The Perfect Stranger (24 page)

But when Nicholas Blacklock looked at her with that dark, smoky gaze, she felt a deep feminine unfurling in some core of her that had never been touched before, a sense that he was not just seeing one of the Merridew Diamonds—not that he knew of that silly title—but that he was seeing Faith, a Faith she hardly knew existed.

When he took her in his arms and loved her, she didn’t feel like the girl who had spent half her life frightened of her grandfather’s rages, nor like the foolish dreamer who had fallen for a shallow impostor and made a mess of her life. She didn’t feel like the girl who now distracted him from his journey and argued with him. When he planted a line of warm, drugging kisses from the shell of her ear along each curve and hollow of her body to the inside arch of her feet and back, as if he were trying to absorb and learn her essence, she felt more than special, more than beautiful. Her body and heart overflowed with love, and she wondered if he could feel it spilling over him, too, if that was what he was absorbing.

And floating on air in the aftermath, she felt…almost…loved.

But he never said the words.

And in the morning, it was as if he denied the truth of the actions of the night. For it was always the same.

“Do not get attached, madam.”

“Do not spin dreams out of moonbeams, madam.”

“There is no future for us, madam.”

“Tell me about your Algy, Stevens. What was he like?” They were riding down a track that threaded narrowly through a maze of green and gold patchwork fields. Harvest time was over for some crops, and the ground was newly ploughed and dark. The fresh-turned earth smelled glorious.

“Algy?” He gave her a surprised look, then smiled reminiscently. “He was a good son—not a good boy, mind—chock-full o’ mischief, he was! Him and Master Nick, both. Inseparable they was—not that the master was too happy about that.”

“No?”

“No. Sir Henry didn’t like his son hobnobbing with the son of a groom. Oh, it was all right when they was little lads, but later on, when there should have been a gulf between them…”

“A gulf?” Faith prompted.

“Master Nick, he was sent off to school when he was seven, and if his older brother—young Henry, named after his pa—was any guide to go on, Master Nick should have come home changed. But he didn’t. Came home from school looking neat as a pin, like a stiff little gentleman, but he’d head straight down to the stables, and the two boys would be off to the woods like a shot.” He chuckled. “And come back hours later looking like a pair of gypsies.”

“What did they do in the woods?”

“Everything. Played at Robin Hood and Guy of Warwick and Richard Coeur de Lion and such games when they was little, but as they got older, it was the wild things that drew them—well, it was Master Nick mostly, but my Algy liked them, too. Those two—they knew that land better than the gamekeepers—where the peregrines nested, where the badgers slept, where the vixen hid her cubs…” He grimaced. “That was the beginning o’ the trouble. Old Sir Henry—as I said, he was mad on foxhunting.”

Faith nodded. “My grandfather was a great one for the chase, too. It was a great disappointment to him that none of us were boys.”

“Old Sir Henry—he was down on Nick for lots of things. The music, for one.”

“He forbade music? My grandfather did that, too.”

Stevens gave her a sardonic look. “Not forbade it as such. Just didn’t want no son of his playing it. Music was women’s business, he said. And books. A great one for stories was young Master Nick, but his pa reckoned it weren’t manly for a boy to like music and books. And oh, Master Nick, he did love his stories. He used to read ’em to Algy and me—well, that’s where they got their games about Richard Lionheart and such from.”

Faith smiled. She could just imagine Nick as a young boy, acting out tales of derring-do in the forest with his friends.

“In Sir Henry’s eyes, the boy’s sole saving grace was that Nick was horse mad from the time he could walk—him and Algy, both—and Sir Henry expected Nick to be like himself and his brother; mad for the hunt.”

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

N
ICHOLAS 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 perhaps 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.