The Perfect Stranger (7 page)

“Not a bit.” Nick glared back at her. Why the devil should she imagine he’d be happy that she’d put herself in danger? He thought he’d made it quite clear that he didn’t approve of her being in danger.

“So what happened, miss?” Stevens asked in a soothing tone.

“I found—well, someone in the boardinghouse arranged it for me—a private carriage taking passengers. It was very old and rather dirty, but I did not care.” She paused for a moment, then added in a defensive voice, “Yes, I know! I should have cared. I will in future!”

“Why? What happened?” Stevens prompted.

“After they’d dropped the last of the other passengers off, I heard them talking—they did not realize I understood French. They—they planned to rob me—and worse. I managed to escape them but had to leave my baggage behind. Which is how you find me now,” she said with an air of having finished her tale.

Nick disagreed. She hadn’t left Paris in those disgusting big boots. She hadn’t left Paris half-starved. She’d left out several significant details. But he hadn’t been a wartime serving officer for nothing. Skilled questioning could elicit unexpected details.

“How did you escape?” Blunt questions could also do the job.

“I jumped out of it.”

“Out of a moving carriage?”
Nick caught himself up and followed the explosion with a mild. “And don’t tell me—it was dark, too, correct?”

“The moon was bright, though luckily it went behind the clouds for all the time I was hiding in the vineyards. And as soon as they stopped searching for me and went away, it came back out, and I could see to walk.”

Nick closed his eyes. Dear God, she’d jumped from a moving carriage in unknown territory in the dark. He heard himself say, “You little fool! You could have been seriously injured!”

She retorted with an edge in her voice, “I might have been hurt, but I wasn’t. If I’d stayed, however, I would definitely have been hurt, for I would have fought them.”

He had an instant image of the way she’d stood beside him last night, waving that burning stick, attempting to look fierce. He sank his head in his hands and groaned.

Faith didn’t notice. She shivered as she recalled that terrifying time after she’d jumped from the moving carriage, crouching between rows of vines in the dark, praying for the moon to stay behind the clouds. It was hours before the driver and guard gave up. And then she was alone in the dark, somewhere in northern France, with no money, dressed only in a thin silk gown, a Kashmir shawl, dainty kid slippers, and a tiny, elegant bonnet. She shivered. It wasn’t until they’d left that she started to feel the cold.

“Whereabouts was that, miss?” Stevens interrupted her thoughts.

“Somewhere past Montreuil.”

“Montreuil!”
Mr. Blacklock’s head snapped up. “How the devil did you get from Montreuil to here?”

She gritted her teeth. She was not some—some skivvy to be snapped at. She answered pleasantly, a counterpoint to his rudeness. “I walked.”

Stevens whistled, impressed.

Mr. Blacklock muttered savagely, “Hence the atrocious state of your feet!”

Embarrassed, Faith tucked the atrocious feet under her skirts so he wouldn’t have to be offended by them any further. How on earth had she imagined him as kind? He was rude and bossy, and she just itched to get up and walk away. But after all he’d done, she did feel she owed him an explanation—even if he spoke to her as if she were a criminal in the dock.

She said with dignity, “I traded my kid slippers and my Kashmir shawl to a farmer’s wife for these boots and the cloak.” And some soup and bread and cheese, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. He’d probably snap her nose off again for the crime of needing to eat.

“It was a good trade. My slippers would never have lasted the distance; I could feel every stone through their thin soles. She offered me her sabots—wooden clogs—but I could never have walked in them, so I held out for her son’s Sunday boots. And my Kashmir shawl was very fine, but not warm enough for the nights.”

“Did no one offer you shelter? Assistance?” Mr. Blacklock said.

“No.” She hung her head. “People…when they see a young woman on foot in a dirty silk dress and peasant boots…they…misunderstand. They took me for…for—”

“We know what they took you for.”

She felt her face reddening. “Yes, so I learned not to ask. But I did ask some English ladies in Calais—I mean, I was speaking
English
—but they, too, seemed to think…” She swallowed and looked down at her boots. She would have to—somehow—accustom herself to being despised by respectable ladies.

“Forget the stiff-rumped English ladies.” Nicholas Blacklock sounded almost bored. “The solution to your difficulties is clear.”

“Oh, is it?” Faith was nettled by his calm announcement. Her future seemed clear to her, too, only she didn’t feel half as sanguine about it. “What is so clear? Would you care to share this solution?”

