Anne Gracie - [Merridew Sister 03]

by The Perfect Stranger

  Stevens shook his head. “Hunted just once, when he was a little lad. I’ll never forget it, his little face smeared with the fox’s blood, his father so proud and Nick sick to his little stomach and white with fury. After that, he refused to join in the hunt, no matter how much Sir Henry roared and beat him and punished him.

  “Didn’t go down well with his pa, I can tell you. Hunting-mad, old Sir Henry was, even though it killed him in the end. Broke his back on a hunt, he did. Came off at a hedge.” Stevens grimaced. “A bad end he came to, as well—confined to a bed and wasted slowly away.”

  “That’s terrible. How old was Nicholas when that happened?”

  “Oh, he was well off at the war by then. But it was interfering with a hunt that got him sent into the army in the first place. The hunt was after a vixen he and Algy knew had cubs, and so they ruined the trail with rotten fish and suchlike, got the hounds all confused. When his pa found out, he was like to kill the boy.” He gave a snort of disapproval. “Gave him the beating of his life and sent him off to the army to make a man of him. They were sixteen, the boys.”

  “He—they must have found it difficult in the army, then.”

  There was a short silence. “Aye, they did—Nick more than Algy. Some aspects of soldiering he took to, but the killing…A good fighter is Capt’n Nick—none better, but Algy reckoned it was like something took him over. They say he has berserker blood in him, a cold fighting rage. But when it’s over…ah, then Master Nick hates himself.”

  He glanced at Faith. “Been a lot of death in Mr. Nick’s life. Pretty much all his mates in the army got killed at some battle or other. And then there was his pa, dying the way he did. And his brother.”

  “His brother?”

  “Died of a septic cut just before his pa broke his back. I have to say, it nearly killed Lady Blacklock—that’s Mr. Nick’s ma—what with seeing young Mr. Henry, the heir go, then having her husband die slow and painful-like—took him months to die, it did—and with Capt’n Nick away with the army, risking his life daily. Poor lady. It turned her hair white, it did, the worry of it all.”

  Poor, poor woman. What a dreadful burden to bear, thought Faith. “I suppose Nicholas went home to help his mother.”

  Stevens’s old battered face crinkled into an enigmatic expression. “No.”

  Faith was shocked. It didn’t seem like the Nicholas she knew, not to help, and she said so.

  “Ah, but they never told him, miss. His pa forbade any mention of it to Mr. Nick. Not of his own broken back, nor of young Mr. Henry’s death.”

  “But that—that’s terrible. To shut him out like that…when he was so needed…”

  Stevens nodded. “Fair ate at him, it did, after he found out. Went home after they’d died, o’ course, though it was all too late. Too late even for the funerals. He was like a lost soul, then. Blaming himself for what was no fault of his. It didn’t help that my Algy had been killed by then. Mr. Nick blames himself for that. Feels as if he should never have let Algy follow him into the army.” Stevens snorted. “As if anyone coulda kept my boy from doing what he wanted, but Mr. Nick, he takes things like that hard. Thinks it’s his job to look after everyone.”

  Faith nodded, her eyes prickling with tears. He did look after people, her Nicholas.

  “That’s why I joined up and went soldiering after my Algy died. Someone had to keep Mr. Nick from brooding.” His face crinkled in a crooked smile as he added, “I think you’ve taken that duty over now, miss. And may I say, you’re doing a better job than I ever did. He’s a lot happier when he’s with you than I’ve seen him in a long time.”

  Faith pondered his words. Coming from a man who’d known Nicholas all his life, she had to accept that he knew what he was talking about, and the thought that he was happier since he’d married her was one she would love to accept.

  But it didn’t seem to her that Nicholas was particularly happy. He had his moments, but for the most part, Faith sensed a darkness, a deep sadness in him that she hadn’t been able to touch. Now she knew a little about where that darkness came from. What a terrible, terrible story. She understood more of why he was so wary of attachment. Loving people was wonderful, but it could also be painful—more than painful if you lost them. And Nicholas had lost so many people…

  “Do you really think he is happy, Stevens?” She looked at him searchingly as she asked it, and after a moment, he looked away.

