The Perfect Stranger Read Online Free PDF Page A

silence, then he said quietly, “Have another mouthful,” and held the flask out. She said nothing—was unable to—and did not take it, so after a minute he replaced the flask in his pocket.
    He picked up his guitar and started to pluck soft notes. His hands moved surely over the instrument. He played without looking, simply staring into the fire.
    Faith stiffened, then forced herself to relax. Music had no power over her now. It was no longer the voice of love. It was just music. A pretty sound, like the rhythm of the lapping waves or the wind soughing through the long grass.
    She let the music, the hush of the waves, and the rustle of the breeze wash over her, balm to her ragged spirit.
    “If that stew is burnt a’cos of your bletherin’ on to that female, Stevens…”
    Faith jerked upright as two men stepped into the light of the fire. One was small and wizened and nearing fifty, the other young, she thought—under his concealing red beard—not yet thirty. And huge. She blinked. She’d thought Mr. Blacklock was tall.
    The small man gave Faith a curious glance and a quick, “Evenin’ miss,” but it was clear where his priorities lay. He whipped the lid of the pot off, peered in, gave it a quick stir, and looked up, grinning. His face was badly scarred, and his grin twisted it in a peculiar way, but his eyes twinkled, and Faith warmed to him instantly.
    “Thank you, miss, for the saving of me stew.”
    Faith was surprised. “How do you know I did anything?”
    He snorted. “Mr. Nicholas? Remember to stir the stew?”
    “I told her to add the extra wine,” Mr. Blacklock said with mild indignation. “Miss Merrit, let me introduce you. The culinary doubting Thomas is Wilfred Stevens, and the bearded giant is Mr. Dougal McTavish, otherwise known as Mac.”
    Faith greeted the two men. Mr. Stevens gave her a warm smile as he shook her hand, but Mr. McTavish stood like a stump on the edge of the firelight, ignoring the hand she held out to him. He looked her up and down from under bushy red brows, and Faith shriveled a little inside at his expression.
    She knew what he was thinking. His opinion of her was no better than that of the men who’d pursued her in the dark. Only he wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot barge pole. She raised her chin and gave him back stare for stare.
    “Mac? This is Miss Merrit.” Mr. Blacklock repeated. There was that tone again.
    The big fellow growled a reluctant, “How d’ye do,” before peering narrowly at Nicholas Blacklock. “Ye have the look o’ a man who’s been in a fight, Cap’n.”
    Nicholas Blacklock explained about the three attackers, only he called them unwelcome guests and said nothing at all about his heroism, only that Faith had taken up a burning branch to the villains, and they’d run off. The big man wasn’t fooled, though, and gave Faith another hard look. “Aye, well, bad meat will always attract vermin!”
    “That’s enough!” snapped Mr. Blacklock.
    “Aye, well, I’ll go an’ check that the ‘unwelcome guests’ are gone, for certain.’ He stomped back into the darkness.
    Faith blinked at the big man’s hostility.
    “Ignore him, miss,” Stevens said, as he fussed over the pot. “These days Mac doesn’t have much time for ladies—for females of any sort. He suffered a disappointment a few years back and has been like a bear with a sore head ever since. But his bark is worse than his bite.”
    “He’d better not bark or bite again within my hearing,” Nicholas Blacklock said with soft menace as the big man returned from checking the brush.
    Mac gave him a shocked look and hurriedly sat down. “Can I pass ye some wine, miss?” His voice was grudging but polite.
    How did Mr. Blacklock do it? she wondered as she accepted the mug of wine. He never raised his voice, spoke quite mildly and softly, and yet she—and now apparently this giant—found themselves obeying without thought. Drink this. Stir that. Sit on this rock. Stay for