The Perfect Stranger (8 page)

“Oh! You mean I have a fish! Help! What do I do?” All other thoughts flew from Faith’s head as she struggled to land the wildly fighting fish. Stevens waded into the water, brandishing a small net, and Faith found herself following until she was knee-deep in the sea. Laughing, shrieking, and hanging on to the line like grim death, she attempted to follow Stevens’s instructions, and by the time the fish was safely landed, both she and Stevens were extremely wet—and had become fast friends. She looked at her fish with satisfaction. It flipped in its bucket, big, fat, and furious.

“It’s a beauty, isn’t it, Stevens?”

“It surely is, miss. Now, here you are.” He handed her a knife.

“Don’t we cook it first?’

Stevens laughed. “Yes, but first you’ve got to kill it. And then to gut it and scale it.”

“Me?” Faith squeaked in horror.

“Yes, miss, you. You caught it, you kill it.”

“But I’ve never killed a thing in my life! Not even a spider. And I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

To her dismay, Stevens didn’t budge from his position. He was a groom, not a gentleman. He didn’t think a lady should be sheltered from the realities of life. Especially not one who was sleeping in sand hills, his look seemed to say. “Never know when you might need to fish for your supper again, miss. Best to know the whole process.”

Faith was thoroughly appalled by the idea, but it was barely a day since she’d resolved not to rely on others so much, to be more independent, to have control of her life. She stared at the fish, madly flipping in the pail. This was her first chance to prove she could do for herself.

She watched him as he took a dead fish from the pail and showed her how to hold it. Gingerly she picked up her fish as he instructed, slipping her fingers into its gills and gripping hard. It wriggled and flipped and felt cold and slimy and completely disgusting.

“Good girl,” he said.

Faith’s resolve firmed.

“Now hold the fish down here, on the sand, and slip the point of the knife in here, nice and gentle.” He demonstrated on his fish. “It won’t feel a thing, miss. It’s all any of us can ask, a quick and painless death.”

She wrinkled her nose and nodded, unconvinced. It seemed a perfectly disgusting thing to do, but she was determined to leave helpless Faith in the past. Independent Faith could do anything.

“V-very well.” Faith took the knife and braced herself. She raised her hand, screwed up her face, and brought the knife down.

“No!” Stevens grabbed her hand.

She stared at him in surprise. “What?”

He gave her an incredulous look. Slowly his face dissolved into a mass of crinkles. And then he started to laugh.

“What is it? What did I do wrong?”

Still chuckling, he removed the knife from her grasp, and killed the fish in one quick movement.

Faith watched with a mixture of revulsion and relief. “I thought I was supposed to—”

He interrupted her gently. “Yes, miss, but the thing is, it’s not a good idea to stab the fish—stab anything, really—with your eyes closed.”

She gave him a sheepish look. “I couldn’t bear to watch.”

He laughed again. “Come along then. I’ll gut and clean it for you. But watch how I do it so you know how, if you ever need to, all right?”

She thanked him humbly and received her lesson in gutting and scaling with a minimum of squirming. “And if you need any sewing or darning done, Stevens, I’ll do it for you in exchange.”

He cocked his head and considered. “Depends, miss. Do you sew with your eyes closed, too?”

She said primly, “I’ll have you know, sir, I am accounted a very neat hand with a needle.

He laughed. “You’ll do, miss, you’ll do. Now, you keep a’fishing and I’ll kill ’em and clean anything you catch. You’ll probably never need to do it yourself anyway, now you’re marrying Mr. Nicholas, but—”

“Marrying Mr. Nicholas? I’m not. I’m sure he didn’t mean it. He couldn’t.”

“Never says nothing he don’t mean, Mr. Nicholas.”

“Well, I’m not marrying him! The very idea is ludicrous.”

He stopped scraping at fish scales and gave her a long, skeptical look from under his beetling brows. “You don’t look daft to me, miss. Why wouldn’t you wed him? He’s the finest man I’ve ever known—and I’ve known ’im all his life.”

“Perhaps, but
I’ve
only known him a few hours.”

He gave her another look and sniffed. “Mighty picky, aren’t you? For a lone female what’s been sleeping rough in a foreign country.”