  “Happier, miss. A lot happier. We can’t always have perfection.”

  Chapter Ten

  There is no such thing as pure pleasure; some anxiety always goes with it.

  OVID

  NICHOLAS HAD BEEN SILENT AND GRIM FOR SOME TIME NOW. His face was set, and he was frowning as he rode. He was either cross or deep in some unwelcome memory, Faith thought, but then she noticed the tic in his jaw.

  “Are you getting one of your headaches?” she asked him softly.

  He jumped, as if he had been miles away. “What makes you think that?”

  She eyed the tic in his jaw. “Oh, no special reason, just a feeling…and you do look a little pale.” And getting paler by the minute.

  He shook his head and rode on. Faith said nothing but observed him narrowly. He was in pain, she was sure, the stubborn man, and when finally he started to squint, as if his eyesight was affected, and sway ever so slightly in the saddle, she said, “You should lie down. I will get Mr. McTavish to ride ahead and find us an inn.”

  “Nonsense!” He grimaced. “I’ll just have a quick nap under those trees up ahead. I shall be right in a few hours.”

  Faith frowned. “I’m sure the bright sun makes it worse. My sister always found sleeping in a darkened room was beneficial.”

  “It won’t make any difference to me.”

  “You can’t know until you try it,” she said firmly. “Your headaches seem very severe and painful, but at least they pass relatively quickly. Poor little Grace would sometimes be ill for several days.”

  “Mine will be over soon.”

  “All the more reason to find a place where you can sleep. Mr. McTavish?” She rode ahead and quickly informed McTavish of the problem. “See that farmhouse?” She pointed. “Ride ahead and see if they can accommodate us. We will pay. I am not sure how long it will be before Nicholas’s headache passes. They seem to be lasting longer.”

  McTavish opened his mouth—to argue, Faith was sure, so she snapped, “Go at once and do not argue! I have no time for your nonsense. Nicholas is ill!”

  He gave her a look from under his brows. “Aye, I ken that well, lass.”

  “Well then, hurry!” she ordered, and he rode off toward the farmhouse.

  It only took ten minutes for Faith, Nicholas, and Stevens to follow him to the small, neat farmhouse, but by the time they got there, Nicholas’s face was ashen gray. He held himself on his horse by willpower alone, Faith was sure.

  McTavish and a burly Frenchman stood in the yard arguing. A plump woman in an apron watched, an anxious expression on her face.

  “He’ll no’ let us in the house,” Mac declared as he came to help Nicholas dismount. “But he says we can use the barn fer a price.”

  “In the barn?” Faith exclaimed. “But Nicholas needs dark and quiet.” She hurried over to the man and woman and introduced herself. She explained the problem and asked for their help, ending with an offer to pay.

  The man began to shake his head, and in desperation Faith turned to the woman. She took her hand and pleaded in her best French, “Oh, please, madame, my husband is in a great deal of pain. If we could just put him in a bed, in a dark room…I’m sure it would help him. We will make no trouble, I promise—”

  The woman looked across at Nicholas and said uncertainly, “He looks sick. I want no trouble.”

  She meant she would not deal with disease or drunkenness or vomit, Faith realized. “Oh no, madame, no mess, it is just his head, a migraine, un mal de tête très grave—he just needs to sleep in a dark, quiet room. And perha
ps a pot of willow bark tea—I have some willow b—”

  The woman cut her off. “I understand la migraine.”

  “Well then…” Faith wrung her hands uncertainly.

  The woman’s face softened. “You are very young, p’tite. How long have you been married?”

  Faith stared at her. Of what possible relevance was that? But she responded, “Two weeks, madame. We were married two weeks ago.”

  The woman gave a decisive nod and said something rapid and incomprehensible to her husband. She nodded. “Your man can sleep upstairs. Tell your friends they can help him up—anyone can see he cannot manage the stairs like that—but first, off with their boots. No man tramps mud into my kitchen!”

  “Oh merci, madame. Thank you so very much!”

  “Not madame, s’il vous plait; call me Clothilde, p’tite.”

