to fell her attacker, but her fiendish skirts kept her imprisoned, and then she was pulled back against a body that she knew in an instant was that of their guest.
“Wroth!” she cried against his fingers, but it came out as nothing more than a muffled gasp. No matter, for this man was not the marquis, anyway. Perhaps he was a criminal who had been intent upon burglarizing Wroth’s town house, Kate thought wildly, before her good sense denied it. She tried to think clearly, but he leaned over her, his breath tickling her ear, and her immediate fears for her person receded in the face of a new threat. She flushed, suddenly aware of the length of him, pressed to her, touching…
“Are you alone?” he asked, in a voice that evinced no strain whatsoever. Apparently a bullet wound did little to ruffle this man’s composure! Kate nodded quickly in answer, then eyed him in amazement as he pivoted swiftly and silently closed the door behind them.
Her relief at no longer being held to his muscular form was short-lived, for he turned her toward him, and Kate found herself confronting his bare chest, only inches from her face. She had viewed it last night, of course, but in the light of day, it took on a new vitality, its muscles rippling beneath its dusting of dark hair. Remembering the feel of that expanse, Kate sucked in a sharp breath. She tried to focus her attention elsewhere, but it was caught by the sight of his exposed nipple, brown and hard, and she felt blood surge to her cheeks.
“Who’s behind this?” he asked roughly, and Kate jerked her gaze back to his face. Confident and intent, he seemed oblivious of his state of undress— and her inappropriate reaction. She swallowed hard, seeking her usual calm demeanor, but she kept being distracted by his closeness. His height. His heat. Despite her efforts to deny it, warmth stole through Kate’s limbs and pooled in the lower half of her body, leaving her brain devoid of reason. Unable to form an answer to his question, she simply stared up at his dark angel’s visage.
Despite his threatening stance, she felt no menace emanating from him. His eyes were not cold and bleak, but a clear gray that spoke of difficulties overcome, achievements won, and a solitary life that touched something deep within herself. She could admire this man, Kate suspected, slightly awed by the prospect. Then her gaze slid lower to full lips, so very near and poised to speak, and she stared, fascinated.
“You’re the one,” he whispered. “You bit me.”
“Did I?” Kate murmured. She tried to concentrate, but his fingertips slid across her mouth in a slow, exotic glide that made her breath go ragged beneath them. Her lips trembled and parted as his face moved closer, and her lashes drifted shut just as his open mouth came down upon hers, hot and firm and intense.
She was melting. Slowly, irrevocably, sinking into a netherworld of dark sensation. A heavy, delicious languor surrounded her, robbing her wits and making her arms snake up around his neck. This man was the source of it all, with his naked chest and his wonderful kiss, and she leaned into his muscular body, seeking…
When his tongue touched hers, Kate gasped, astonished. One of his hands closed around the back of her neck, holding her steady, and then the dance began. His tongue swirled and delved and stroked, coaxing hers to do the same. Hesitantly she assented, and knew another dizzying drag on her senses, for he tasted like nothing she had ever known—like warmth and shadows and forbidden longings. Her fingers slid down to his shoulders, seeking purchase on that hard flesh.
Then, suddenly, he was gone, swaying away from her, and Kate blinked up at a face devoid of color. Alarm cleared her head quickly as she saw a red stain that had not been there before mark his bandage. She had reopened his wound!
“Sit down!” she cried, urging him backward to the bed. He seemed bemused by her concern, but willingly took a seat on the edge. Tossing aside the pillows that had disguised his exit, Kate pushed him down against the blankets just as the door swung open.
“Here now, what’s this?” Tom asked, in a voice rife with suspicion and warning. Obviously, the sight of her straddling the covers with a half-naked man did not please her old coachman.
“He’s bleeding again!” Kate answered. Although she slid to the side of the bed, she refused to turn around, unwilling to let Tom see her crimson face. She had no desire to explain that the damage had been done by her own questing fingers! Nor did she wish to describe what had gone before. Busying herself with changing the dressing, Kate schooled her face to show nothing to either the curious coachman or the man who had so shattered her composure.
What had she been thinking? All this time she had chastised Lucy for being seduced, while she had just let herself be kissed by a total stranger. Not only that, but she had returned his attentions willingly. Eagerly! Just the thought of that hot, dark place to which he had taken her made Kate’s hands fumble with the wrapping.
“Still, you should not have come in here alone, Katie girl,” Tom scolded, walking toward her. He stopped nearby to study the man, who lay quiet under her ministrations. “This gent might be dangerous. What’s that mark on his arm?”
“That’s where I bit him,” Kate answered, her face flaming anew. “Last night,” she felt compelled to add. A muscle jerked beneath her touch, as if the stranger were amused by that small admission, and she yanked on the linen angrily.
“Ahem…” Tom mumbled. “Well, if you’re done coddling him now, move away from the fellow. I’ve a mind to get some answers.”
Far from appearing concerned about the upcoming interrogation, their guest only leaned back on the pillows in a more comfortable position, his muscles flexing as if to taunt her. Hurriedly Kate finished her task, jerking her hands away from the warmth of his skin and shifting her attention to his face.
Her eyes caught his, and without speaking, he lifted one dark brow in the arrogant manner she remembered from the confrontation in the study. She had known then that this man would always be in complete control of any situation in which he found himself. It had annoyed her yesterday; now it alarmed her. Who was he? And how would he treat those who had done him ill? Kate shivered at the thought.
“Comfy now?” Tom jeered. Apparently he was oblivious of the threat posed by this man, but Tom had never been particularly perceptive. It fell to Kate to read the more complex nuances of those few people with whom they came in contact.
“Actually, no,” the stranger answered evenly. “I would be a lot more at ease if you would tell me just who the hell you are and who you are working for.”
Tom’s mouth dropped open, and Kate felt a shudder of admiration for the wounded man’s composure. Despite his prone position, stretched full length on the bed, he was cool as you please, and subtly menacing, besides.
Recovering himself, Tom grunted rudely. “Don’t tell him anything, Kate,” he advised. His face had taken on that stubborn cast that made her want to groan. So much for her peace offering! So much for trying to make the man feel like a guest. The breakfast! Biting back one of Tom’s oaths, Kate ran to where the tray had fallen and tried to clean up the mess. Perhaps if she washed off the precious piece of ham…
“I’ll be asking the questions, gent,” she heard Tom say in a belligerent tone. “Just who the hell are you, and what were you doing in the marquis of Wroth’s study last night?”
“As puzzling as it may seem to one of your intellect, I am Grayson Wescott—”
“Aha!” Tom said, turning triumphantly toward Kate.
She scrubbed at the carpet with a linen napkin, trying vainly to remove the jam stain. “I believe Wescott is the marquis’s family
