The Perfect Stranger (3 page)

But gently bred English girls did not venture anywhere unaccompanied, let alone into French sand hills after dark.

He set her down on the blanket near the fire, pushing aside the guitar he’d dropped when he first heard her cry for help.

He watched for a moment while, with shaking hands, she tried to straighten her clothes, smooth back her hair, assume some semblance of poise. She was thin and on the scruffy side. Her nose was peeling, her skin was blotchy and scratched, and her face was lopsided. Swollen, he thought, looking closer. Her hair was scraped back in a tight knot. Loose strands straggled untidily from it.

She didn’t weigh much. She wasn’t much to look at either, he thought, wondering again at the state of his body. Her only claim to beauty were those big, wide eyes fringed with dark lashes. Clear as water and showing every passing thought. Eyes a man could drown in—if he had a mind to. Nick had no mind to drown in any woman’s eyes.

And then there was her mouth. He could barely look at her mouth. Soft, lush, and vulnerable, it was simply the most kissable mouth he’d ever seen. Not that he was planning to kiss it, either.

“Th-thank you. I’m sorry; I did not mean to—” Her voice wavered and broke, and Nick braced himself for female hysterics.

She surprised him by taking a deep breath and mastering herself. In a shaking voice she managed to say, “I’m very sorry for involving you in my troubles, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’m so grateful you helped. You were so brave, taking such a frightful risk for—”

“Nonsense!” he interrupted brusquely. “I am—was a soldier. I don’t mind a fight, and those three were hardly a serious threat.”

Her lower lip trembled. She bit it. Nick reached into his coat pocket and drew out a flask. “Have a drink. It will help settle your nerves.”

“Oh but I—”

“Even hardened soldiers can get the shakes after a battle.” He thrust the small silver flask into her hand. “Don’t argue. Drink.”

She gave him a suspicious look. He rolled his eyes and said impatiently, “I’m not planning to get you drunk, girl. Just do as you’re told and swallow a mouthful or two. It’ll do you good. Settle the nerves and keep out the cold.”

“I’m not cold,” she said, but she took the flask anyway.

He squatted down in front of her and reached for her skirts.

“Stop that! What are you doing?” she squeaked and tried to bat his hands away.

He caught her flailing hands in his and gave her a hard look. “Don’t be stupid! How the devil can I look at your ankle if I don’t lift your skirt?”

She glared back at him. “Wh-why do you want to look at my ankle?”

“Because it’s injured of course!”

She glanced doubtfully at her ankle. “Actually, it does hurt, rather a lot,” she admitted, sounding almost surprised.

She’d probably been too frightened to register pain, he decided as he released her hands. It happened that way sometimes. People carried on with injuries, unaware, until the fighting was over. He picked up the flask she’d dropped. “I told you to drink! It will help the pain.”

The flask was silver, scratched and dented with hard use and warm from being carried on his body. She unscrewed the stopper and raised the flask to her lips. Fiery liquid burned its way down her throat, and she choked and coughed, shuddering as it hit her empty stomach.

“Wha-what was that?” she gasped once she had recovered her breath. “I did not expect—”

“Brandy. Not precisely a lady’s drink, but you need it after the shock you sustained.”

She wiped her streaming eyes. “You mean you replace one sort of shock with another.” Her voice was hoarse from coughing, but Nick recognized a brave attempt at humor when he saw one.

“You’ll do,” he said softly.

The quietly spoken words of approval stiffened Faith’s spine. There was something about the way he spoke—somehow compelling. He’d said he was a soldier. An officer, she decided. He had that sort of effect, an unconscious habit of command.

Now that the first burn of the brandy had passed, a warm glow was building inside her. She could feel its effect smoothing out her jangled nerves, warming her blood.

“Thank you.” As she handed the flask back she saw that his knuckles were scarred, the skin raw from the recent fight. “Your poor hands—” she began.

He shrugged. “It’s nothing.” He put the flask to his lips—the place where her own lips had been a second before—and took a mouthful, not choking in the least.

“What is your name?”

Faith hesitated.

“I gave you my name before—Nicholas Blacklock,” he reminded her.

