Tempting Kate. Deborah SimmonsЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 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