Faith flushed. “Just because I—I am in temporary difficulties, doesn’t mean I should be rushed into marriage with a stranger.”

He sniffed again and resumed scaling the fish. He looked offended, so she said, “Look, I’ve already made a dreadful mess of things with my inability to judge a man. I don’t mean to insult your master, but I don’t wish to jump from the frying pan into the fire.” She recalled a grievance. “Even if that’s where he put my boots!”

“Lor’, miss! Mr. Nicholas isn’t no fire! He’s a good man—one o’ the best! If I was you, I’d be jumping with both feet and hanging on tight to him!” He swished the cleaned fish in the sea, tossed it into the bucket, sat back on his heels, and stared at her. “I don’t understand your hesitation, so help me, I don’t! He’s offered you a free ticket. You don’t have to do nothing—he’d be the one what’s giving you everything!”

Faith bit her lip. “That’s the problem,” she admitted. “Even if he meant it—which I cannot believe—I couldn’t accept such an unfair bargain. There’d be nothing in it for him that I can see—nothing!” She waited for him to contradict her, to offer her a fresh insight into Mr. Blacklock’s extraordinary offer, but Stevens just cast a new line and thrust the fishing rod into her hand again.

“Don’t fret on it, miss. Just keep on fishing. Good opportunity for thinking things out, fishing—as well as fillin’ the pot.”

Faith fished. And thought. And fished some more. Stevens was right. It was a good way to think. But sometimes thinking did no good. No good at all. Her thoughts veered all over the place.

Their business in town concluded, Nick and Mac walked back to the campsite. Mac adjusted the bulging string bags he was carrying and said for the fourth time. “I canna believe ye mean tae do this, Cap’n! It’s pure folly!”

“I don’t think so,” Nick said.

Mac made a scornful sound. “She’ll be after your money! I’ve seen her kind before! Takin’ advantage of your better nature wi’ that pathetic tale—and that blasted female catch in her voice! Guaranteed to tweak at a man’s heartstrings! And you let her tweak awa’ on ye, like a great gormless harp!”

The harp strode on, unmoved. “She’s a lady, Mac, fallen on hard times.”

“Pah! A lady? I doubt it!” He snorted. “In that tatty silk dress cut down to indecency. You’re no well enough acquainted wi’ the wiles o’ women, that’s your problem!”

“Indeed?” Nick was unmoved. Mac’s opinion was reliable about most things, but not about women. Not since a certain señorita from Talavera had taken him for everything he had. Until then, the big Scot had been the biggest soft touch, rescuing widows, orphans, and strays of all sorts—witness Beowulf. But Pepita—damn her larcenous little soul—had trampled on the big man’s pride and broken his heart into the bargain. Mac had been sour on women ever since.

“Aye, well, a plain wee thing like her needs wiles, I’ll admit, wi’ that lopsided purple face o’ hers and that terrible case o’ spots.”

“The swelling will go down, and the bruise will fade. And they’re not spots, they’re scratches and midge bites and will disappear. Once she’s restored to England she will be quite pretty. In any case, you’ll not have to look at her long. I’m sending her to my mother.”

Mac said with dark foreboding, “And how will your mam cope when yonder lass brings shame and disgrace to your name?”

“How will she do that, pray?”

“Dalliance—and worse! Wi’ other men!”

Pepita had done just that with Mac, so Nick kept his tone mild. “She won’t shame me with other men. And after a while it won’t matter anyway.”

There was a short silence.

“She’s already run off wi’ one man—and who’s to say whether he was the first or not? Mebbe that’s what had happened last night wi’ those chaps on the beach—only she wasn’t prepared to go through wi’ it at the last minute! Females are contrary. Ye know that.”

“Some females,” admitted Nicholas. “But not Miss Merrit. I think she’s exactly as she represents—apart from the false name—”

“Ye see!”

“Now, Mac, you’ve said your piece and cleared your conscience, and I’ll hear no more disparagement of her. The lady is to be my wife.”

“Och, but Capt’n, she’s a—”

“I said, enough!”

After that, Mac said not another word on the subject, but his silence was like himself: large, Scottish, and disapproving.

Chapter Four

It is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage.

