The Perfect Stranger Read Online Free PDF Page B

answer. There was no need.
    “Are you also without funds? Is that why you are forced to sleep on the beach, too?”
    He closed his eyes briefly. Dear Lord, she was sleeping on the beach! He shook his head. “No, that was my choice. I have felt rather…hemmed in lately, and since the weather was so fine, I wanted to sleep under the stars.” His mouth twitched wryly. “My men are less than impressed with my choice, I might add.”
    “Oh. So you are not obliged to.”
    He grimaced. “In a way I am. Put it down to having a surfeit of civilization recently. When I was in the army, sleeping under the stars was a matter of daily routine. I suppose I wanted to…” His voice tailed off.
    What was he trying to recapture? His youth? By most accounts he was young. Or was it a way of avoiding the implacable future? Pretending a freedom he knew he didn’t have. All he knew was that he had to do it. To stay in England, watching his mother’s dreams die again, would kill him.
    A snort of bitter laughter escaped him. Kill him. What a joke!
    “So you will not leave me to my threadbare pride and my sand hills?” she asked softly.
    He shook his head. “No, although your pride is in no way threadbare, Miss Merrit.” He added in what he hoped was a lighter voice, “But if we are discussing sand hills, mine are, I believe, safer and more comfortable.”
    She still hesitated. He wished he could read her expression, but he couldn’t. He added matter-of-factly, “I have no intention of letting you leave unprotected, so you may as well give in graciously.” A spasm crossed his face.
    She frowned. “What is it?”
    “Nothing. Just a headache.” His brow was suddenly deeply furrowed, and he spoke as if he had to force each word.
    “You are ill,” she insisted.
    He began to shake his head but froze in midmovement. “I get…headaches. Forgive my rudeness, but—” He staggered to where a roll of blankets lay near the fire. He kicked it, and it unrolled into a bed. “Make sure…you stay here. My men…take care of you.” He carefully lay down on the bedroll and closed his eyes. He looked dreadful.
    Faith looked around wildly and called for help.
    McTavish appeared.
    “What is the matter with him, Mr. McTavish?”
    McTavish ignored her. He pulled a blanket over Mr. Blacklock, as gently as if he were a child. Stevens arrived, took one look at his master, and began to build up the fire.
    Mr. Blacklock opened his eyes, gripped the big Scotsman’s wrist, grated, “The girl…stays with us,” and closed his eyes again.
    “Dinna fash yersel’ lad. I’ll see to it.” McTavish turned to Faith. “You stay here. I’ll fetch ye a blanket tae sleep in.” He gave Faith a hard look, as if daring her to take one step away from his custody.
    Not that she had any intention of leaving now. He looked really ill. His face was dead white, even in the firelight, and his forehead was deeply furrowed with pain. She knelt down beside him. Had his head been injured in the fight? Was it her fault he lay here like this?
    His thick, dark hair was tumbled in all directions. She smoothed it back. His skin was clammy. She took out her handkerchief, still damp with seawater, and wiped his face gently. With those penetrating, watchful eyes closed, he seemed younger than she’d thought at first. Not yet thirty, she thought.
    Had the furrowed brow eased a little? She could not tell if it was wishful thinking or not. She straightened to find McTavish eyeing her, his bushy brows knotted in grim suspicion. He dumped a bundle of gray blankets on the ground, like tossing down a gauntlet.
    “I hope ye don’t mind sleeping under the stars, on the sand and all, miss,” said Stevens, laying driftwood on the fire in a complicated pattern.
    Faith gave him a rueful smile, but she couldn’t bring herself to explain the depths to which she’d fallen. “What is wrong with Mr. Blacklock?”
    Stevens opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by McTavish.