“Yes, and the shirt, as well.” Kate spoke calmly enough, but she felt panic beating at the back of her mind, and pushed it away. She had to think clearly now, if she was going to save him. And there could be no “if” about it. Although they had been buried here in the country for a long time, she had heard Wroth mentioned before. Rich, powerful, dangerous. Those were words that were used to describe him, and although Kate had not heeded them when she was bent upon revenge, now they returned to taunt her.
For one fleeting moment, she pictured herself dangling at the end of a rope while an eager crowd chanted, “Murderess!” Then she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. “Fetch Mother’s recipe book, please,” she told Tom as she sat down beside the marquis to check his dressing. “And see if there are any spirits in the house. There might be some brandy in the cellar. And bring up a bowl of water, straight from the spring, so it is especially cold.”
Tom hesitated, and she shot him a look that questioned his delay. “It’s not proper,” he protested, with a mulish expression.
Kate nearly gave in to the hysterical laughter that bubbled in her chest. “Proper? Proper? How could that possibly matter now? Lucy is already with child by a man who pretended to be someone he isn’t!”
“Well, that doesn’t—”
Kate cut him off with a sharp glance. “We must fend for ourselves, Tom. You know that.”
The two shared a poignant look until Tom dropped his eyes and mumbled one of his oaths. “Well, it ain’t right.” He gazed at her again, suddenly apologetic. “I’ll take care of him.”
“No,” Kate replied firmly. She had entrusted Wroth to Tom today, and he had failed her, whether by accident or by design. It had only reinforced the lesson she had learned a long time ago: The only way to ensure that anything was done was to do it herself.
Waving Tom away, she waited until she heard his footsteps leave the room before she checked her charge. Beneath the unnatural flush that stained his cheeks, she could see the strength and beauty of his face. He had kissed her, this elegant, assured nobleman, Kate thought, still amazed by the memory.
She had no notion why he had done it. Perhaps he thought her a housemaid, eager for a tumble, or maybe he thought any girl who would dress as a boy fair game. Whatever his motivation, Kate was secretly thrilled by his fleeting interest. In the quiet struggle her life had become, she had never thought to visit the dark, sensuous world she had known in his arms. Now she would have that small wonder to carry with her always.
Snorting at the strange, sentimental turn of her thoughts, Kate leaned forward, turning her attention toward the sick man. He was her responsibility, and if she had other reasons for saving him besides selfpreservation, she did not care to examine them.
Kate opened bleary eyes and turned them toward the bed, lit by a brace of low-burning candles. Wroth had thrown off all the covers and was tossing restlessly, and the only thing she knew to do was bathe him with cool water. Originally, she had just wiped his face, but as the evening wore on and his body warmed, she had boldly pressed the wet cloth to his arms and his chest. It had gained him some respite, but now he was thrashing again, hotter than ever. Kate’s eyes darted down to the breeches that still covered him.
Tom would never approve.
Lucy would have an apoplexy.
To the devil with them, Kate thought, determination firming the line of her lips. She would do whatever was necessary to save this man’s life, and if she had to see him in his underclothes to do so, it was no one’s concern but her own.
Pulling the covers down to the bottom of the bed, Kate moved toward his waist. She knew how to work the fall, for she often wore boy’s trousers, but it was one thing to dress herself and quite another to undo the buttons that covered the front of the tall, virile marquis. Her fingers fumbled against the body beneath, but finally she had his breeches open. Grabbing a fistful of material at either side of his hips, she tugged hard, and nearly fell facefirst upon his thighs at the sight that met her eyes.
He wasn’t wearing any drawers.
Sitting back on her heels, Kate drew in a deep breath and stared at the large male member that lay nestled in a thicket of dark brown hair. “Gad,” she whispered to herself over the pounding of blood in her ears. Suddenly she felt as hot as the man on the bed. Feverish. Out of her head.
Swallowing hard, Kate forced herself to look away. There was something positively common about a woman who stared at a prone man’s private parts, she decided. Perhaps all these years of struggle and solitude were taking their toll and her wits were fleeing her. God forbid. Her wits were the only thing that held them all together.
Drawing in a deep breath, Kate positioned herself over his hips again and tugged at his clothing while trying not to look at what she had uncovered. Unfortunately, the breeches would not give way easily. They fitted like a second skin and clung tenaciously to his sweat-soaked body, and Wroth did nothing to help. In fact, he abruptly turned over, nearly taking her with him.
Swaying on her knees, Kate righted herself once more and gripped the material, which was now twisted around his thighs. “Good,” she muttered. “Now I no longer have to look at…that.” Instead, she found herself staring at his narrow, tightly muscled behind. “Bloody hell,” she whispered, flushing anew.
As if in reply, Wroth groaned, and, alarmed at the possibility that she might be caught admiring his nether regions, Kate gave the breeches a swift yank. Although she fell back upon the blankets, gasping from the effort, she had them at last. Scooting off the bed, she tossed the garment to the floor and refilled the bowl from the bucket of spring water Tom had reluctantly left with her.
It was a good thing her old coachman could not see her now, she thought, a bit giddily. Not only had she wrestled the clothes from a man, but she had enjoyed her view of the resulting naked form. A strained giggle bubbled in Kate’s chest as she placed the cloth on Wroth’s back, away from the dressing that covered the wound.
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
