Anne Gracie - [Merridew Sister 03]

by The Perfect Stranger

  Faith waved her stick in what she hoped was a threatening gesture. Light from her blazing brand danced over his features, and for the first time she glimpsed his face. She had an impression of strength. A bold nose. Dark hair, thick and tousled, in need of a cut. High cheekbones. A firm, unshaven chin, dark with rough bristles. His eyes glinted, reflecting the flame. It was almost as if he relished the prospect of a fight. Which was, of course, ridiculous.

  He raised first one pistol, then another. Twin silver barrels gleamed as they caught the firelight. He brandished them with a casual expertise that even Faith could appreciate. There was a sudden hush from the three men in the dark.

  “Not so brave now, my buckos?” His face hardened. “Then take yourselves back to whatever gutter you slithered from, or taste a little English metal.”

  Faith waited, hardly breathing. It was a bluff, of course. He couldn’t possibly see to shoot them from such a distance and in the dark. If anyone was an open target, he was, silhouetted against the fire.

  The silence from the darkness lengthened. “Very well, monsieur, you win,” one called. Heavy footsteps crunched through the undergrowth, moving away. Faith heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Don’t move.” The tall man beside her whispered. He stood braced, tense, like his dog, his head craned forward, his expression intent.

  Faith froze.

  “Toss that thing away and crouch down for a moment,” he ordered her softly. “I need you out of the firing line.”

  She flung the half-burned branch into the sand and crouched motionless, straining her eyes to see. The dog’s ears twitched. Faith watched as her Englishman closed his eyes and cocked his head, as if listening. She could hear nothing.

  She jumped almost out of her skin when he suddenly shot over her head into the dark. There was scream of pain followed by a flurry of cursing.

  “Lucky shot, but can you fight on three sides, Englishman?” came a taunt from the opposite side.

  “With pleasure,” he answered and shot in the direction of the voice. There was another burst of swearing.

  “The devil, Englishman, how can you shoot like that? It’s pitch-black.”

  “I have the devil’s own luck, and I can see in the dark,” he said calmly. He tossed the second pistol onto a blanket and said to Faith, “Fetch me another burning brand.”

  She hurried to obey, and as she passed it to him, the firelight glittered on a wicked-looking blade. The fishermen were not the only ones with knives. He lifted the brand and twirled it easily around his head like a baton. Sparks flew everywhere, but he took no notice. “Come on, you cowards, let’s have a look at you!” He strode forward. Faith grabbed her stick and made to follow. “Stay back,” he commanded. “You’ll just be in my way.”

  He strode forward, twirling the brand as he moved, faster and faster in a barbarous display. His ferocity and control were mesmerizing: a mythical warrior, bathed in fire and a hound from hell baying at his side.

  He looked utterly terrifying. And utterly magnificent.

  Suddenly he hurled the brand at a shadowed figure, even as the other two leaped on him. He warded off one of them with a kick. His fist smashed into the other. Faith could barely see what was happening; it was all shadows and horrible sounds—the sounds of fists smashing into flesh, of bones crunching, and the guttural gasps and groans of men fighting.

  Incredibly, her Englishman seemed to be winning. He landed two frightful blows on the biggest man, then picked him up bodily and hurled him into some bushes. The man screamed again as he landed in a prickle bush.

  As her champion wrestled with another man, the third man limped up from behind. A knife glittered. Faith screamed a warning, and the Englishman swung around and shoved his assailant at the attacker. There was another scream and further cursing.

  And then suddenly there was silence. “Keep her then, English,” one of the men wheezed. “I hope she gives you the pox!” The three attackers stumbled off into the darkness.

  Man, woman, and dog waited until no further sounds of retreat could be heard. The dog’s growls died away. His hackles dropped, and soon there was only the sound of the fire crackling and the distant splash of waves.

  “They’ve gone,” the tall man said curtly.

  “A-are you sure?”

  “Yes. Beowulf wouldn’t relax if they were anywhere in the vicinity, would you, Wulf?” The dog looked up as he addressed him. He glanced at Faith, and a low growl emitted from behind those appalling teeth. Faith shuddered. The terrifying creature was huge and woolly and the size of a small horse. Beowulf? He looked more like one of the legendary monsters the hero of that name had fought.

  “Don’t worry. He doesn’t like women, but he won’t hurt you. Now, are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you. But what about you? Are you hurt?”

  “Me? Of course not.” He said it as if the idea was ridiculous.

  At the realization that she was safe, Faith’s legs—her whole body—started shaking. “Th-thank you for r-rescuing me.” It was totally inadequate for what he had done.

  “Nicholas Blacklock at your service.” He put out his hand, and she placed hers in his. It was trembling like a leaf. Her whole body was. She tried to control it.

  He frowned, noticing, and his hand tightened over hers. “You’re safe now.” He said it as if it was an order.

  “Yes.” She bit her lip to stop it trembling. “I know.”

  He examined her face and scowled, a black, intimidating look. “Come over to the fire, and we’ll see to that.” He grimaced at her. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, of course.” She started toward the fire, but for some reason her legs didn’t seem to work properly. A horridly pathetic sound escaped her as she stumbled and nearly fell.

  He made some exclamation under his breath, and before Faith knew what was happening, he’d scooped her up in his arms and was striding toward the fire.

  Nick caught a flash of something—fear? surprise?—in her eyes. She stiffened in his arms, as if bracing herself to escape. He tightened his hold and growled, “Little fool! Why not tell me you were hurt? I can see your face is, but I didn’t know about your feet!”

  She gave him an uncertain look, but her body relaxed slightly. Her arms wavered, as if she didn’t know what to do with them, and then she hooked one arm gingerly around his neck, watching his face with a wary expression. When he made no objection, she tightened her hold and clutched at his shirtfront with the other, afraid he would drop her. She wasn’t used to being carried in a man’s arms, he thought.

  That surprised him. Her green dress was low-cut enough to show slight but very feminine curves, and it was torn at the neck to reveal even more. It was silk or some fine fabric, though stained and ragged in places. Her cloak, on the other hand, was thick, coarse, and heavy; hand-woven wool, he guessed. An incongruous combination.

  Tucked up close against his chest, he couldn’t help but inhale the scent of her. His body reacted the same as the first time, when she’d knocked him flat to the ground. Arousal. Intense and immediate. His nostrils flared, taking in the scent of her like an animal.

  Thank the Lord it was dark. His body was rampant. He forced his mind to concentrate on the mystery. She smelled fresh. Female. Not a trace of perfume, just that tangy female scent that sent him hard and aching. She looked like a ragged streetwalker, her clothes were grubby and torn, and yet she herself smelled fresher than a number of ladies he could name. Too many people he knew doused their bodies with perfume rather than bathe. Yet in the unlikeliest situation, this waif had somehow kept herself clean.

  Fool woman! What the devil was she doing in French sand hills anyway? An assignation gone wrong? He doubted it. Despite her bizarre clothing she didn’t seem the assignation type. Then what was she up to?

  She sounded gently born. Her accent was pure, untainted by any regional burr, even when she was shaking with fear. In Nick’s experience, affectations disappeared when people were in terror for their lives
. So the aristocratic accent was natural to her.

  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

  “BETTER?” NICHOLAS BLACKLOCK WADED OUT TO FAITH’S ROCK.