The Perfect Stranger (12 page)

Nicholas never could decide. Yes, it would be fun to bed a lot of women, but really, a hundred was too many. After the first dozen, surely it would stop being special. And he didn’t want to taste all the wines in France—just the best ones. He’d seen a couple of Shakespeare’s plays, but he’d enjoyed the comedies before them more. In their group he was the only one without a burning ambition to achieve before he died. The only burning ambition he had was one he was too ashamed to admit to them: he wanted to live. He didn’t want to die.

He’d worried that it made him a coward. Surely a soldier shouldn’t mind about dying. Nicholas threw himself into battle to hide his cowardice from the others. Always at the front, always in the thick of the battle. Fighting not for king and country, but for his life.

He’d gotten his wish. His friends had died around him, died like flies, cut down in their youth and their prime, their ambitions unfulfilled. Only Nicholas lived.

He swam until his arms ached and his eyes stung with the salt. He floated there for a while, letting the waves wash over him, drifting aimlessly, a piece of human flotsam. He thought of that other piece of flotsam, Miss Faith Merrit. She would no doubt be in that bath now, warm and flushed, all curves and soft, clean skin…

His bride to be. But not to be his wife.

He turned and swam wearily back to shore. He waded out of the water, shivering as the cold night air bit into his warm, wet flesh. He whistled for Wulf, and he bounded up and butted his rough, damp head against him.

“You’ll catch your death one of these days, sir,” grumbled Stevens.

“No such luck, I’m afraid.”

The words hung in the air for a moment. Stevens thrust a towel into Nicholas’s hands. “Go up to the fire anyway. You don’t want to take a chill.”

Her bridal morning dawned fine and clear. Faith rose, washed swiftly, and dressed in her new clothes from the skin out. The evening before, to her surprise, Marthe had provided her with a small hip bath, several large cans of hot water, a small cake of fine, rose-scented soap, and a healing lotion to rub into her skin. Now, as she dressed, she relished the feeling of fresh new clothes on her clean body. The act was symbolic, she thought. She was beginning a new life. She would take only what she wanted of the old life.

She bundled up her old clothes and wrapped them in the ruined green silk dress. She would give them to Marthe to burn or to be used as rags.

Marthe knocked on the bedchamber door. “Are you awake, mademoiselle?”

Faith opened it. “Yes. Good morning, Marthe.”

Marthe’s beady black eyes ran over Faith critically. She sniffed. “That dress! You do not look like a bride.”

Faith shrugged. She didn’t feel like a bride either.

“Just because it is a hurried wedding does not mean you should not dress to be pretty for him,” said Marthe severely. “Did you use the soap I gave you?” She leaned forward and sniffed. “You did. Good.” She bustled into the room. Faith saw her eye the bundle of emerald silk, but she said nothing.

“You should be grateful to have such a man willing to marry you!”

“I am.”

“Then show your gratitude! It is your duty to make him happy, to please him in every way a woman can!”

Faith felt herself blushing. She didn’t know where to look. Was Marthe referring to what Faith thought she was? Marthe had to be well past sixty at least. She had the appearance of a dried-up, sour old woman. She was housekeeper to a celibate old priest, for heaven’s sake!

“A bride should be beautiful on her wedding day. You are well enough in yourself, but that dress!” She snorted. “The color is pretty enough, but the cut! It is an abomination!”

“I only had that thing left,” Faith gestured toward the green silk bundle. “All my baggage was stolen. Mr. Blacklock bought me this dress and another, in pink.” She smoothed the blue cotton dress. “I don’t mind it being plain.”

Marthe sniffed again. Without a word she stalked out of the room. Faith tidied her hair and gathered her few possessions together, but before she could leave, Marthe was back, bearing a small pot, a jar, a hare’s foot, a bunch of tiny pink roses fresh from the garden, and a white satin ribbon.

She caught Faith’s look and muttered, “Don’t look like that! ’Tis nothing. Just a few bits and pieces, flowers from the garden and an old piece of ribbon.”

