03 - The Wicked Lady Read Free

brown specks in the middle. As they stood staring at each other, she could see how they darkened to a deep royal blue, and she wondered what he was contemplating.
    Kristen couldn't read his eyes, so he must be good at keeping his emotions and thoughts to himself. His warning hadn't left her, though. She was no fool. She wouldn't push this man too far, and she'd pray he'd let her go. "I need tae wash my hands before working on ye shoulder."
    His eyes glittered with a reckless energy.  He seemed a little hesitant to let her go, but he did, and she felt a stab of disappointment.
    Gathering her wits, she found a metal basin and pitcher on a nearby stand. She poured water into the basin, then scrubbed her hands good with lye soap.
    When she came back to him she said, "I need tae remove yer shirt so I can clean the wound."
    She watched as he unbuttoned the white billowing shirt. He winced as he tried to remove the material off the damaged arm.
    "Here, let me." Kristen gently moved her hand down his arm, and a fine arm it was, too. He was very muscular, proving he'd done a bit of hard work. She loosened the material from the dried blood, not realizing she was rubbing her bust across his chest as she did so. Hearing his quick intake of breath, she looked sharply at him and asked, "Ye all right?"
    "I think so."  He scowled and his eyes darkened.
    He didn't look all right, and he sounded a wee bit funny, but since he was quieter, she ignored him. With the shirt removed she examined the nasty hole. She'd gotten used to taking care of unfortunates on the streets, so she was no longer squeamish. They all came to her with their bumps and bruises, but working on this one was very different. Her gaze went to the man's chest, and she breathed in the word "magnificent." Somehow she managed to keep a straight face. "Appears the bullet went straight through the meaty part of ye arm," she commented as she placed the dampened cloth on his wound.
    He flinched.
    "Sorry," she murmured, not liking the way he stared at her. It was as if he wanted to know all about her, yet she knew that was absurd. "I don't know yer full name," she realized out loud.
    "Trevor Claremont." He paused. "And yours is Kristen--?"
    "Johnstone."
    "That figures," he said and glowered.
    "And what do ye mean by that?" She put her hands on her hips.
    "I've no use for the Johnstones."
    "Appears ye do at the moment," she answered tartly and resumed her nursing. She couldn't help smiling at his frowning face.
    "My da died a long time ago, so ye canna have known him." Gently, she cleaned his shoulder. Then she slid the box over and took some white salve and started applying it to the wound. His skin was warm, and his fragrance hadn't escaped her notice either. He smelled like the wind and the sea. A fresh scent she couldn't remember smelling on a man before.
    She barely touched him, but each time she did, his muscles tightened. She wondered why her touch affected him so when she couldn't possibly be hurting him. This man was a puzzle to her. He seemed gentry, yet he was different. The dandies, as she liked to call them, were such an indifferent lot who looked down their noses when they saw the likes of her.
    She hadn't always been on the street. She had a vague memory of growing up in a big house, but the memory had dimmed so much over the years, that she wasn't sure if her memory was genuine or a dream. She couldn't remember her real father, but sometimes in the wee hours of the morning she could hear his Scottish burr. "Kristen, my girl, yer goin' to be a real beauty someday." He would be disappointed that his prediction hadn't come true. When Kristen had questioned her mother about her da and what their life had been, she'd only received a blank look. The answer was always the same. "Why dredge up the past? This is your life now. Only you can make the best of it." Then two years ago, her mother had died of consumption, leaving Kristen with her stepfather and a three-year-old