The Perfect Stranger (18 page)

She gave him a wide-eyed look and swallowed. He felt the taste of victory in his mouth. Tasting somewhat of ashes, but victory nonetheless.

“Very well. A true marriage all the way. Like Ruth in the Bible.” She held out her hand to shake on the bargain.

Nicholas’s whole body clenched in shock. Or something. She wasn’t supposed to agree. He had an instant vision of the sight she’d made waking up in bed, all beautiful and rumpled and warm in his arms.

He rallied and said in a brusque tone, “I have one final condition. You are
not
to get attached to me. If you cling or in any way begin to fool yourself into thinking that what we have between us is love, then you must leave. If I notice it happening, I will ask you to leave, and I want your solemn promise that you will go—without argument.” He cast a glance at her horse and added, “Or trickery.”

She looked stunned. “Why would you want to refuse love? I’ve told you I don’t expect you to love me, and I’m not promising to love you, but if it happened, why would you reject it?”

“That, madam, is my business. This marriage is nothing but a convenient arrangement, and there will be no talk of l—attachment between us. Such a thing is impossible. If you cannot agree to my terms, then you must leave now.”

She looked unhappy, her smooth brow furrowed, and for a moment Nick thought he had her beaten. He added, “And I want no talk of the future.”

“No talk of the future.” She thought about it for a moment, and gradually her face cleared. She said slowly, “My twin sister, Hope, has a philosophy she lives by, which is to seize every moment of joy that comes her way, to live in the moment and wring every morsel of pleasure from it.”

She regarded him gravely, “You don’t want to think about the future, and I don’t want to dwell on the past. Are you saying you want us to adopt my sister’s policy and live only in the present, taking what life brings us and enjoying it if we can?”

Nick thought about it. Live for the moment. He could do that. He nodded gruffly, and she held out her hand in a determined way. “Very well then, I agree to your terms.”

He did not take her hand but said in a severe tone, “I make no concession to female weaknesses, mind. You may travel with us as far as the port of Bilbao, and if you cannot keep up, or if you find the discomforts too much, you will depart on the first boat for England without further argument. Is that agreed, Mrs. Blacklock?”

“It is indeed, Mr. Blacklock.” And to Nick’s amazement, she didn’t just shake his hand, she stood on tiptoe, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him. On the mouth. It was barely a kiss, just the faintest brush of her lips against his and a whisper of warm breath. He was disconcerted to feel the soft imprint of it clear through to his toes.

He stared down at her. “No.”

Her brow wrinkled. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

He said slowly, “If you’re going to stay with me, that’s not the way we’re going to do that anymore. You need to understand that any kisses between us will not be soft and sweet baby pecks.” He wrapped his arms around her and lowered his mouth to hers.

He’d intended it to be a sort of threat, a way of frightening her off with his horrid masculine appetites, but the moment his lips found hers, he forgot. She tasted sweet, meltingly sweet and hot, just as he’d remembered. He’d hungered for one more taste of her, but now she offered him a feast.

Her mouth trembled open under his, and he plunged in boldly, hungrily. She met his passion with a shy generosity that stunned him, as if she welcomed the masculine invasion. She clutched him hard, pressing her supple body against him, stroking his face with soft fingers and returning kiss for kiss until he was hard and wanting and utterly disconcerted.

He released her and stood back. She looked dazed and slightly mussed, and as he watched, she gathered her composure together shakily. She was breathing heavily, as was he.

She blinked at him, then smiled. “I think that will be quite satisfactory, Mr. Blacklock.” Then she smiled with a mischievous light in her eyes that made him want to snatch her back and kiss her again. But they were on an open road, and besides, his men were watching.

His kiss was supposed to make her cut and run; he’d deliberately made it as carnal and demanding as he could, given their lack of privacy, and now here she was—dammit!—smiling at him, an open invitation to do it again. And the worst thing was he couldn’t help himself. He kissed her again, hard—just to show her who was in charge here—and stepped back.