J
ANE
A
USTEN

F
AITH HAD CAUGHT SEVERAL FISH AND DONE A GREAT DEAL OF
thinking by the time the men returned from the town. She felt a distinct lurch in her stomach as Nicholas Blacklock’s tall figure strode around the cape. His gleaming black boots ate up the distance between them. He looked relaxed, unworried, totally in command.

Yes, she could easily imagine him as an officer. He had an air about him, a faint unconscious arrogance, a natural authority. He was used to dominating other men. Deciding what was best for others. Burning their boots.

If she chose to let him, Nicholas Blacklock would dominate Faith, too.
If
she chose to let him.

“You burned my boots!” She accused him the moment he was close enough.

“They needed burning.” There was not a trace of contrition in his voice or demeanor.

Her anger sparked back into life. “They were
my
boots!”

He glanced at her feet. “They gave you blisters. How are they, by the way?”

She hid her feet under her skirt. “None of your business. You had no right to burn my boots.”

“I know. It was an impulse that I couldn’t resist.”

She blinked at his calm admission. “Well, what am I going to do without boots? I can hardly walk into town in my bare feet!”

“No, I know.” He turned to his friend. “Mac?”

Mac dumped several bulging string bags on the ground beside Faith, pulled two breadsticks free, and stomped off toward the fire without a word.

Nicholas Blacklock squatted down, pulled out a brown paper parcel, and handed it to Faith. “Here.”

Disconcerted, she accepted it. It was oddly shaped, both squashy and hard. What on earth could it be? And what was he up to?

“Well, go on, open it.”

She pulled off the paper and looked at what he’d bought her, what the horrid, arrogant, boot-burning, bossy pants had bought her. She felt her eyes fill with tears. She blinked them furiously away.

“I hope they fit. I had to guess at the size.”

They would fit, she knew. If she didn’t know better, she’d think they’d been made for her.

“Don’t you like them?”

She managed to whisper, “Yes. Thank you. They’re lovely.” And they were. Her new boots. Her beautiful, new, soft, blue kidskin boots.

“Well, try them on.”

“I—I’ll wait until I wash my feet. I don’t want to ruin them.” She was reluctant to put them on. They were so beautiful, and her feet were so ugly. And she was still angry with him in a strange sort of way.

He shrugged and turned to Stevens, who had been observing with a fatherly told-you-so beam. “How was the fishing?” He turned back to Faith and added in an afterthought. “It will be tomorrow morning, by the way.”

“What will?”

“The wedding. It’s all settled and arranged for tomorrow morning.”

Faith’s jaw dropped. “But we haven’t even discussed it!”

He raised his black brows at her. “What is there to discuss?”

She gave him a fulminating look. He glanced at Stevens, then held out his hand. “Come, let us walk along the beach then, and discuss whatever it is you wish to discuss. Stevens can pack up here.”

His hand closed, big and warm and strong around hers. She felt both trapped and—annoyingly—soothed.

She pulled her hand free. “I didn’t believe you meant it!”

“I always mean what I say.”

“But why would you wish to marry me?”

He arched a sardonic eyebrow. “I don’t
wish
to marry you. I don’t
wish
to marry anyone. It will be a ceremony, that is all. A mere form. You must admit, your current situation is impossible.”

Faith didn’t have to admit anything of the sort. Nothing was impossible. She just hadn’t yet worked out what to do. “But to marry a perfect stranger? It’s ridiculous!”

“It’s unusual, but it’s the perfect solution.” He was completely calm. It was very annoying!

“Solution for whom? What do you get out of it?”

Nicholas Blacklock frowned, then said stiffly, “It would be a white marriage, naturally.” He meant it would not be consummated.

“Would it?”

“Yes, of course. After the wedding, I will send you back to England where you will be safe and protected. We would go our separate ways.”

For some reason she found this even more annoying. “Oh, would we?”

He frowned. “Are you angry with me?”

She shrugged. She was, but anger was only one of the emotions that roiled around inside her at the moment, and she hadn’t a hope of sorting them out while he stood there like a—a masculine sphinx! “I don’t know what I feel.”

Marry this man, this stranger who she’d known for less than a day? Who was he, truly, this Nicholas Blacklock? She knew nothing about him except that he rescued fallen women without a thought, then proposed marriage to them in a manner so disinterested as to be extremely irritating.