“It’s obvious. You will marry me.”

“Marry you?”
Faith choked. She jumped to her feet. “Marry
you
?” With great dignity, she stalked off.

The trouble with stalking off, Faith reflected some time later, was that while it was very satisfying in some respects, it would have been a lot more effective if she’d had somewhere impressive to stalk to. A castle, or a tower: a place from where she could sit and glare loftily down at him.

Sitting on a rock, even quite a big, impressive sort of rock, did not have the desirable remoteness. Nor that feeling of solid impregnability combined with superiority that a tower in a castle could bestow on her. A rock on the next beach was not the sort of place from which you could extract a groveling apology.

She hovered between fury and tears.

“You will marry me” indeed!
Did he think she was a complete fool? Totally gullible and naive? That she would fall—again!—for such an obvious ploy!

She thought of the way he’d tended her injured feet last night—with gentle hands and a savage diatribe about her foolishness—and wanted to weep. With anger, of course. She would not give him the satisfaction of tears. Arrogant brute. And quite impossible, of course.

Because even if he was sleeping under the stars, he was obviously not a poor man. His clothes and boots were of the best quality, and he traveled with a servant. He was educated and well-spoken and he had that air of command—not to mention arrogance!—that informed her he was a gentleman born.

And what gentleman born would offer to marry a destitute woman of unknown background who, by her own confession, was a fallen woman? It was inconceivable, impossible. Ridiculous. And Faith would not stay to be mocked.

Because even though she knew he hadn’t meant it, it hurt. And why on earth the careless words of a stranger she’d known for less than a day should be allowed to hurt her was something she didn’t care to think about.

A tear rolled down her cheek. She dashed it angrily away. Stupid man! He probably thought it was a joke! She never wanted to speak to him again!

The trouble was, her boots and her cloak were back at his campsite. She had no choice but to return. She set her jaw and marched around the small headland, determined to collect her belongings and leave in dignified silence.

The campsite was deserted, though everything remained in place. The fire was still burning; in fact, something smoked dreadfully, and the stench was horrible. Faith peered through the smoke and gave a gasp of indignation.

“My boots!” She stared in stupefaction. Her boots—or rather, what remained of them—were sitting in the middle of the fire, a blackened mass of misshapen, smoldering leather.

She looked around for someone to blame, but the camp was still deserted. How dare he burn her boots! Now she was trapped here, for she’d already tried walking in bare feet, and once she stepped off the sand onto stony paths or prickly vegetation, it was impossible. Besides, she’d look even more of a beggar if she were barefoot. When she got her hands on Nicholas Blacklock she would—she would—! She clenched her fists angrily. She would
force
him to buy her a new pair of boots!

She spotted Stevens fishing near the headland. She stormed down the beach toward him.

“He’s gone into town with Mac, miss,” Stevens said the moment she came within earshot. “On business.”

“He burned my boots!” she exclaimed indignantly.

Stevens nodded. “Yes, miss, I saw him.”

“But they were perfectly good boots!”

“Yes, miss, that’s what I said, too.”

“He had no right to burn them. They were my boots!”

“Yes, miss. I think that’s why he burned them.”

Faith clenched her fists. There was nothing worse than being angry and needing to yell at someone, and the only person available was not only innocent of any crime, but kept agreeing with you in the most infuriatingly placid way.

“Do you know how to fish, miss?”

“No, I don’t—” began Faith in frustration.

“Here y’are then. It’s easy.” He shoved a fishing line into her hand. Faith was about to explain in no uncertain terms that she had no desire whatsoever to learn to fish, when he added, “Now that we’ve got an extra mouth to feed…”

She shut the extra mouth and fished. After a few minutes, she became aware that Stevens was observing her from the corner of his eye. “Yes?” It came out rather snappily.

He shrugged. “Oh, nothing, miss. I was about to observe what a very soothing activity fishing was…” He darted her a wry glance. “Only mebbe I’ve changed my mind.”

She had to laugh then. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to be rude, only I did so want to speak to Mr. Blacklock. I am furious with him, but I didn’t mean to take my frustration out on you, Stevens.”

“S’all right, miss. You didn’t say nothing to upset me.”

They fished then for a while in silence. Faith glanced across at him. He really did seem to find fishing soothing. It was quite pleasant sitting here on a rock and looking out to sea, but it was also just a little bit…boring. Especially when she needed to throttle someone.

