The Perfect Stranger (4 page)

He came back, wiping his hands on his thighs. “Is it burned?”

“No, but it was about to catch. It’s very thick. Is there any liquid I can add?”

“Use the wine in that bottle.”

Faith splashed in a generous quantity of red wine and stirred. Fragrant winey steam gushed up, and she almost swooned from the glorious fumes. As she replaced the lid, her stomach growled again, protesting.

“We shall talk after dinner.”

Faith swallowed. “Talk?”

“Yes, about how you got into this mess and how best to restore you to your loved ones.”

“Restore you to your loved ones.”
Faith felt her face and her knees crumpling. She hid her face from him as she sat with a thump on the blanket.

There was a small silence, then he said quietly, “Have another mouthful,” and held the flask out. She said nothing—was unable to—and did not take it, so after a minute he replaced the flask in his pocket.

He picked up his guitar and started to pluck soft notes. His hands moved surely over the instrument. He played without looking, simply staring into the fire.

Faith stiffened, then forced herself to relax. Music had no power over her now. It was no longer the voice of love. It was just music. A pretty sound, like the rhythm of the lapping waves or the wind soughing through the long grass.

She let the music, the hush of the waves, and the rustle of the breeze wash over her, balm to her ragged spirit.

“If that stew is burnt a’cos of your bletherin’ on to that female, Stevens…”

Faith jerked upright as two men stepped into the light of the fire. One was small and wizened and nearing fifty, the other young, she thought—under his concealing red beard—not yet thirty. And huge. She blinked. She’d thought Mr. Blacklock was tall.

The small man gave Faith a curious glance and a quick, “Evenin’ miss,” but it was clear where his priorities lay. He whipped the lid of the pot off, peered in, gave it a quick stir, and looked up, grinning. His face was badly scarred, and his grin twisted it in a peculiar way, but his eyes twinkled, and Faith warmed to him instantly.

“Thank you, miss, for the saving of me stew.”

Faith was surprised. “How do you know I did anything?”

He snorted. “Mr. Nicholas? Remember to stir the stew?”

“I told her to add the extra wine,” Mr. Blacklock said with mild indignation. “Miss Merrit, let me introduce you. The culinary doubting Thomas is Wilfred Stevens, and the bearded giant is Mr. Dougal McTavish, otherwise known as Mac.”

Faith greeted the two men. Mr. Stevens gave her a warm smile as he shook her hand, but Mr. McTavish stood like a stump on the edge of the firelight, ignoring the hand she held out to him. He looked her up and down from under bushy red brows, and Faith shriveled a little inside at his expression.

She knew what he was thinking. His opinion of her was no better than that of the men who’d pursued her in the dark. Only
he
wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot barge pole. She raised her chin and gave him back stare for stare.

“Mac? This is Miss Merrit.” Mr. Blacklock repeated. There was that tone again.

The big fellow growled a reluctant, “How d’ye do,” before peering narrowly at Nicholas Blacklock. “Ye have the look o’ a man who’s been in a fight, Cap’n.”

Nicholas Blacklock explained about the three attackers, only he called them unwelcome guests and said nothing at all about his heroism, only that Faith had taken up a burning branch to the villains, and they’d run off. The big man wasn’t fooled, though, and gave Faith another hard look. “Aye, well, bad meat will always attract vermin!”

“That’s enough!” snapped Mr. Blacklock.

“Aye, well, I’ll go an’ check that the ‘unwelcome guests’ are gone, for certain.’ He stomped back into the darkness.

Faith blinked at the big man’s hostility.

“Ignore him, miss,” Stevens said, as he fussed over the pot. “These days Mac doesn’t have much time for ladies—for females of any sort. He suffered a disappointment a few years back and has been like a bear with a sore head ever since. But his bark is worse than his bite.”

“He’d better not bark or bite again within my hearing,” Nicholas Blacklock said with soft menace as the big man returned from checking the brush.

Mac gave him a shocked look and hurriedly sat down. “Can I pass ye some wine, miss?” His voice was grudging but polite.

How did Mr. Blacklock do it? she wondered as she accepted the mug of wine. He never raised his voice, spoke quite mildly and softly, and yet she—and now apparently this giant—found themselves obeying without thought.
Drink this. Stir that. Sit on this rock. Stay for dinner. Be nice to this woman.
Was it that very deep voice he had? There was something mesmerizing about a deep, masculine voice.