  The house was immaculate, scrubbed and shining, and the men made no demur about removing their boots. Ignoring his protests that he could manage by himself, Madame and Faith helped Nicholas upstairs to a small, simple bedchamber with the bed set into an alcove in the wall. Clothilde drew back the deep, soft quilt and helped Faith strip Nicholas of his breeches and coat. By this time he was in so much pain he could hardly see. He said not a word; all his reserves went into coping with his pain without it showing. He looked severe and distant, and he shut her out completely.

  With obvious reluctance, he swallowed some willow bark tea and lay back, his eyes closed, unmoving. Faith sat on the edge of the bed, watching him anxiously. She reached out and stroked his tumbled hair back from his forehead. His skin was tight, his brow furrowed with pain.

  She didn’t want to leave him to suffer alone. She smoothed his forehead with featherlight touches. She fancied the tight muscles relaxed minutely, but she could not be sure. She wondered whether stroking his head might add to the pain. She took his hand in hers, but it was clenched with pain into a hard fist, so she held that instead and stroked the inside of his wrist.

  Such a big, strong hand. Protective and powerful, clenched so tight and hard against his current weakness. He so obviously hated to be vulnerable, hated these headaches. They were the only chink in his armor.

  She sat there, cradling his fist against her breast, willing his pain away, watching his face, his dear face. White lines of pain bracketed his mouth. His eyes were closed and shuttered. Shuttered against the pain. Shuttered against Faith.

  She ached for him to love her.

  When she was a young girl dreaming of love, it had seemed so simple. She was wrong.

  She’d been dazzled by Felix, but she saw now that she hadn’t loved him. She looked at Nicholas, at his tanned, narrow face grooved with pain and hard experience, his beautiful mouth tight with pain, and she ached with love for him.

  Love he didn’t want.

  Why didn’t he want her love?

  He wanted her body, and that was wonderful, but it was as if a starving child had been given a taste of a feast and was then shut outside to watch through the window. Because for Faith, desire was just a part of the love she felt for him.

  Was she desirable but not lovable? She was flawed—she knew that—Grandpapa had told her, told all of them, over and over that they were ugly inside, that they were flawed, misbegotten creatures.

  Faith shivered. The old man’s hatred could reach out to touch her, even here, even now. She wished her sisters were here; they could banish Grandpapa’s poison. It only struck when she was at her lowest.

  So why was she so low now? It didn’t make sense, she told herself in a silent, bracing voice. Her skin still tingled with salt from her afternoon swim. She’d swum in the sea. She’d even made love in the sea and felt closer to Nicholas than ever. It had been glorious, utterly glorious.

  A perfect afternoon, and if she felt a little low, well, that was understandable, with Nicholas in so much pain and she unable to relieve him of it. She would not give in to Grandpapa’s poison. She should not wish for the moon when what she had was perfectly satisfying…

  Only…She looked at his strong, sleeping face. She yearned so much for him to love her, it was like a physical pain.

  Behind her, Clothilde murmured, “He will sleep now.”

  Faith carefully replaced his fist, smoothed his brow one last time, and stood up.

  “You love him very much, your man, don’t you, p’tite?”

  “Oh, yes.” She did. She loved Nicholas Blacklock. Very much. And at that soft admission of her love to the first living soul she’d confided in, she felt her face crumple. The tears she’d been holding off spilled down her cheeks.

  Clothilde bustled forward and took her in a comforting embrace. “There, there, p’tite. There is no need to cry about it. Oh, but I was the same after my marriage, all tears one moment and laughter the next.”

  The tears continued to flow, and as she ushered Faith out the door and shut it behind them, Clothilde asked, “You are not crying about la migraine, are you? It is something more serious, his illness, no?”

  Faith shook her head and mopped her eyes with a handkerchief. “No. I’m sorry, madame. I don’t know what came over me. No, it’s just a migraine. My little sister used to get them, too, though not as often as Nicholas does. She grew out of it…or it might have been caused by living with Grandpapa. We aren’t sure. They stopped after our oldest sister Prudence was married.” And Grace no longer feared being taken back to Grandpapa’s…

  She frowned as a thought came to her. If excessive worry had caused Grace’s headaches…

  “You have many sisters?”

