The Perfect Stranger (19 page)

Her hands found the hard, rough planes of his jaw, and she smoothed her palms along his jawline, reveling in the friction of his unshaven skin outside and the smooth insistent warmth of his tongue inside.

Hands slipped up her thighs and caressed her hips, and she moved restlessly, her legs trembling. He was naked, she realized dazedly. When had he removed his clothes? She hadn’t felt him move all night.

A large, warm hand dipped into the low neckline of her nightie and cupped one breast, and she felt her flesh move silkily against the rougher skin of his hand. Her breasts seemed to swell under the caress, and when she felt warm breath through the lace against her skin, she clenched her eyes shut and felt her body arch with pleasure. Her fingers slid into his hair, his cool, thick hair, and clutched it, holding him to her but not as she had the night before.

“You smell so good,” he murmured against her flesh. “Like roses…and new-baked bread…and the sea.” The deep sound of his voice seemed to rumble through her bones. He feathered moist, warm kisses over her skin, and she trembled in helpless, blissful response.

Their bed was a rose-walled arbor, golden glints of sunshine breaking through the slits between the dark red bed-curtains. Her bones were melting. She was drowning in pleasure. Ripples of delight lapped the deepest recesses of her body, like waves foaming up the sand, finding every secret hollow and filling it.

He lifted the nightgown right up, tugged it over her head, and tossed it aside. Hot gray eyes devoured her, but before she had time to feel self-conscious, he was kissing her again, his tongue tangling with hers while his hands created exquisite friction against the tender skin of her breasts.

“Like silk,” he murmured. “My silken-skinned girl.”

He kissed her in a slow pathway along her jaw, down her neck, caressing the hollow of her throat, and she melted and tensed, melted and tensed. His tongue teased her nipple in lazy, leisured circles around and around until she was dizzy with wanting. And when she was poised on the brink of who knew what, his hot mouth closed over her breast, and she arched and shuddered uncontrollably, helpless in the grip of a force she had never experienced. He sucked hard, and she almost came off the bed as hot spears of ecstasy drove though her body and into a realm where she’d never been before.

When the shreds of Faith’s awareness finally began to gather again, she found she was already climbing that dizzy spiral once more: she couldn’t think, only feel. Her hands gripped his shoulders, and she leaned forward and tasted his hot, damp skin, glorying in the spicy masculine taste of him and the leashed power of the smooth, muscled body under her palms.

A large, calloused hand smoothed down over her belly, sliding between her legs, caressing, smoothing, teasing…Her legs fell apart, trembling with need. He growled, a low, masculine sound of satisfaction, and his mouth followed his hands, tasting the soft, smooth skin of her belly while his fingers explored her. She was as tense as a bowstring, vibrating with need, when she dimly heard him murmur, “And you taste even better than you smell.” She bucked beneath his mouth, once, twice, three times, and with a groan of masculine satisfaction he lifted himself over her and entered her in one smooth, powerful motion. Arched beneath him, Faith hovered on the brink and then he began to move and she felt…she felt…

Far in the distance she thought she heard a faint, high scream as she plunged into glorious oblivion…

When Faith awoke the second time, she was alone in the bed. The sun no longer shone through the cracks between the bed-curtains, and Nicholas Blacklock, from the sounds of things, was getting dressed.

She found her nightgown and put it on again, feeling shy to be naked in front of him, despite the recent events. She parted the curtains and peeked out.

“Good morning.”

He jumped and whirled guiltily. He scrutinized her face intently, his face serious. “Good morning,” he said in a gruff voice. “Are…are you all right?”

She swung her feet over the bed, stood up, and began to stretch. “Ow!” she exclaimed.

“What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s just…ooh!” She tried to stretch again and winced at the stiffness in her back and legs. “Yesterday’s unprecedented exercise. It’s…oohh.” She stretched again, her face screwed against the protesting muscles.

He blanched and looked even guiltier. Faith caught the look and said, “Oh don’t worry, it’s not serious. It’s just a few muscles protesting. I am rather out of practice, you know.”

“Out of practice?”
His eyebrows snapped together, and he scowled.