Stevens handed her a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread. “Here y’are, miss, eat it while it’s nice an’ hot.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stevens.” She waited for the others to be served. Fragrant steam rose from the bowl. She longed to just dive in.

As soon as everyone had been served, she closed her eyes to say grace. The noise of vigorous slurping interrupted her.

“Miss Merrit, will you say grace, please?” said the man at her side.

There was a sudden suspension of chewing sounds. Stevens froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Sorry, miss,” he mumbled, his mouth still full. He put down his bowl and waited.

Faith, her cheeks aflame, quickly recited grace, then devoted her attention to the stew. It was the best meal she’d ever eaten. The meat was tender and tasty, studded with chunks of potatoes and flavored with wine and herbs.

“It’s wonderful, Mr. Stevens,” she said. “I don’t know when I’ve eaten a tastier stew.”

Stevens’s battered face crinkled with bashful pleasure. “Have some more, miss. There’s plenty.”

“Perhaps Miss Merrit would like a cup of tea, Stevens,” suggested Mr. Blacklock at the end of the meal.

Tea!
Faith did not know how long it was since she’d had a proper cup of tea. The French made it differently, and Felix detested tea. He only drank wine or coffee.

“Would you, miss?” asked Stevens.

“It would be lovely, th-thank you.” Her voice broke as emotions suddenly came welling up from nowhere. Faith bit her quivering lip and blinked furiously to keep back the tears. She had been through so much already without crying one drop; it was ridiculous to be brought undone by something as simple and homelike as the offer of a cup of tea. Especially now, when she’d just had a delicious meal and was warm and safe for the first time in weeks.

It would be utterly missish to give in to tears now! And she would
not
be missish! She pulled out her handkerchief and blew into it fiercely.

Nicholas Blacklock watched, frowning. She was like no female he’d ever met. Young, gently born and delicately built, she’d escaped gang rape by a hairsbreadth and afterward had fought to control her emotions. She’d endured the pain of salt water on a hundred cuts and scratches and not made a single complaint. She’d borne his ministrations on her twisted ankle without a sound, and yet now, at the simple offer of tea, she was fighting off tears.

She was quality through and through.

In the last few years he hadn’t come much in contact with young ladies of quality—his mother’s recent efforts notwithstanding—but he’d known such ladies on the peninsular, during the war. Even by their gallant standards, Miss Faith Merrit seemed extraordinary.

Something or someone had brought her to unforgivably desperate straits. And it wasn’t just three drunken fishermen.

Nicholas Blacklock was determined to find out what had happened to her. And fix it before he moved on.

He waited until she’d finished her cup of tea and then gave a silent gesture to his men that he wished to be alone with her.

“Now, Miss Merrit, I think it’s time we talked.”

It was as if he’d stung her. “Sorry, it is late and past time I took my leave.” She scrambled to her feet as she spoke, stumbling in her haste. “I can never thank you enough for rescuing me from those men. And could you please convey my thanks to Mr. Stevens for that delicious dinner?”

“I shall escort you.” Nick rose.

There was a short silence, then she stammered hastily. “No, no, thank you very much. My—er—my l-lodgings are but a step from here, and I feel quite safe now. Those men are long gone; I feel sure of it.”

“You are too full of pride for your own good, I think,” he said softly.

There was a long silence, then she whispered, “You know, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. There was no need.

“Are you also without funds? Is that why you are forced to sleep on the beach, too?”

He closed his eyes briefly. Dear Lord, she was sleeping on the beach! He shook his head. “No, that was my choice. I have felt rather…hemmed in lately, and since the weather was so fine, I wanted to sleep under the stars.” His mouth twitched wryly. “My men are less than impressed with my choice, I might add.”

“Oh. So you are not obliged to.”

He grimaced. “In a way I am. Put it down to having a surfeit of civilization recently. When I was in the army, sleeping under the stars was a matter of daily routine. I suppose I wanted to…” His voice tailed off.

What was he trying to recapture? His youth? By most accounts he
was
young. Or was it a way of avoiding the implacable future? Pretending a freedom he knew he didn’t have. All he knew was that he had to do it. To stay in England, watching his mother’s dreams die again, would kill him.

A snort of bitter laughter escaped him.
Kill him.
What a joke!

