Love With the Perfect Scoundrel Read Online Free PDF

remove every last article of clothing on both of us and climb in this bed to take the chill from your bones.”
    She shrank back, horrified. No one had ever spoken to her in such a coarse manner.
    His eyes softened and he stroked her head. “I’ve had plenty of practice at this. I promise you.”
    He must have learned on the battlefield. Lord knew he looked large enough to take the place of half a battalion. Grace grasped the flask he offered and drank two small sips before gasping. Then she loosened her hold on her favorite silk shawl, now quite ruined, and eased it up, keeping her breasts covered. A rush of pain flowed through her at the same moment she looked down to see a warm trickle of blood stream down her ribs.
    He tilted her chin up. “No. Close your eyes or look at me, but don’t look down.” His tone and his eyes had turned serious. As serious and implacable as a man who knew what he was doing—and knew it well. “I’ll not lie to you. This will hurt. You may cry out if you’d like, but don’t move. You’d best take a deep breath.”
    She did as he bade and sharp pain lanced her side before it changed to an awful pulling sensation.
    “You may curse if you’d like,” he murmured, breaking the tension.
    “I do not curse.” She exhaled roughly. “Ever.”
    One corner of his mouth rose slightly. “All right, Countess. Now take another deep breath.”
    Deep breath? Why, she couldn’t breathe at all, especially when he leaned over her again to peer at her bared flesh.
    “That’s it,” he said after a moment. “I’m sorry, but there’s something imbedded. I’ll remove it now.”
    She cringed, but then stilled when she saw the intelligence deep in his eyes. She nodded and a nearly unbearable probing pain engulfed her for long moments.
    “Got it.” She heard the clink of a piece of glass hitting crockery. Another round of shivering wound through her body. She just couldn’t control the cold, which had seemed to take up permanent residence in her body.
    Another stitch. More drawing up of the thread, and more concentration. The edges of her vision blurred, and blackened. She clenched her fists so tightly she was certain her nails would pierce the thin leather of her gloves.
    “Steady now. Three more I think—just a little higher here.”
    To her complete mortification, he raised the shawl and she could feel the chilled air on one breast. His bare forearm brushed the sensitive tip as he leaned in at an awkward angle. She had never felt so exposed in all her life.
    “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his eyes trained strictly on the thread and her injury. She concentrated on his face, partially covered by the many layers of dark hair. One lock was a whisper away from her breast. The warmth of his breath bathed her bared flesh and she could feel the tip of her breast tighten involuntarily. The relentless tension in the room was leaving her lightheaded, until he casually broke the silence by low melodic humming.
    She exhaled slowly.
    Her vision cleared as his hands appeared to be tying a knot.
    And then another.
    And, blessedly, a last one.
    “Finished.” He cut the last of the threads and tucked her shawl back into place. Placing the needle in the dish, he turned to her. The light of humor was gone from his face, and Grace spied something very like sympathy in his expression.
    She closed her eyes against the feeling it evoked. From behind her eyelids, a shadow passed over and she felt him lean in again and stroke her hair.
    Flustered, she inhaled, only to notice a potent woody scent. Ferns and moss, combined with a smoky pine fire, and mountain wind invaded her senses. He smelled of raw male essence washed clean in a crystal clear lake. It was the aroma of undeniable masculinity. She opened her eyes.
    “You are a surprise,” he said quietly at her temple as he rearranged the pillow.
    “How…so?” she whispered unevenly.
    “You’re a fraud. Your avowed cowardice is outrageous. You could have at