Free The Lass Wore Black by Karen Ranney

it tells me is that I don’t belong anywhere,” she said, then wished the truth back the moment she spoke it.
    “You’re only seeing a part of you.”
    How easy that was to say, especially looking as he did.
    “You cannot see a person’s character,” she said. “Or view a soul. All we have is a person’s appearance by which to judge him.”
    “Foolish, if that’s all you use. I’ve known my share of ugly saints, and beautiful sinners.”
    That’s what she’d been, once. A beautiful sinner, a woman who’d taken a lover—three, to be exact—in violation of her upbringing, society’s rules, and, no doubt, common sense. She hadn’t found herself with child, but she had discovered that she enjoyed lovemaking.
    If she’d waited, if she’d been as pure and virtuous as she should have been, she would never have known that.
    What man would want her, damaged and scarred as she was now?
    Did he have a great many lovers? Aunt Dina only employed three maids, and all of them were plain. Is that why he was late? Had he seduced one of them?
    She concentrated on her meal, pushing away any thoughts of the footman, annoying as he was.
    A moment later she put her fork down, blotted her lips with her napkin, then stood, walking to the door. She held it open for him, and without a word spoken, he gathered up the tray and followed her.
    “How are you feeling?” he asked.
    “Is that part of your new duties? Not only to monitor my meals but to engage in conversation? I would much rather we talked about the weather than my health.”
    “Do you always limp?”
    When he didn’t leave, she brushed the air with her hand, as if to banish him. When he still didn’t move, she glared up at him, then realized he couldn’t see her expression.
    “Yes, I always limp,” she said, annoyed that she had to divulge that bit of personal information.
    Now would he leave?
    “Have you tried any liniment?”
    “Liniment? As in what you use for horses?”
    “I found it’s efficacious in certain circumstances,” he said.
    “What, you learned that from a groom friend of yours?”
    “My quarters are over the carriage house. I can’t help but learn something there.”
    That was a surprise.
    “The servants’ quarters aren’t good enough for you?”
    “Perhaps Mrs. MacTavish is worried about my proximity to the women servants,” he said.
    There was that damnable smile again.
    She grabbed his arm, conscious of two things: the material of the shirt seemed finer than most footmen would wear, and his muscles flexed at her touch.
    After guiding him out the door, she closed it, turning the lock, and hoping he wouldn’t try to test either the repairs of the door or her resolve.
    Now all she had to do was worry about tomorrow.

 
    Chapter 8

    B ecause he called on patients in Old Town every day, Mark didn’t need to give his driver instructions. Brody pulled the carriage to the side of Lothian Road as he did each morning. Certain areas of Old Town could only be traveled on foot.
    As he had all week, Brody frowned down at him when he left the vehicle.
    His driver was tall and angular, reminding him of a heron. He also walked with his long nose jutting forward as if searching for food.
    Sarah’s mission on earth was to fatten Brody up, but it didn’t seem to be working. No matter how much the man ate, it didn’t add anything to his frame. Mark had several patients like that, all of them healthy. His corpulent patients had most of the medical problems.
    “Sir, do you think it’s safe?” Brody asked.
    Last week a man had been garroted not far from there in another robbery. His attackers succeeded in strangling him, but not to death, since the man was still recovering from his injuries. Gangs of youths were also known to shoot randomly throughout Old Town. Even though they were occasionally arrested, others took their place.
    “When has Old Town ever been safe?” Mark asked.
    Crime had been on the rise lately. A certain element in Old Town