After a while, Stevens said, “Don’t you mind Mr. Nick’s high-handedness, miss. He always has done what he thinks is right, no matter what anyone else says. Always, ever since he was a boy.”

Faith sniffed and fished. High-handedness indeed! He could be high-handed with his own possessions.

“I’ve known him all his life, see.”

Faith waited for him to say more, but he seemed intent on his fishing. Curiosity got the better of her. “You’ve known Mr. Blacklock all his life?”

“Ever since he was able to escape his nanny and head for the stables. Loved horses, he did, right from when he was a little lad. All animals, really, even the wild creatures—especially the wild creatures.” Stevens frowned over his cane and wound the line in. “Cunning beggars! They’ve nibbled me bait off again.” He pulled something out of a pail that sat beside him in the sand and threaded it on his hook. Faith averted her eyes, trying not to notice that whatever it was wriggled. When he’d tossed the line back in, he continued, “Master Nicholas was the same age as my boy, Algy.”

“You have a son?”

“Had. He got killed in the war.” He tugged at the line. “When Mr. Nicholas got sent off to war, my boy followed him. Ran off without so much as a by-your-leave and joined up wi’ Master Nick.” He shook his head in wry reminiscence, “He couldn’t let Mr. Nicholas go off by hisself, you see. The pair of ’em was inseparable—bin getting up to mischief together since they was old enough to run. Mr. Nicholas, he got Algy into his own regiment. Old Sir Henry had bought him a commission, you see.”

“I’m sorry you lost your son, Stevens. I suppose they thought the army would be a big adventure—boys often do, I believe.”

“Nope.” Stevens gave her a look. “Master Nicholas, he was sent, miss. Didn’t want to go. Didn’t have no choice about it. Old Sir Henry was furious with him—he’d got up to mischief again, y’see. Old man reckoned the army would learn him a lesson.”

“What sort of mischief?”

He shook his head. “Harmless stuff, boys’ stuff, but it drove the old man wild with rage. Wanted Mr. Nicholas to be more like his brother—in other words, more like Sir Henry.”

Faith would have liked to ask about the brother, but Stevens was deep in reminiscences, and she didn’t like to interrupt.

“Mr. Nicholas was desperate angry about bein’ forced to be a soldier. Never hurt a fly, he wouldn’t. Not then, at any rate. So young he was—and Algy, too. Just boys.” He shook his head. “They’d have both been killed in their first battle if it hadn’t been for Mac.”

“Mac?”

He cast her a look. “Don’t let Mac’s bitterness blind you. He’s a good man, missie. Ruined he was, by a heartless Spanish light-skirt.” He shook his head again. “That big Scottish lummox has a heart of marshmallow.”

“Mac?”
She couldn’t believe it.

Stevens grinned. “Hard to believe, I know, but he risked his life, diving into the river—he couldn’t swim in those days—to rescue a misbegotten mongrel pup that had been tied to a brick and slung in. Mac fished it out and nearly drowned himself. He would have if Mr. Nick hadn’t dived in when he saw Mac was in trouble. Tch! And all over a dog!” He jerked his head back toward the camp. “That Beowulf. Mr. Nicholas, Mac, and Algy palled up a’cos of that ugly pup, and the three lads became mates, even though Mr. Nick was an officer and the other two naught but common soldiers. Best thing that happened to Mr. Nick and my Algy, Mac was. See, they were the same age, only Mac had started soldiering at twelve.”

“Twelve!” Faith was shocked.

“Yes, as a drummer boy.” Stevens shrugged. “There’s lots of Scots lads in the army—it’s that or starvation in the Highlands. So by the time my two green lads arrived on the peninsular, Mac was a seasoned soldier. He showed them both the ropes, taught ’em enough soldiering tricks to stay alive by the time they faced their first battle. Three lads, and all just sixteen.”

He was silent for a long while, thinking of his son, Faith thought, then he added bitterly. “Old Sir Henry Blacklock was right. Army did learn Mr. Nick different. Changed him. Killed something inside him. Killed every one of his blessed friends, too, didn’t it? Includin’ my Algy. That’s when I went over to Spain to join Master Nick.” He snorted with self-mockery. “Thought I’d look after him, but got this instead.” He rubbed the scar on his face as if it itched. “And it was Master Nick and Mac what looked after me.” Then his tone changed. “Now, d’you see how your cane is bent over and you can feel something tugging—”