“Yes, but it will get better. The more I do it, the better it will be.” She gave him a rueful look. “You did warn me, after all, that I would have to endure all sorts of discomfort and hardship.”

His scowl grew blacker and more grim. “Yes, I did. And so let this be a lesson to you, madam!” He sounded offended. “If you wish to return to England now, I will send Stevens to escort you.”

“Oh I have no intention of leaving. I am sure I will learn to adjust. It is just a matter of practice, I know.”

He snorted. “I suppose that blasted Bulgarian had more finesse!” he snarled.

She stared at him in amazement. “What on earth do you—” And then she saw what he had been thinking. And started to giggle.

He glared at her. “What is so blasted funny, madam?”

When Faith could speak, she said between giggles, “I don’t know what
you
were referring to.”
Oh, what a fib!
She had to stifle another giggle at the thought. “But
I
was talking about riding. My muscles are stiff from spending all day on the back of a horse, not from, um…you know.” She giggled again, then gave him a warmly intimate smile. “That part of the journey has been very nice so far.”

He stared at her, and a dark red color crept up his throat and face. He cleared his throat noisily and looked around for his jacket as if in a hurry. “I will see you downstairs at breakfast, madam,” he said in a gruff voice. He turned to leave, but she flew across the room barefoot and stopped him.

“Wait!”

“What is it?”

“My morning duty. As a wife. Remember, you explained it to me the other day,” she murmured and, winding her arms around his neck, she stood on tiptoes and kissed him.

He stood, stiff, passive at first, as if indifferent. Faith opened her mouth and shyly ran her tongue over his, greedy to taste him, needing to return a little of the pleasure he had given her earlier. His jaw was rough-bristled, and she caressed it with her palms, enjoying the friction. He stood like a hard mountain, resisting her, and she closed her eyes and simply kissed him. She kissed him with all the burgeoning feelings that were growing inside her, as if a new person was emerging, a bold, sensual Faith who wanted to reach out to him and let them be new together.

But he stood there, unmoving, letting her kiss him, refusing to respond. She was just about to give up when with a low moan he pulled her closer and deepened the kiss, and the heated, spice-dark sensation of Nicholas shivered through her, swamping her very bones with helpless love for him.

Her knees sagged, and he wrapped his arm around her, hard, lifting her higher, so that their mouths could merge more fully. She slid her fingers into his soft, thick hair, damp from where he’d splashed cold water on his face, clutching it in her fists as she lost herself in him.

When the kiss finished, she slowly released her grip on him and let herself slide back down his body. They stood a few inches apart, chests heaving, staring at each other. His pupils were huge and dark.

“Good morning, Mr. Blacklock,” she said softly, willing her jelly legs not to buckle.

He mumbled something under his breath and left the room. She heard him stomping down the stairs in his boots and smiled. It was a beginning, a glorious beginning.

“Stevens, did you know many soldiers’ wives in the army?” Faith asked. They were traveling side by side on a narrow road around the coast. Nicholas had galloped ahead, and Faith took the opportunity to drop back and chat with Stevens. He was a very easy man to talk to. Unlike her husband.

“Yes, miss. Plenty. Some wives and some…common-law wives.”

“Common-law wives?” She didn’t know the term.

“Yes, miss. Not legal marriages, as such. Soldiers being rather short-lived as a rule, some of the women simply moved on to the next man when their own was killed.”

Faith was shocked. “Just like that?”

“Yep, just like that.” He nodded, then seeing her dismay, explained, “I know it sounds a bit callous, but you have to understand, miss, in wartime it’s different. Men and women, well, they seek comfort quick-like, and there ain’t no time for long mourning periods. The survivors have to move on, make what they can out of life. A woman needs a man to protect her, and men, well, they need women, too. A good wife—common-law or legal—can make a real difference to a soldier’s life.”

“In what way?” Faith urged her horse closer to hear his response. This was why she’d raised the subject in the first place, though he’d given her something else to think of as well.

“Well, some women have the knack of making a home anywhere. A hot meal waiting, a warm bed—even on the ground—a few small, precious comforts, soft words in the night. You don’t know what a difference that can make to a man, ’specially one who might die tomorrow.”

