By Love Unveiled Read Online Free PDF

well-loved chairs and writing table had been replaced with new walnut furniture lacking any warmth. The earl’s bloodied sword lay on the rich carpet, staining it.
    He was a ruthless killer, and no doubt deserved the pain she was about to inflict on him. Yet the blood darkening the sheets beneath his leg reminded her that he was human, too, and merited her mercy.
    Best get the distasteful task over with, she told herself, lifting the needle.
    “I’m going to sew the wound closed so it heals better,” she told him as she approached the bed. “It will hurt, I’m afraid.”
    “It can’t hurt more than it already does. But I do hope you’re skilled with a needle. I don’t want my leg looking like a patched doublet come the morrow.”
    “Ah, but we gypsies are famed for our needlework,” she said lightly to draw his attention from her actions as she eased the needle through his flesh.
    “You’re no gypsy,” he gritted out through his pain.
    His words threw her into such confusion that she stuck him.
    “Damn it, woman, I’m not a pincushion!”
    “Forgive me, my lord.” She forced herself to remain calm. “Why do you say I’m no gypsy?”
    “You speak too well, for one thing. Your aunt has a gypsy accent, but your voice is refined. Very English.”
    This man was far too perceptive for her peace of mind. Remembering what her aunt had once said—that the best lie was the one closest to the truth—she said, “My father was a man of rank. Only my mother was a gypsy.”
    The earl’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a nobleman’s bastard? That would explain your speech, but only if you’d been raised in his household. Are you saying your father claimed you?”
    She continued her stitching. “I lived in his house until his death.” And she fervently wished the part about his death were no lie. “His family wouldn’t accept me after that, so I went to my aunt. She has cared for me ever since.”
    When a flicker of sympathy crossed his face, she fought a stab of guilt. She was protecting her aunt’s and her own lives. Under the circumstances, surely a small lie could be forgiven her.
    “And how many years might that be? How old are you?”
    “Twenty,” she said. “I’ve been with my aunt a long time.” It was true, sort of. They’d always been close.
    “You’ve had a hard life for one so young,” he said quietly.
    For a moment, his words confused her. Granted, she had no parents, but she had someone to care for her. Then she remembered that he thought her disfigured by smallpox. Suddenly, she resented his misplaced pity.
    “On the contrary, I’ve been very happy.” She drew the needle through his skin. “Life is like an overgrown garden. You can spend your time cursing the weeds, or you can work to pull them out. In either case, the flowers are what matter.”
    Cynicism turned the lines of his mouth rigid. “Some gardens are too overgrown to save. ’Tis better to level those to the ground.”
    She dropped her gaze to his leg, surprised by his bitterness. “Perhaps. But then you must be sure to plant a new garden.”
    He shook his head. “You will have your flowers, I see.”
    “I suppose I sound too cheery to a man just wounded by highwaymen.”
    “Or too naive.”
    That stung. “What would you know of hardship, my lord?” she bit out as she finished stitching the wound. “Have you ever suffered in childbirth or watched children starve? You’ve seen death in battle, ’tis true, but you no doubt gloried in the honor of it.”
    She thought of the poor men and women her parents had treated. “I’ve seen death come to those who didn’t deserve it, who only died because they were born to the wrong families. Your kind never sees that suffering. No, your kind only causes it.”
    His eyes darkened. “Your aunt isn’t the only one who dislikes noblemen.”
    She turned away, confused by her own reaction. Why had she responded with such venom? She didn’t dislike the nobility—her father was a