Nothing. Grayson heard only the call of birds outside his window. Deliberately he fluttered his lashes, while snatching a quick look at his surroundings. He was alone. Opening his eyes, Grayson first inspected his shoulder, where he found a clean dressing covering the wound. Moving his arm experimentally, he sucked in a breath. Although it hurt like hell, he was grateful that the bullet had not struck him any lower.
Glancing downward, he realized that he was naked from the waist up, and the discovery brought back memories of the girl’s light caresses. Fool, he told himself immediately. The chit was probably some street thief who would do anything for money, including shooting an unarmed man.
But he was in no grimy prison. With increasing amazement, Grayson studied the room. Spacious and open, it glowed with the morning sun that shone through the open draperies. The walls were white panels with touches of gilt, and the ceiling was elaborately carved. Although few, the pieces of furniture, including the large bed in which he lay, were fine examples of Louis “XIV.
With some effort, Grayson managed to ease himself to his feet He swayed and righted himself with a swift grab at the bedpost. Blood loss, he thought, willing away the trace of dizziness. Slowly he put one foot in front of the other until he reached the window. Keeping to the wall, he peeked out through the draperies and drew in a long, slow breath at the sight that met him. Instead of the sooty skies of London, he was met with green lawns and the unmistakable outbuildings of a country home.
Where the devil was he?
Neatly arranging the toast and jam and tea upon the tray, along with the last of the ham, Katie headed toward the stairs. It was a peace offering for their guest, as she had come to think of him. She had no idea who he really was, but she was responsible for shooting him in Wroth’s study and dragging him here, and now she was going to make her apologies.
Although Kate sincerely hoped he was the understanding sort, from the looks of him, she doubted it. Perhaps a nice breakfast would make him more amenable to explanations. Drawing a deep breath, she started up the steps, cursing the skirts that got in her way. Out of deference to their visitor, she had forgone her usual breeches for one of her old gowns, but even at a size too small, it was cumbersome. Snatching at the material with one hand, she balanced her burden in the other as she hurried toward Hargate’s largest bedroom.
Pushing open the door with her hip, Kate peeked in, relieved to see that the man was still abed. Although she was sorry for his injury, she suspected that the mysterious stranger would be much easier to handle prone than upright. Well she remembered his cool confidence in the study, and it made her wary.
Apparently not wary enough, for she crossed the threshold only to be halted abruptly by a hand that clamped down hard over mouth and an arm that snaked around her from behind. As she watched in dismay, the tray toppled to the floor, spilling its contents on the Aubusson
