by his bed, the sweet perfume of female warmth wafting over him, along with a gentle hint of mint.
He could order her from the room. He was used to commanding. Unlike some of his peers, he wore the mantle easily. He never drank to excess, never ate too much or let lust rule him. Sometimes he gambled a little recklessly, and he had been known as a daredevil in his youth, but his mind had never been fogged or his body weakened—until now.
It was a strange feeling, this loss of his own abilities. He did not like it, and yet, he did not feel as threatened as he might have expected because she was here.
The pup who had shot him.
That ought not to comfort him, he thought wryly, but he accepted her little tale of mistaken identity. More than that, he believed the stark regret apparent in those amazing eyes of hers. How could he distrust a woman who woke him by weeping all over his chest? And hers had not been the delicate tears of a lady feigning distress. Hers had been the deep, soulful cries of someone hurting, and he had wanted to heal her wounds, assuage that ache, solve every last one of her problems. But he could barely sit up.
Frustration roused his senses, and he lifted his lashes to study her, only to find that she was warily watching him, too. Was she afraid? No. He had a feeling that not much frightened her, yet there was a strange spark in her lovely eyes. If not fear, then what? Passion?
The notion brought back his dreams of her—half lucid, half crazed offerings of an eroticism like nothing he had known before. Cool caresses. Fevered desire. They all swirled together in hazy memory, but when he looked at her now, simple and prim in a worn sprigged-muslin gown, Grayson knew they could have no basis in reality.
And yet…the stirring in his lower anatomy reminded him that he was completely naked. Who had stripped him and cared for him? He knew it had been her, but he asked anyway. “You have been tending me?”
She nodded. A blush stole up her cheeks, bringing life and color to her pale face, but she met his gaze directly. This one would not refuse a challenge, he thought, vaguely excited by the notion. At least one part of his body seemed unaffected by his injury or his illness, and although the thought heartened him, it was a bit inconvenient. He slid one knee upward, hiding the evidence as best he could.
“Why?” he asked bluntly.
“There was no one else,” she answered, just as plainly.
The mysteries that surrounded her loomed before him once more. Who was she? What was she, this girl with the serious demeanor and the courtesan’s hands? Some figment of his imagination, perhaps? Had he conjured her out of his own restless ennui? She looked nothing like Charlotte, with her small frame and boyish body, but she shone with a purity that knifed into his soul. Strength. Honesty. Intelligence.
Grayson drew a ragged breath and closed his eyes against such fancies. Obviously he was not yet in his right mind. Rest. He needed rest, and although he had never even fallen asleep in the presence of anyone, not even any of his long line of mistresses, perhaps he would relax, just this once.
Kate heard a loud thump and, balancing the tray she held in one hand, she pushed open the door to her father’s bedroom, her heart in her throat. To her relief, Grayson was not lying in a heap on the floor, as she had feared, but was sitting on the edge of the bed, obviously intending to rise.
“What are you doing?” she cried, rushing forward to place his breakfast on the nearby table.
“I cannot stay in this bed one moment longer,” he replied, in an arrogant tone that dared her to refute him.
“Well, you certainly cannot leave it!” Kate said. “Just yesterday you were consumed by fever!”
“And today I am not,” he said, his gray eyes boring into her.
Kate refused to let him intimidate her. “You must regain your strength. Look, I’ve brought you some- . thing to eat.”
“More gruel?” he asked, cocking one dark brow disdainfully.
“No,” she shot back. “Bread and milk, and a bit of stew.”
“Milk?”
“Yes, milk,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I suppose you would prefer brandy or champagne?”
“Well, I certainly will not drink milk. I am not some swaddling babe for you to nurse!”
Kate glanced down the length of him. He had put on one of her father’s nightshirts, but it barely hung to his knees and she could see the muscled calves below and his bare feet, finely boned and arched. Suddenly, she was swamped by the memory of touching those feet, of running her fingers over those toes, and her cheeks blazed.
He need not prove his manhood to her; she was all too much aware of it. Forcibly Kate jerked her attention back to his face, certain that she would see a sardonic gleam in his eyes, but they held no amusement. Their cool gray color belied the fire that leapt in their depths, sending heat stealing through her limbs until she felt weak. Kate turned abruptly, physically breaking away from the gaze that so enthralled her, and busied herself with his tray.
“You cannot keep me here forever, you know.” Kate’s hands stilled, his words slicing through her like a knife, and she sucked in a sharp breath, glad her face was hidden from him. Naturally he wanted to leave. She had always known he would, but the impatience in his voice still hurt. After all, she had spent nearly a week caring for him, tending his every need and worrying that he might die. She blinked, annoyed at herself for feeling anything for the arrogant nobleman.
“I must get on my feet in order to take care of myself.”
Kate heard his frustration, but said nothing. Disdainful, domineering ass! She stared at the milk, wishing she could force it down his ungrateful throat.
“Damn it, pup, I have to use the chamber pot!”
Kate whirled on him then. “And just who do you think managed that when you were sick?”
His features hardened into a harsh mask, while his eyes blazed fury, and Kate took a step back, suddenly aware of all the strength and power that was leashed, temporarily, by his recent illness. The dark stubble of unshaven beard on his face made him look less like a marquis and more like a very dangerous man. He would be a formidable foe, and she wished she could call back her hasty admission. He was not one to ask for help or appreciate it when given, no matter what the circumstances.
“I remember you touching me,” he said, his voice as cutting as a blade. “Do you want to do the honors again…or do you only fondle unconscious men?”
Kate felt her face flame, and she pushed away from the table so violently that the breakfast tray rattled. Striding to the door as quickly as was possible without relinquishing her dignity, she damned the skirts that hindered her. She wished for her old trousers and her old life—before Grayson had appeared to complicate everything.
At the threshold, she turned. “Fall flat on your face, then,” she said, managing to keep both her expression and her tone cool. “I’ve picked you up for the last time.” The well-aimed taunt failed to prick him, however, for Grayson neither cursed nor scowled. He simply lifted those dark brows, and she wondered how he could look so damned smug wearing nothing but her papa’s old nightshirt.
Kate did not slam the door, but went straight to her own room and tugged off the faded, tight gown, to replace it with a pair of old trousers, a shirt and a soft waistcoat. She was through playing the maid for that arrogant beast!
Marching down to the kitchens, she began to make some long-overdue bread, taking her anger out on the fat lumps of dough. If Grayson was well enough to get about, he was well enough to leave! He could go this afternoon, she told herself, denying the ache that formed in her chest. Instead, she pounded the dough more fiercely, startling Cyclops, the one-eyed cat, away from his spot by the fireplace.
Kate straightened then, astonished by her own heat. She was the quiet one. Calm, capable Kate. She never lost her temper! And as soon as