In as curt a voice as he could manage, he said, “We shall sleep the night at an inn in Le Touquet. One bedchamber, one bed. No bolster. You have until tonight to change your mind.”

“I won’t change my mind,” she said softly.

He fetched her horse and boosted her up into the saddle. He frowned, his hand on her booted ankle. “Where did you get that horse?”

“I asked the ship’s captain to help me find one. You were right; he was very helpful. I was able to get the money back for my ticket, too. Do you want your purse back? I spent some of your money on this riding habit, but I got it at a pawnbrokers, so it was very cheap. It’s very good quality and will wear well.”

He gave her a frustrated look and stomped off to his own horse. Damn, damn, damn!

Faith watched her husband’s tall figure stride away. The taste of him was still in her mouth. It had been a very…intimate kiss. She licked her lips, and a ripple of sensation washed through her as she tasted him again.

His words came back to her:
“You have until tonight to change your mind.”
She watched him swing lithely onto his horse, and something inside her seemed to settle into place. She wouldn’t change her mind. She was determined to go forward, not back.

Tonight she would become Mrs. Blacklock in the flesh.

Chapter Eight

License my roaving hands, and let them go,
Behind, before, above, between, below.

J
OHN
D
ONNE

T
HE NIGHT HAD COME, AND IN THE SMALL INN CHAMBER
F
AITH
awaited her husband. She wore the nightgown that Marthe had given her after her wedding. Made of creamy lawn, it was so fine as to be almost transparent. The bodice was made of beautiful handmade lace and cut low across her breasts.

“My
maman
made it,” the old woman had said. She’d added, “It has only been worn once, you understand.” Faith knew at once what she meant. Marthe had worn this on her own wedding night. It was a special nightgown; one made for love, not sleeping.

Faith had bathed, soaking her stiff limbs in hot water in a large tin bath in the bedchamber. She’d been taught to ride as a girl and, since it was the only area of their education Grandpapa hadn’t ignored, Faith was a competent rider. But she didn’t adore riding the way her twin sister did, nor did Faith ride daily. She was very out of practice, and her day in the saddle was making itself felt.

A candle flickered on the nightstand. Where was he? She’d come upstairs nearly an hour before and was on tenterhooks, waiting.

He’d said little at dinner. His face was pale and austere, and for the most part his jaw remained clenched. He’d hardly touched his dinner. He’d barely responded to her attempts at conversation. He paid her little attention—he paid little attention to anyone, in fact.

Faith couldn’t read his mood at all. She wasn’t sure if what she observed was tamped-down anger or some dark preoccupation with something else. A nervous tic flickered in the jawline beneath his left ear. His grim, remote expression did nothing to calm her nerves.

His knock, when it finally came, made her jump in fright. He entered quietly and sat down heavily on a hard wooden chair. “Will you help me get my boots off?” His voice was quiet.

She hurried to help, kneeling in front of him and dragging his boots off one by one, his stockings, too. She glanced shyly up at him, wondering if he liked what he saw in the beautiful nightgown. She was shocked at his expression. Instead of the intense, heated gaze she’d expected, his eyes looked dull and glassy. His face was pallid, and the skin around his eyes looked dark, as if it were bruised.

She laid a hand on his knee. “Are you not well?”

He started to shake his head, then stopped, as if the movement hurt him. A rueful expression flickered briefly across his face, and he said in a careful voice, as if each word hurt, “Sorry…wedding night postponed. Again. Got…another blasted headache.”

“What can I do? Will I see if the landlord’s wife has any laudanum or—?”

“No!” He winced as if the sharply spoken command had pained him. He managed to grate out, “No laudanum…Filthy stuff. No, this…gone by morning…usually.”

He struggled out of his coat. Faith hurried to help. He let her remove his waistcoat, neckcloth and shirt, but when she reached to unbutton his breeches, his hand stopped her. “I will do…well enough from here. Get into bed…Your feet…chilled.”

