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

toast. “Yes, thank you. Amazingly well—better than I had expected. And you—have you quite recovered from your indisposition?”
    “I have.” His tone made it clear the subject was off-limits.
    “Did you enjoy your swim?” She flushed as she recalled the sight he’d made emerging from the waves and added hastily, “Um, Stevens told me you went for a swim. Not that I saw you swimming, you underst—” She broke off, flustered, when he gave her a piercing look. What did it mean? Did he know she’d peeked? She hurried on, “It’s a beautiful morning. Was the water cold?” Oh heavens, what had made her ask that? She’d seen it was cold! Her whole face flamed.
    “Och, give it here!” Mac grabbed the toasting fork. The toast was smoking gently.
    “Oh dear, I’m sorry! I was not looking!”
    “Aye, I noticed,” he grunted. “I’ll have tae scrape this lot wi’ a knife!” He pulled a knife from his boot and with a long-suffering expression started to scrape toast.
    It was only one piece and not that badly burned and Faith was inclined to tell him so, but Stevens interrupted. “Don’t worry, miss. Mac is a rare talent at scraping toast. As he said, he’s our usual toast maker.” Stevens winked at Faith, and she felt better.
    “Now, here’s yer breakfast. Eat it while it’s hot.” It was a feast; golden scrambled eggs, thick slices of bacon, and toast, carefully scraped and lavishly spread with the rich local butter.
    Now, Miss Merrit, I think it’s time you told me your story,” Nick said when they’d finished breakfast.
    “My story?” she said, with a not-very-convincing air of innocent surprise.
    “You know very well what I mean,” he growled. “The story of how a gently bred young English lady comes to be alone, hungry, and sleeping among French sand hills. At the mercy of any passing villain.” His bluntness was deliberate. This was no time for false pride. She could not be allowed to continue like this. The consequences of last night—had he not been there to prevent them—were unthinkable.
    “None of us will repeat a word of what passes here. You have my word.”
    She looked down and mumbled a thank-you. “I suppose the story will be all over London in a few weeks anyway…” She hugged her knees and wiggled her bare toes, stretching them toward the fire. The slender, dainty feet were a mess of blisters. Healing blisters, Nick saw, but still! He made a resolution to do something about those big ugly boots at the first opportunity.
    When it seemed she wasn’t going to say any more, he said, “Come on—spit it out! What the devil are you doing in this mess?”
    She raised her head and gave him a cool look. He attempted to moderate his tone, make it sound less like a prisoner interrogation. “I mean, who is responsible for your current predicament?”
    She shrugged. “I have no one but myself to blame.”
    Nick’s brows knotted. It was his experience that most people’s problems were invariably someone else’s fault. “How so?”
    She hesitated, then said, “I fell in love.” She broke off, and for a moment it seemed as though she would leave it there. Nick opened his mouth to prompt her further, but she said, “I fell in love in England, but he was—well, I thought he was a Hungarian violinist. He asked me to marry him, to elope with him! And…and so…I did.”
    “I see.” Damned fool romantic notions!
    Stevens swore under his breath. “You didn’t even think about the disgrace, miss?”
    She gave him a rueful look. “It never even occurred to me, Stevens.”
    “Why ever not, miss? Surely you knew what people would say!”
    “No,” she said simply. “The thing is, eloping is something of a tradition in my family. My mother and father ran away to Italy to get married.” She hugged her knees, and her voice grew wistful. “I grew up hearing about it. They were completely and wonderfully in love until they day they died…”
    The fire sputtered, and far away,