She began with the pot, smoothing a cream over Faith’s bruised cheek, covering the purple and yellow marks. She dabbed some on the last of the midge bites, then dusted the whole of Faith’s complexion lightly with the hare’s foot dipped in some powder. When she showed her the looking glass, Faith gasped. It was a miracle. Her usual face looked back, her skin apparently clear and unmarked. So this was what it was like to be a painted hussy. Not at all the hideous thing she’d been led to believe. She grinned at Marthe’s reflection.

Marthe sniffed and, pushing Faith down on the bed, threaded the ribbon through Faith’s curls then tucked dozens of tiny roses into her hair. She frowned critically at her handiwork and nodded. “That’s better. You look more like a bride, now. Your
maman
would have wished it so.”

Faith could not speak. She put her arms around Marthe’s gaunt waist and hugged her. The woman stood stiff for a moment, then softened. She patted Faith on the shoulder and said gruffly, “Go downstairs now, mademoiselle, for your breakfast, and then it is off for your heathen ceremony. I shall see you again when you come to the church for your true marriage.”

At half past eight, Nicholas Blacklock arrived at Monsieur le Curé’s. “Ah, monsieur,” Father Anselm said, “Your bride is waiting. See, here she comes.”

His men fell silent. Nick felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. She was beautiful. He stood stock-still, staring at her until Stevens nudged him. Nick stepped forward and raised her hand to kiss it.

Her skin was soft, and she tasted of roses. “You ta—smell of roses,” he blurted.

“Yes. I am wearing real roses in my hair,” she explained in a shy voice. “Marthe picked them from the garden and wove them into my hair.” She smoothed the fabric of her dress. “And I’m wearing blue, because my mama was married in blue.”

She’d dressed up for their wedding. Roses in her hair. And she was so damn beautiful his voice didn’t work. Her hair was gold, spun, shining pure gold, tumbling in artless curls around her face.

“You will have a lifetime to stare at each other,
mes enfants
,” the elderly priest broke into his thoughts. “The time it marches on, and the mayor will demand more money if you are late. I will see you back here when you are finished.”

Father Anselm refused to let them enter the church together. “Ma’m’selle”—despite their legal marriage, he insisted on calling Faith mademoiselle until she was married properly, in church—“Ma’m’selle will be escorted down the aisle by one of these two fine gentlemens…” He looked expectantly at Mac, who looked away.

“I’ll do it.” Stevens stepped forward.

“
Bon!
Now you two gentlemens…” The elderly priest led Nick and Mac around the side door and into the church.

Mac practically frog-marched Nick around the back of the church, growling in his ear, “I pray ye’ll no live tae regret this, Cap’n! There’s still time tae change yer mind, sir. We can just keep walking.”

“And abandon my wife at the church door?”

Mac snorted. “She’s no’ yer wife—not yet!”

“The mayor seemed to think it legal.”

Mac’s snort dismissed the seedy little mayor. “That mumbled bit o’ official lingo didna fool me, sir. I canna believe it was a wedding at all.”

“I can.”

Mac marched another six paces, then burst out, “Och, Cap’n, ye canna mean tae trust yon stray lass wi’ yer name and worldly goods, sir. Ye know nothing about her! Nothing!”

“My worldly goods are in England, Mac. I don’t need them.”

There was a short silence, broken only by the sound of their boots on the flagstones. “What about yer Mam?”

“My mother is well provided for. Miss Merridew—I
knew
the name she gave us first was a false one—Miss Merridew—no, she’s Mrs. Blacklock now, isn’t she? At any rate, she already has my name and is welcome to my worldly goods. As for my mother, I have no doubt she’ll be delighted to have a daughter-in-law at last!”

“’Twas an heir she wanted, no’ just a daughter-in-law.”

“One needs one before one can have the other. And half a loaf is better than no loaf at all.”

“But—”

“Enough!” Nicholas’s voice was sharp. “The deed is done. There will be no more discussion, Mac. And my wife will be treated with respect!”

It was an order, and Mac grunted in reluctant assent. But as he pulled open the side door of the church, he added in an undertone, “I still reckon ye’re crazed, Cap’n!”

Faith paused at the doorway of the old stone church. Logically she knew she was already married, but this—this felt like the real thing. Her hands were shaking. She laid one on Stevens’s proffered arm and gripped the folds of her skirts with the other.