He was worrying about her feet? They were chilled, but as if that mattered, Faith thought. He looked shocking. Willow bark tea, she thought suddenly. Her little sister, Grace, used to get severe headaches when she was young, and Cook used to make willow bark tea for her. It always seemed to help.

She pulled on a dress over her nightgown and hurried to the door in bare feet. In a moment she was knocking on the door of the room Stevens and Mac were sharing. Stevens answered.

“Mr. Blacklock has another headache. Will you see, please, if the landlady has any willow bark to make a tea? I’m sure it will help.”

“But, miss—”

“Please, Stevens, now! Make a pot and bring it up to my—our chamber.” She hurried back to her room.

Nicholas Blacklock had climbed into bed and dragged some bedclothes over him. He was in an undershirt and drawers. His eyes were closed, but she did not think he was asleep. His forehead was deeply furrowed, his mouth grim and tight. White lines of pain grooved his skin from nose to mouth and between his brows. His breathing was labored. The tic in his clenched jaw jumped harder than ever. She straightened the bedclothes around him and smoothed his pillow and his tumbled, dark hair.

The moment Stevens arrived with the willow bark tea, she took it from him with whispered thanks. She let it draw and poured it into a spouted invalid cup, sending a silent thanks to whoever had thought of it.

She lifted his head and slipped the spout between his lips. He made as if to resist. “It is just tea, willow bark tea. It will help,” she said softly. “Please.” she said again when he still resisted, and after a moment his mouth relaxed, and she was able to pour some of the bitter liquid into him. He swallowed and shuddered at the vile taste of it, but she made him drink a good quantity.

She placed the cup on the bedside table and climbed into bed beside him. Her movement jolted him, and he groaned.

“Sorry.” She smoothed his brow. His eyes opened, and in the light of the candle she saw in them pain, stubborn endurance, and a stark loneliness that called to her.

Faith acted purely on instinct. She opened her arms to him. “Nicholas.” She drew him toward her. He resisted at first, then with a deep sigh, he locked his arms tight around her and buried his face between her breasts. He held her so tightly that she thought for a moment she wouldn’t be able to breathe. But she could. Just.

He gave another deep sigh, and she felt him get heavier, as if he was finding some ease.

Faith looked down at the dark head cradled between her breasts, and she felt somehow tearful, she did not know why. He held on to her body like a man drowning. His body was rigid with pain.

Faith smoothed her fingers over his neck, his arms, and his sleek, dark hair with a featherlight touch. She could feel every breath enter and leave him. His breath warmed her skin, and her skin absorbed it. She stroked him and held him and breathed in the scent of him and knew that this was why she’d been guided to the man in the sand hills that terrible night.

Slowly, slowly she felt the rigidity seep from him. His convulsive grip of her eased, and his breathing slowed until it became even and regular, and he passed from pain into sleep.

She pulled the covers more securely around them both. This was not what she’d expected to happen in this bed. It was less. And it was more. She held the big, supine body to her and, with a prayer of thanks, drifted into sleep.

Faith woke slowly to a delectable sense of…pleasure. She was having the most wonderful dream. She kept her eyes closed, clinging to the sensations of the dream, prolonging the delightful sensation of being…loved. Needed.

Big, warm hands smoothed, kneaded, caressed her skin. She felt desired in a way she’d never before felt. Warm, sleepy, smiling, she stretched and moved sensually, squirming pleasurably in the grip of the marvelous dream. Her skin felt alive as his hands moved, sending delicious shivers through her body, shivers that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with…desire.

His mouth came down over hers, softly, tenderly, possessively, nipping gently at her lips.

“Open up, Mrs. Blacklock,” he murmured huskily.

Her eyes flew open. It wasn’t a dream; it was Nicholas Blacklock. Nicholas Blacklock recovered apparently from his headache, recovered enough to push her nightgown right up to her waist. Even as she realized it, he tugged it even higher.

She opened her mouth to ask him how his headache was and what he thought he was doing—and found her mouth filled with the taste of Nicholas Blacklock. He tasted dark and male and wildly exciting. His tongue tasted her, learned her, possessed her, and she learned him in response.