“Faith Merrid—M-Merrit,” she amended. It would not do to reveal her real name. It was bad enough that she had disgraced herself, but she wouldn’t taint her sisters’ reputation.

“How do you do, Miss…Merrit.” The deliberate pause told her he’d noticed her amendment. But he made no other comment.

“Now, let me check on that ankle.”

Faith jumped when his big hands slipped under her skirt and touched the tender skin at the back of her knees. “What—?”

“I was trying to undo your garters, get your stocking off.” His voice was so noncommittal she knew at once he’d felt she wore no stockings.

Faith hung her head. No respectable woman would be without stockings. “My stockings were a mass of holes. I used them to pad the boots.”

“I see.” He lifted her skirts and folded them back over her knees. Feeling shamefully exposed, she tried to tug them down, but he stopped her with a look. How did he do that?

The light from the fire fell on her legs, and his mouth tightened as he unlaced her boots. She knew at once what he must be thinking. No lady would wear such rough footwear.

“My own slippers were too flimsy. I traded them for the boots,” she mumbled. He didn’t respond.

Cupping her calf in one hand, he gently drew her boots off one by one. She heard his breath hiss in. He carefully untangled the stockings she’d wound around her feet but stopped when she winced.

He sat back on his heels and glared at her. “How the
hell
did you get into this state?” He spoke quietly, but she shivered at the anger she heard banked down inside him.

She looked away. “Bad judgment.”

“Who is looking after you?”

“I am.”

He muttered something under his breath and pulled off his own boots, then shrugged out of his coat. Just as she was wondering nervously what he would remove next, he bent forward and scooped her up against his chest again.

“What—?” She clutched at him.

“I’m taking you down to the sea.” He sounded furious. “The salt water will hurt like blazes, but it will clean your feet and legs like nothing else.”

“I know they’re dirty, but there’s no need to be so cross. I didn’t ask you to take my shoes off.”

“Dirty! Soaking your feet in water is the only way to get these damned rags off you. They’re stuck to your feet with your own blood!”

“Oh.”

“And your legs are a mass of scratches and cuts.”

“I pulled up my skirts when I was running. The fabric kept catching on thorns. I suppose that’s how it happened.”

“Oh, yes!” His voice was almost savage. “God forbid a tatty old skirt gets caught on a few thorns! Far more sensible to get your skin torn to pieces.”

“It wasn’t that,” she explained with dignity. “My skirts kept getting caught on bushes, slowing me down.”

He grunted. “And what about the boots? Your feet are a mass of blisters!”

“I had a long way to walk,” she began and then stopped. It was none of his business. He had no reason to be cross. They were her feet, her legs, and her boots. If he didn’t like the state of them, he could ignore them. She didn’t have to explain herself to anyone. Anyone except her family.

He stalked the rest of the way to the water in silence. When they came to the water’s edge he didn’t stop. He waded in until the water was up to his knees.

“Brace yourself. This will hurt like the devil.” His voice was both furious and gentle as he said it.

Faith gasped as the cold salt water bit savagely into a hundred scratches, cuts, and blisters. It was all she could do not to scream. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to endure it.

All the Merridew girls could take pain without crying. A legacy of Grandpapa’s upbringing.

He stood there in the water beside her, not saying a thing. It was some time before she realized he was holding her upright. And that she was clutching onto him in a death grip. The worst of the pain was receding by that time.

She opened her eyes and saw him staring down at her, his face a grim mask. “Better?”

She still couldn’t speak. She nodded.

“Good girl. I’m going to carry you to that rock over there, see if I can get that mess of rags off your feet.” He carried her to a flat rock and seated her gently on it. “Keep that ankle in the water. I know it’s cold, but it will help reduce the swelling.”

He lifted one of her feet from the water, and with amazing sensitivity for hands so big, he peeled the rags from around her feet. She watched. Her feet really were a mess—raw and bleeding in places. No wonder the salt had stung. She hadn’t realized how badly blistered they were. She supposed the worst damage had been done in that panic-stricken flight from her attackers.