“One moment,
ma petite
.” Marthe stepped forward and waved Stevens aside. “You will wear this, perhaps? If it pleases you, that is.” She gruffly offered Faith a small parcel folded in aged tissue. Faith opened it carefully. Faded rose petals floated to the ground as she unwrapped it. She bent to collect them, but Marthe stopped her with a hand.

“No, it is fitting. She gave it to me wrapped in tissue, the same as now, with dried rose petals from her garden in between. She grew beautiful roses, my
maman
. But these petals are from my own garden. One must change them every year, you know.”

Faith pulled back the last layer of tissue. In it lay a folded square of lace. She opened it out with trembling hands. The lace was creamy with age, yet still perfect and so delicate it resembled cobwebs as it spilled across Faith’s hands. The region was known for its fine lacework, Faith recalled, but this was the finest she’d ever seen.

“It is old, but…” the old woman trailed off.

“It’s beautiful,” Faith whispered. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful piece of lace. Never.” She examined it reverently. “I wonder who made it? It’s very old. I doubt you could get such fine lace today.”

“
Ma mère
, she made it. She was the finest lacemaker in the district,” Marthe explained with pride. “People used to come all the way from Paris for her lace. Great ladies in the old days.” She fingered the exquisite piece of lace tenderly. “This piece she made for my wedding, nearly fifty years ago.” She contemplated it for a long moment, then she shrugged. “But
le bon Dieu
never blessed me with daughters. It is time
Maman
’s lace was brought out again for a new young bride. You will wear it, yes? For the sake of my mother and yours, who are both dead, but who loved their daughters very much.”

Faith could say not a word. She nodded and stood, unbearably moved, as Marthe took the lace from her nervous hands and draped it carefully over her hair.

The soft, lacy folds caressed Faith’s skin. The veil smelled faintly of roses, not the fresh scent of the new-cut tiny roses that remained in her hair, but an older, more enduring fragrance. The scent of roses. And of love. She felt her eyes fill.

“Enough of that! No tears, please!” The old woman said, frowning severely. Faith did her best to blink the tears away. Marthe made the final adjustments to the veil. “
Enfin!
Now you look like a bride should look. Your man, he will thank the
bon Dieu
for his luck.”

Faith had her doubts about that but said nothing. “I wish Mama—and my sisters—could have seen me, too.”

“Pah! What nonsense is this?” said Marthe briskly. “Your sisters I know nothing about, but your
maman
, she is here now, assuredly—and your papa, too. Did you not light the candles for them last night? Then of course they are here! Now, go, and do not keep your man waiting any longer. A little waiting, that is good, but men are impatient creatures. So go!” The old woman gave her a small push.

Faith took two steps and turned back and embraced Marthe. “Thank you, dearest Marthe,” she whispered brokenly. “I will never forget your kindness this day.”

Marthe made a dismissive sound, but she returned the embrace strongly, and when she stepped back, her eyes were wet. “Go now,
petite,
” she said gruffly. “Your man awaits.”

Her man.

Faith took a deep breath, took Stevens’s arm, and set out down the aisle. The journey seemed to take forever. The church smelled of incense and beeswax and roses. Only a few days ago she’d had nothing. She’d been robbed of everything, even her faith in the basic goodness of people.

Now suddenly she was showered with gifts from all directions, and her newfound cynicism was floundering. Who would have expected the sour, suspicious old woman she’d met last night to be such a comfort, so sensitive to Faith’s fears and anxieties?

The scent of roses beguiled her. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was in the small church of St. Giles, where her twin, Hope, had married Sebastian two months before, surrounded by family and friends and roses.

Twice now Faith had been married without a member of her family present, without her sisters, without her beloved twin, without even a friend. Now Marthe had stepped in with her words of comfort and her mother’s exquisite veil, and Stevens’s arm was warm and sure under her hand, and suddenly Faith felt as if this time, she was not alone.

She opened her eyes. Not at all alone. The biggest gift of all—Nicholas Blacklock—stood waiting, tall, dark and somber.

Nicholas Blacklock, who married an unknown girl to save her reputation. Nicholas Blacklock, securing Faith a future out of gallantry. How could she ever repay such a gift?

She wasn’t sure, but she was determined to try.

Chapter Six

Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of.