than Lucy’s disappointment. The real Wroth was gravely ill, and she must return to him.
The thought made her rise suddenly, and if Kate felt more connected to the man lying upstairs than she did to her own flesh and blood, she was reluctant to admit it.
Grayson tossed and turned for three more days, lost in the grip of a fever that Kate did not know how to ease. She neglected her duties, snapped at Lucy and Tom and rarely left the side of the bed where her victim thrashed and groaned. She forced him to drink, bathed him and soothed him as best she could, but now, as the evening set on the fifth day since she had boldly climbed through his study window, Kate felt exhausted, physically and emotionally.
It was the latter that dismayed her. Lucy was the sensitive one. She was the sister who was prone to vapors, who wore her feelings like a banner for all to see, soaring from the heights of excitement to the depths of despair so swiftly that Kate could only blink in amazement.
Kate, on the other hand, was the quiet one. Calm and capable Kate. Strong and sensible, she was the sister counted upon to think things through, to arrange and execute whatever needed to be done. The past few years had been a struggle, but she had managed—until now. Even her foolish confrontation with Grayson had seemed like a practical solution at the time. They needed money, and the father of Lucy’s child, by rights, ought to help them. Perhaps she had taken some pleasure in intimidating the man into the bargain, but she had never intended to hurt him.
For once, her carefully laid plans had gone awry. Not only had she crossed the wrong man, but she had wounded him, besides. And now, unable to help him, she felt overwhelmed with despair at the loss. It was an emotion so deep and painful as to confuse her.
Kate told herself that her grief stemmed from her own culpability. After all, if not for her, he would not be here, suffering so. Yet she knew it was more than that. Despite the briefness of their encounters and the terseness of their few conversations, she felt something for the marquis of Wroth that went beyond her responsibility and his powerful effect on her senses. She felt as if she had been waiting all her life for him to arrive.
And it scared her to death.
Even if he survived, the elegant, powerful Grayson had no place in her existence, other than to destroy it. Kate shivered, as if she might break apart from the excess of sensibilities. Overwrought. How often had she used that word to describe Lucy? And now it fitted her—a witless, helpless mass of nerves.
Kate felt a hot pressure behind her eyes and blinked angrily. She had not cried since her mother’s death so many years ago. Nothing, nothing, had made her give in since, and she was not about to start now. But when she looked at Grayson’s handsome face, pale and drawn, his vivid strength sapped, she dropped her head and wept.
Kate cried for all the times in the past that she had not, for all the hopes and plans of the Courtlands that had come to naught, and for the man before her, who was so much more than anything she had ever known. She wept silently, the tears coursing down her cheeks and clogging her throat until she turned her face and snuffled. She might have remained there, spent, but for the soft tickle of hair that was not her own.
Gad, she had laid her cheek against his chest! Kate sniffed abruptly, both horrified and comforted by her strange berth, for even after days and nights in the throes of a fever, Grayson still emanated strength and power. The sensation of safety, of protection, was so strong that Kate let herself drift in it. How long was it since she had counted upon anyone but herself? She smiled, imagining the great force of the marquis of Wroth behind her, surrounding her, keeping her close.
As if lost in a dream, Kate slowly rubbed her cheek against the fine dusting of dark hair that pressed against her. Dampened by her tears, it felt soft and slick, but did not disguise the hard muscles beneath. Drawing a deep breath, she took in his scent, underlying the smell of sweat and bed linens, and knew a heady longing such as she had never felt before.
“Is this some new torture?”
Kate jerked up her head so swiftly that her sight blurred. She blinked, not daring to move, as Grayson’s face came into focus, his eyes clear and one dark brow gently cocked in question. Or was it amusement? Kate blushed scarlet and hopped back into her seat by the bed.
“I was…uh, listening for your heartbeat. You’ve been very ill.”
“Well, I’m not dead yet,” he said dryly. And Kate wondered just how a man who had been sick for days managed to keep his aplomb. Did nothing daunt him? Did he ever doubt himself, in the long, quiet hours of the night? “But perhaps you had better check again. It seems to have accelerated alarmingly.”
Kate eyed him skeptically, noting the ever-soslight curve of his lips. Was he laughing at her? She tried to look detached as she laid a palm against his forehead. It was cool. Blessedly cool, at last.
“Your fever’s broken!”
“That one, at least,” he whispered. He seemed to lean into her hand, and Kate could not resist stroking a strand of dark hair from his forehead. For one long moment, her eyes locked with his, and she felt the drugging warmth that came with touching him. It seeped into her bones, threatening to steal her wits, as she stared, fascinated, into his gray eyes, eyes that were alive with a wealth of knowledge and experience. Thirty-two years of it, to be exact.
Kate sat back abruptly, pulling her fingers from his skin and tearing her gaze away. It lighted upon the teapot. “Here. Have some of the tea I brewed you. It is a restorative from my mother’s recipe.”
He lifted his brows at that, but obediently took a drink from the cup she held out to his mouth. Obedient? Grayson? Kate nearly laughed at her misjudgment. This man would do nothing but what pleased him, and Kate could not help envying that kind of enlightened selfishness. It was something she could never indulge in.
But she indulged in an altogether different luxury as she watched his lips close over the rim, reminding her of the way they had taken hers. She blinked, trying to force away the sweet, hot image, but then she found herself entranced by the muscles in his throat as he swallowed.
This was madness! She had never been one to prevaricate or hide herself. That was Lucy’s venue. Hers was the direct gaze, the clear truth, and yet she found her eyes faltering, her hand trembling as it held the fragile china. Her attention dipped lower, but the hairy, muscled expanse of chest that was so close to her was just as disconcerting. Heat rose in her cheeks, swamping her limbs and clogging her throat, as she stared at one dark male nipple.
“That is all I can manage at present”
Startled to hear him speak, Kate glanced up at his face. He had leaned his head back against the pillows, his thick lashes hiding his eyes, but the slight smile that played upon his firm lips left her wondering if there was some hidden meaning to his words.
The subtle threat was there, destroying her pleasure at his well-being, for with his recovery came a host of problems, not the least of which was Grayson himself. One of the things she had heard about the great marquis was that one did not cross him. His revenge was always swift and sure and merciless. Ruthless, Kate had heard him called, and she shivered, imagining the strength that had drawn her so compellingly being used against her.
What would he do to someone who had had the temerity to shoot him, albeit accidentally? And how could she defend herself—and them all—when he was back on his feet?
Grayson closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted from the simple effort of drinking her obnoxious brew. He was tired, deathly tired, but he was not accustomed to sleeping in front of an audience. It smacked of a vulnerability that he did not care to embrace.
He had never been vulnerable.
Grayson drew in a long, slow breath, waiting for some sound of her departure. He fully expected her to go. There was no need for her to stay, because he obviously