“So you will not leave me to my threadbare pride and my sand hills?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. “No, although your pride is in no way threadbare, Miss Merrit.” He added in what he hoped was a lighter voice, “But if we are discussing sand hills, mine are, I believe, safer and more comfortable.”

She still hesitated. He wished he could read her expression, but he couldn’t. He added matter-of-factly, “I have no intention of letting you leave unprotected, so you may as well give in graciously.” A spasm crossed his face.

She frowned. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Just a headache.” His brow was suddenly deeply furrowed, and he spoke as if he had to force each word.

“You are ill,” she insisted.

He began to shake his head but froze in midmovement. “I get…headaches. Forgive my rudeness, but—” He staggered to where a roll of blankets lay near the fire. He kicked it, and it unrolled into a bed. “Make sure…you stay here. My men…take care of you.” He carefully lay down on the bedroll and closed his eyes. He looked dreadful.

Faith looked around wildly and called for help.

McTavish appeared.

“What is the matter with him, Mr. McTavish?”

McTavish ignored her. He pulled a blanket over Mr. Blacklock, as gently as if he were a child. Stevens arrived, took one look at his master, and began to build up the fire.

Mr. Blacklock opened his eyes, gripped the big Scotsman’s wrist, grated, “The girl…stays with us,” and closed his eyes again.

“Dinna fash yersel’ lad. I’ll see to it.” McTavish turned to Faith. “You stay here. I’ll fetch ye a blanket tae sleep in.” He gave Faith a hard look, as if daring her to take one step away from his custody.

Not that she had any intention of leaving now. He looked really ill. His face was dead white, even in the firelight, and his forehead was deeply furrowed with pain. She knelt down beside him. Had his head been injured in the fight? Was it her fault he lay here like this?

His thick, dark hair was tumbled in all directions. She smoothed it back. His skin was clammy. She took out her handkerchief, still damp with seawater, and wiped his face gently. With those penetrating, watchful eyes closed, he seemed younger than she’d thought at first. Not yet thirty, she thought.

Had the furrowed brow eased a little? She could not tell if it was wishful thinking or not. She straightened to find McTavish eyeing her, his bushy brows knotted in grim suspicion. He dumped a bundle of gray blankets on the ground, like tossing down a gauntlet.

“I hope ye don’t mind sleeping under the stars, on the sand and all, miss,” said Stevens, laying driftwood on the fire in a complicated pattern.

Faith gave him a rueful smile, but she couldn’t bring herself to explain the depths to which she’d fallen. “What is wrong with Mr. Blacklock?”

Stevens opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by McTavish. “Hush up, ye bletherer! If he wants her to know he can tell her himself in the morning!”

“He will be recovered by morning then?”

The big Scotsman gave her a surly look. “He will, aye!”

“The headaches pass. You can sleep here, miss,” Stevens picked up the bundle McTavish had dumped and shook it out.

Faith hesitated. It was rather close to Mr. Blacklock, even if he was currently insensible.

Stevens continued, “It’s best you stay near the fire. I can see you’ve been troubled by midges. The smoke will keep them away.”

Faith put her hand to her face, which was covered in midge bites from the previous night.

“Mac will sleep over there.” He pointed to where McTavish was rolling himself in a blanket, far from the fire.

“Midges don’t bother him. And besides, he snores somethin’ shockin’. I’ll be over here, on the other side o’ the fire.”

“What about Mr. Blacklock? Shouldn’t someone watch over him?”

“No. Wulf will watch over us all; he’ll rouse us all at the first sign of any trouble—from Mr. Nicholas or from anyone else.”

Faith recalled the way the big dog had growled and barked earlier and felt better.

“Now you get yourself some sleep, miss. You look as if you could do with it. Mr. Nicholas will sleep soon enough. He usually does once the headache passes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stevens.”

He hesitated. “Just Stevens, if you don’t mind, miss. I’m Mr. Nicholas’s groom, y’see. Watched him grow up.”

Faith nodded. “Very well, if you’d prefer it.”

“I would. Well, if you’ve got everything you need, I’ll be off, then. Good night miss.”

Faith bade both men good night and sat down. She brushed the sand from her damp feet and from between her toes, then wrapped herself in her blanket and settled down for the night. She took one last look at Nicholas Blacklock.