  “There are five of us.”

  Clothilde threw up her hands in horror. “No boys?”

  “None. But I am a twin,” she offered wryly. It was always the same. People seemed to think it remiss to have so many girls in a family and no boys, as if it were something people chose.

  “A twin?” Clothilde was interested. “My daughter has twin girls.”

  “Really? How old are they?”

  “Just six months old. Beautiful they are, but oh, what a handful!”

  “I would love to see them,” exclaimed Faith. “My sister and I are what they call mirror twins; I am right-handed, she is left-handed; I have a mole here, and she has it in the exact same place on the opposite side. And we share everything. It is wonderful to be a twin.”

  Clothilde beamed at her, her ruddy face lighting with pleasure. “Maybe you will see my granddaughters, then. Now, I must get on, p’tite. Work on a farm never stops.”

  After she’d left, Faith wondered about Nicholas. Could his headaches be caused by anxiety and fear, also, as Grace’s were? And if so, what was he worried about?

  This thing, whatever it was, that he had to do or face after Bilbao. She couldn’t imagine what it was. The war was long over, and Napoleon was incarcerated on Saint Helena. In any case, she couldn’t really believe he’d fret over some military mission. He didn’t seem afraid of anything or anyone.

  But there were times when something seemed to weigh dreadfully on his mind.

  What was so important about this trip into Spain and Portugal? Mac seemed to know all about it, but she was the last person he would confide in. Perhaps Stevens…

  But when she stepped outside, Stevens was nowhere to be seen. There was only Mr. McTavish standing on his own, staring out over the rolling hills of farmland. That reminded Faith. She marched up to him.

  “Mr. McTavish, I have a bone to pick with you.” She was utterly determined to have it out with the contentious Scot once and for all.

  McTavish turned slowly. “Oh ye have, have ye?” His bushy red brows were raised in a sardonic manner, his attitude intimidating.

  Faith stiffened her spine. “Why are you so hostile toward me?

  He gave a snort. “Ye dinna ken what hostile is.”

  “I do, too. I was reared in an atmosphere of hostility, and it was completely horrid. So I take leave to inform you, Mr. McTavish, I will not have any more of it. Do you hear me?”
<
br />   “Ye’ll not have any more of it, eh?”

  Faith refused to be intimidated. “No. Which brings us to that bone: you will explain to me, if you please, what injury I have done you, so that I may apologize and we can be done with this unpleasantness.”

  Her question took him so much by surprise his red brows almost disappeared into his hair. “What injury ye’ve done me?”

  “Yes. Obviously I have done something—wittingly or unwittingly—to earn your enmity. The others seem to believe it is not me, that you are motivated to be horrid to me because of some Spanish girl who treated you abominably, but I believe that’s nonsense. A man such as yourself could not possibly be so petty and mean spirited. Nor so completely unjust. The Scots are known for their passion for justice, are they not?”

  He was too dumbfounded to respond, so Faith swept on. “So it must be something I did when first we met. So, what was it?”

  His brow knotted. He looked at her, perplexed.

  “Do not be shy, Mr. McTavish. Anyone who lived with my grandfather is accustomed to being called the most vile epithets. You need not hesitate to spare my feelings.”

  He glowered at her.

  Faith gave him a smile. “I can see you are bent on being gentlemanly, but truly, I wish to know.” She peered at him hopefully a moment, then continued, well satisfied with her tactics. “I have been giving that incident at the beach some thought. About my being a hussy—”

  “No! No, I didna—”

  She ignored the strangled outburst. “I did not, at that point, understand. I assumed that since you were stark naked in public that you had no sense of modesty, and when you called me a hussy—well, I lost my temper, which I am very sorry for. But my husband has assured me that you are in fact terribly shy and modest—”

  McTavish dashed sweat from his brow and muttered something Scottish and inaudible.

  Faith suddenly realized he was a lot younger than she’d assumed. “I failed to take into account your very delicate sensibilities, which were shocked—quite understandably—at seeing a lady in her underwear. All I could think of was that I was so hot, and the water was cool. I realize now I must have ridden roughshod over your delicate sensibilities—”