The Perfect Stranger by Anne Gracíe Read Free Book Online Page A

!”
    Faith jumped. “Oh, heavens!” She hastily knocked the burning toast into the fire. “Sorry.” Her cheeks must be flaming, too, she was certain. Had he noticed where she’d been looking?
    “Never mind. ’Tis no worse than if Mac had done it—he’s useless, the big gawk!” Stevens broke off and glanced at Faith. “I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t mean—”
    “It’s all right,” Faith said ruefully. “I deserved it. Will you trust me with another slice?”
    He shrugged his agreement. “If you like. We can scrape any black bits off. It’ll all get eaten, black or not.”
    Faith, on her mettle now, silently vowed there would not be a speck of black on any future toast. If she hadn’t been so distracted…Thank goodness the fire would account for any extra redness in her cheeks. Whatever would they think of her if they knew how she’d stared? Stared at naked men. A true lady would have turned away, as Stevens had suggested. She concentrated on the toast.
    It took great concentration, too, with the image of a naked Nicholas Blacklock still firmly fixed in her mind.
    Stevens placed a dozen thick, streaky rashers of bacon into a pan, then thrust it into the coals. Soon they were sizzling, and the smell was heavenly.
    Faith tried to concentrate on the toast but could not prevent an occasional quick glance at the two men coming up the beach, now dressed. Even clothed, he still looked magnificent.
    Even clothed. How depraved had she become! She dropped a perfectly toasted slice on a tin plate, buttered it, and skewered another on the toasting fork.
    Last night she’d seen him in firelight, a man of shadows, hard and strong and fierce. A fearsome warrior, yet she recalled the way he’d tended her hurts, with repressed anger and gentle hands.
    This morning, his face and body gleaming and wet in the morning sun, he did not seem the same man. The man of the night seemed all dark and brooding mystery. Now he looked like a sea god risen out of the waves, powerful, exhilarated, full of life.
    Clad only in buff breeches and a white linen shirt, he looked the essence of strength, of masculinity. His shirt clung to his body. His skin was still damp. His chest was broad and powerful, his legs taking long strides in the sand.
    A whiff of smoke caught her attention, and she hastily turned the toast. Slightly scorched did not count.
    “Breakfast’s almost ready,” said Stevens as the men arrived at the campsite. “Bacon’s cooked, miss is making the toast, and I’m just doing the eggs now.” As he spoke he broke eggs into the sizzling pan.
    “Good morning, Miss Merrit.” Nicholas Blacklock bowed gracefully.
    For a moment, Faith did not recognize the name she’d hastily claimed. “Good morning, Mr. Blacklock, Mr. McTavish.” McTavish made some sort of noise, which Faith decided was a Scottish greeting. She stared up at Nicholas Blacklock. His eyes were gray, darker gray than the dawn sky, lighter than the gray and glassy sea behind. His skin was lightly tanned. Tanned evenly all over, she recalled. He must swim naked often. Their eyes met, and she blushed and looked away, as if he could read her thoughts.
    He squatted down beside her, took her chin between finger and thumb, turned her face to the sun, and examined it intently. Faith squirmed. “I know; I look a sight.”
    He said seriously, “No, the scratches are healing, the swelling has gone down a bit, and the bruises are a good color.”
    “A good color?” She was inclined to be indignant.
    “Yes, they’ll fade soon. You’re obviously a fast healer.” He released her chin and reached for the hem of her skirt. Faith, her hands encumbered with the toasting fork, managed to swing her knees away. “My feet are perfectly recovered, I thank you,” she said in a firm voice that told him she had no intention of baring her limbs to him again.
    His lips quirked, and he sat down beside her in an easy movement. “I trust you slept well.”
    She checked the