The Heart of blade duology by Sherry Thomas pls. Нравится My Beautiful Enemy - Sherry echecs16.info КБ. The Hidden Blade - Sherry echecs16.info 2vfhgjhsrgrsegr - Read and download Sherry Thomas's book My Beautiful Enemy in PDF, EPub online. Free My Beautiful Enemy book by Sherry Thomas. Get this from a library! My beautiful enemy. [Sherry Thomas] -- In this spellbinding romance by the acclaimed author of The Luckiest Lady in London, a beautiful.
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The Luckiest Lady in London fullDescription From the superbly gifted Sherry Thomas comes this beautifully written romance about a marriage of convenience that turns inconveniently passionate Felix Rivendale, the Marquess of Wrenworth, is The Ideal Gentleman, a man all men want to be and all women want to possess. Even Felix himself almost believes this golden image. But underneath is a damaged soul soothed only by public adulation. Louisa Cantwell needs to marry well to support her sisters. She does not, however, want Lord Wrenworth—though he seems inexplicably interested in her. She mistrusts his outward perfection, and the praise he garners everywhere he goes.
He was on her side of the courtyard now, little more than the length of a kang away. She heard a whimper. It came from her own throat. The outlaws head turned. He was masked, but his eyes burned directly into hers. All the stories she had ever heard about bandits and robbers scuttled amok in her head. Hed capture her and sell her into slavery somewhere so far away that nobody would ever find her again.
Worse, hed sell her to mountain bandits who loved the taste of children, especially a pampered child like her, with extra-tender flesh from having never done a day of work in her life.
Bao-shun was her only hope. She must alert him. Hed come and rescue her. She opened her mouth to scream.
But the only sound she made was a muffled Hmmm against a hand that was suddenly clamped over her face. Be quiet! Her eyes bulged. The outlaw spoke with the voice of Amah. She had no time to react. Amah pulled her forcefully along the fifteen paces or so to the storeroom. The aura of power and danger that radiated from her was gone. She lay in a heap, her breaths alternating between quick gasps and gurgling, painful-sounding wheezes.
Ying-ying stood petrified, her mind empty except for an ever-expanding shock. Shut the door, you stupid girl. Her feet felt like two clumps of mud, but Ying-ying made herself move. Outlaw or not, the woman was still her amah, the person who had brushed her hair and laid out her clothes every day of her life. She had enough wits to close the door as quietly as she could, peeking into the courtyard as she did so.
Bao-shun had not yet returned from the alley, and no one else was astir. Get me on the kang, Amah ordered. She thought her back would break.
Amahs teeth ground with pain as Ying-ying, unable to lift her fully, half dragged her along the floor. At the edge of the kang, Amah grasped onto its side, and Ying-ying used her shoulders and back to push the older woman up. At last they had half of Amahs body on the kang; Ying-ying strained and flopped her over. Amah sucked in a breath.
Ying-ying tried to put a pillow under her head. Dont waste time, Amah panted harshly. Make a fire in the stove. Then she vomited a stream of blood onto her own chest. That set Ying-ying running. Despite the darkness inside the room, she was able to find the basket of scrap paper and wood chips without any difficulty.
Making a fire with shaking hands, however, was much harder: It took her five tries to get one going. Boil water. Amah kept a wide-mouthed, knee-high crock of water near the door.
Ying-ying lifted the woven reed lid and filled an empty clay pot. She fed a few bigger pieces of wood to the fire.
While the water heated, Amah rasped more instructions. Ying-ying located some dried flower buds on the bottom shelf. Tossed into the water, the buds gave out a clean, fresh scent, almost enough to mask the smell of regurgitated blood.
She was then directed to climb onto a chair and bring down a cloth bundle that had been concealed above the lintel. Inside were round balls the size of quails eggs wrapped individually in squares of silk, and a small porcelain jar.
She unwrapped two balls, plopped them into the clay pot, and took the jar to Amah. Amah struggled to pull her shirt up.
A small package fell onto the kang. This is where you apply the salve. Ying-ying gaspedwhat she touched was cold as ice. She yanked back her hand, opened the jar of salve, and dug out a dollop. Warm it first, Amah warned hoarsely. Ying-ying kept the salve between her palms until it smelled faintly of leaves and bark. It began to sting her hands, making her palms prickle hotly.
She smeared salve where Amahs skin was unnaturally cold and kept her palm over Amahs strange injury until Amah called for the brew.
When Ying-ying brought the bubbling potion, Amah drank it directly from the clay pot, stopping only to cool her tongue and gasp for air. When she had finished with the potion, she told Ying-ying to pull her shirt down and place the still-hot clay pot over where she had applied the salve. And put another pot on the stove. I must keep continuous heat over this. She did this for what seemed like hours while Amah lay in a half faint, saying only, Again, and, More. At last she said, Thats enough.
Ill live. Ying-ying shuddered. She had been blindly, unthinkingly following directions, too busy and confused to consider that Amah might have been in mortal peril. She set aside the clay pot she had been holding, stretched her cramping arm, and let herself pant for a while. The night outside was peacefully silent.