“I see.” And she did. If Nicholas had been a soldier so long, it might explain why he was so unwilling to think about the future, to make a commitment to her, even though she wasn’t a common-law wife. It would be quite disconcerting to think that if you were killed, your wife of today would calmly move on to your best friend tomorrow. She could see how that would make a man reluctant to speak of love.

Comfort, now, that was another matter. She thought of what they’d shared in the morning and smiled. Comfort was hardly the word. Bliss was more like it. Nicholas Blacklock might not want his wife’s love, but he did not seem averse to a little shared marital bliss.

Stevens, oblivious of her straying thoughts, continued, “There was one woman now—Polly MicMac, we called her—I heard she went through a half-dozen husbands one year. Some o’ the men reckoned she was bad luck, but there were never any shortage of suitors when Polly’s latest man died. A grand girl, Polly; bonny and generous-natured and never a complaint out of her, no matter how hard things got. And cook—always seemed to find a hare for the pot or a brace of pigeons. Brewed up something hot and tasty every night.” Stevens shook his head reminiscently. “Even when the army was starving, Polly managed something.” After a while he added, “I never did find out what happened to Polly. Lost touch when the capt’n was injured at Toulouse.”

“He was injured? What happened?”

“Oh, no need to look so worried, miss. That wasn’t the first time. Capt’n Nick, he’s been shot many a time and lived to tell the tale. He’s been blown up, and I don’t know how many bits of shrapnel got pulled out of him after Waterloo—and still the ladies come a’fluttering around him.” He patted his own cheek ruefully. “Me, I get hit just the once, and look what a mess it made of me.”

“Nonsense!” Faith clutched his arm and said warmly, “No lady worth her salt would care a jot for that. Character and kindness is what real women look for in a man, and those, Stevens, you have in abundance.”

He grinned at her. “Why, thank you, miss.”

Faith grinned back. Stevens had given her a lot to think about. Nicholas had lived the life Stevens had described since he was sixteen. No wonder he had such peculiar ideas of marriage. And attachment.

Faith had until Bilbao to show him differently.

They had been riding for a good part of the day, stopping for short rests and varying the pace of the horses so they would not tire too much. Most of the time they had been within sight of the sea, a sight Faith never tired of, but since they’d passed through the ancient medieval town of Saint-Valery-sur-Somme, they’d cut inland. Faith was thrilled to have visited the last place William the Conquerer had stayed in before going off to conquer England. She would have to remember to tell her sisters in her next letter.

She’d written several letters home by now, to each of her sisters and to Aunt Gussie and Great Uncle Oswald. In the first letters she’d simply assured them she was safe and well and married to a man named Nicholas Blacklock. She hadn’t gone into much detail about the disaster with Felix—only to Hope. Twins hid nothing from each other.

She’d written a couple of letters since, describing their journey and telling her family they were heading for Bilbao, in Spain. She didn’t want them to worry.

They were crossing an area of neglected-looking meadowland scattered lightly with clumps of beech and birch and an occasional clump of brambles. There were some berries, Faith saw, but they were small and green and not yet ripe. She was determined to become a good soldier’s wife, and not only because that was what Nicholas wanted in a wife.

In that miserable period after leaving Felix, she’d been at her lowest, and the days spent trudging along dusty roads had given her plenty of time for reflection about her life. The realization that she’d been looked after most of her life—that she’d left it to others—hadn’t been a comfortable one.

She never wanted to feel so alone again, but nor did she ever want to feel as though she was dependent on others. From what she had gathered, soldiers’ wives were strong and independent women, partners with their husbands, rather than dependents. That’s what Faith wanted to be, a partner with Nicholas. A partner for life.

It was late afternoon. The horses were ambling along in single file when Faith noticed it: a large hare sniffing and nibbling at a clump of sweetgrass. Now was her chance.

She carefully pulled out her pistol, cocked it, and shot. The hare fell over, and for a moment she felt hugely triumphant. Then, to her horror, it got up. Slowly and agonizingly it scrabbled its way lopsidedly into a small clump of brambles. Faith felt sick. Its shoulder was shattered and bleeding profusely. She’d missed! And worse, she’d injured the poor thing. It must be in agony.