He cleared the last of the rags off her feet and straightened up. “Keep your feet in the water as much as you can. You can warm up at the fire later on. I know it hurts, but salt water heals.” He gave her a long look. “I’ll be back in a few moments. Stay there.” He waded back up to the beach, leaving Faith perched on her rock like a bedraggled mermaid.

Chapter Two

And with him fled the shades of Night.

JOHN MILTON

“B
ETTER
?” N
ICHOLAS
B
LACKLOCK WADED OUT TO
F
AITH’S ROCK
.

“Yes, thank you. You were right. The seawater does help.”

“I expect you’re cold by now. I’ve built up the fire.” He scooped her into his arms and waded ashore. Faith clung to him, not knowing what to say. Until tonight, she’d never been carried by a man. It was very…nice.

As they drew close to the fire, Faith became aware of a glorious smell. Stew. As her nose caught the scent, her empty stomach rumbled loudly. She gave an embarrassed glance at Mr. Blacklock.

“My friends will return shortly.”

“Your friends?”

“No one to worry about,” he said, reading her face. “Only Stevens and Mac, my groom and my old sergeant.” He set her gently on the blanket, which he’d shaken out and neatly respread. “You’ll dine with us, of course.”

“Oh, but—”

He gave her that look. “You will dine with us,” he repeated as if daring her to argue.

Faith was so hungry she had no spirit even to demur politely. “Thank you. I’d be delighted.”

“Good. Now, let’s see to that ankle.” Without ceremony he flipped back her skirt and took her injured ankle in his hands. Faith felt less embarrassed this time at the exposure of her calves and ankles, but it was still an odd sensation to have her feet and limbs bare, his dark, tousled head bent over, so close to her body, just inches from her breasts.

“Good. That cold seawater has done the trick. The swelling has gone down quite a bit. Now, a little bit of liniment—” He glanced up with a dry expression. “Horse liniment, but just as good for humans.” He dipped his fingers into a pot of salve standing nearby and very gently spread it on her ankle. The salve was cold, with a pungent odor that made Faith’s eyes water, but as he lightly massaged it into her ankle it seemed to heat up. Faith watched his hands, mesmerized.

They were big and calloused and should have been clumsy, but not the tenderest of her sisters could have handled Faith’s feet more gently. She looked at the scarred knuckles and recalled the brutal sounds they’d made smashing into the fishermen. Felix’s hands were long and elegant but also strong and calloused from playing violin but they’d never handled Faith with such delicate care. She pushed the thought from her mind…

It did no good to repine over the past. She had only herself to blame. Such a terrible mistake she’d made. And all because of the dream. The dream…it tasted bitter in her mouth even now.

Years before, when Faith and her sisters had been miserable under Grandpapa’s terrible guardianship, she and her twin had a powerful, simultaneous dream. They’d woken together and shared their dreams—the same, yet different—and they knew their dead mother had sent them as a reminder that all would be well. Mama’s dying promise had been that all her girls would find love—love and laughter and sunshine and happiness.

Hope’s dream had been of a man who danced—waltzed his way into her heart. Faith had dreamed of a man who made music.

And then they’d escaped Grandpapa and come to London. And Hope had found her dream man, her darling Sebastian, and had married him not three months ago. And in the same week Faith had heard Felix play and had known—believed—from the first glorious chord that he was her dream man. But the dream had become a nightmare…

Her stomach rumbled again, jerking her into the present. He had to have heard it that time. His head was only inches from her belly. He made no sign.

She sniffed at the aroma coming from the pot. “Um, I think that stew might be about to burn. Shouldn’t you check it?”

He finished bandaging her ankle and looked at his liniment-covered hands. “How about you check it, and I’ll wash this stuff from my hands? Try out your ankle now, see how the bandage works.”

She stood and found it was much better. While he strode down to the sea to wash liniment from his hands, she checked the pot. Hot, fragrant steam enveloped her, and she almost fainted from the mouthwatering smell. How long had it been since she’d eaten a proper meal? Days, she thought. A small piece of dry bread and cheese last night. She stirred the luscious mix with a wooden spoon, inhaling the scent rapturously. It was almost as good as eating. Almost.