The pursuit must have been called offor taken to a different quarter of the city. Baoshun was returning to his room, the bells on his sword tassel jingling faintly as he crossed the middle courtyard.
Amah snored lightly. Ying-ying stared at her curled-up form on the kang. How had Amah become injured? Where had she learned to leap off rooftops without breaking her ankles? And why was she the one being chased by the law, as if she were a dangerous criminal who needed to be apprehended?
Ying-ying pulled a bedspread over Amah. As she tucked in it around Amahs person, her fingers came into contact with the package that had fallen from Amahs shirt. She took it to the stove where the fire still burned and lifted the stove lid for a bit more light. Inside the cloth was a small, thin panel of white jade, decorated with the image of a dancing goddess, the ribbons on her flowing robe floating all about her as if lifted by a gentle breath. To the goddesss left, the words, Emptiness is no other than form; form is no other than emptiness.
And to her right, Form is exactly emptiness; emptiness exactly form. A nice piece, the jade tablet, but to Yingyings thinking not quite worth the trouble.
It was too small and insubstantial, for one thing. And as pretty as white jade was, the material was not nearly as beautiful or valuable as kingfisher jade from Burma, which was as green as bamboo leaves in the shade.
Give it back, said Amah, startling her. Ying-ying wrapped up the jade tablet again before placing it in Amahs outstretched hand. I thought you were asleep. Everyone in her life is imperfect, including Ying-ying herself.
Leighton has always suspected that those around him were hiding themselves. He has a distant and difficult but loving relationship with his mother. She comes and goes with his younger sibling but never takes him from his father.
Leighton, his father and their friend form an intact family of their own. He feels secure and confident in their shared bonds even when unrevealed truths shake his childlike perception of his family.
Read it only if you are triggered by book deaths. The ship slanted up. She grabbed onto a handrail. A blue-white streak of lightning tore across the black sky, illuminating needles of rain that pummeled the ankle-deep water sloshing along the walkway. Illuminating a drenched Mrs. Chase, dressing gown clinging to her ripe flesh, abdomen balanced on the rail, body flexed like a bow—as if she were an aerialist in midflight.
Her arms flailed, her eyes screwed shut, her mouth issued gargles of incoherent terror. A more distant lightning briefly revealed the silhouette of a man standing behind Mrs. Chase, holding on to her feet.
Then the heavens erupted in pale fire. Thunderbolts spiked and interwove, a chandelier of the gods that would set the entire ocean ablaze. What had the Ancients said? You can wear out soles of iron in your search, and you would come upon your quarry when you least expect. The murderer of her child. But he heard. He jerked his head back at the last possible second, the knife barely missing his nose. The ship listed sharply starboard.
Catherine threw herself down as two sleeve arrows, one for each of her eyes, shot past her. The steamer crested a swell and plunged into the hollow between waves.
She allowed herself to slide forward on the smooth planks of the walkway. A weak lightning at the edge of the horizon offered a fleeting glow, enough for her to see his outline. Chase, there was nothing else of comparable size nearby. She flipped the knives around in her palms and caught Mrs. Chase, staggering backward—the woman was the weight of a prize pig and the ship had begun its laborious climb up another huge swell. She set Mrs. Chase down and let the small river on deck wash them both toward the door.
She had to get Mrs. Chase out of the way to kill him properly. More sleeve arrows skimmed the air currents.
Fortunately for her his sleeves were sodden and the arrows arrived without their usual vicious abruptness. She ducked one and deflected another from the back of Mrs. She kicked open the door. Sending both of her knives his way to buy a little time, she dragged Mrs. A match flared before Mrs. As Catherine set Mrs. Chase down on the wet carpet, Mrs. Reynolds, who should have stayed in her corner, docilely suffering, found the strength to get up, push the door shut, and bolt it.
He wanted to kill her almost as much as she wanted to kill him. One of them would die this night. She preferred to fight outside, where there were no helpless women underfoot. Almost immediately the door thudded. Reynolds yelped and dropped the match, which fizzled on the sodden carpet. Catherine grabbed the match box from her, lit another one, stuck it in Mrs. Thank you for saving her. Another heavy thump came at the door.
The mooring of the deadbolt must be tearing loose from the bulkhead. She tried to pull away from Mrs. Reynolds but the latter would not let go of her. Impatiently, she stabbed her index finger into the back of Mrs. Catherine rushed forward and kicked the door—it was in such a poor state now that it could be forced out as well as in. As she drew back to gather momentum, he rammed the door once more. A flash of lightning lit the crooked edges of the door—it was already hanging loose.
She slammed her entire body into the door. Her skeleton jarred as if she had thrown herself at a careening carriage. The door gave outward, enough of an opening that she slipped through. His poisoned palm slashed down at her. She ducked. She screamed, the pain like a red-hot brand searing into her skin. The ship plunged bow first. She used its motion to get away from him. A section of handrail flew at her. She smashed herself against the bulkhead, barely avoiding it.
The ship rose to meet a new, nauseatingly high wave. She slipped, stopping herself with the door, stressing its one remaining hinge. He surprised her by skating aft quite some distance, his motion a smooth, long glide through water.
Then, as the ship dove down, he ran toward her.