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“MS. GRACIE HAS A KNACK FOR DELVING INTO PEOPLE’S SOULS.”
—Rendezvous
Praise for
The Perfect Waltz
“The Perfect Waltz is much more than a simple dance of love; it’s a whole beautifully choreographed ballet of emotions…If you haven’t already discovered the powerfully moving romances of Anne Gracie, I can’t urge you strongly enough to hunt them up.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a book so much. The characters are so rich and the story so refreshing, they reach deep into your heart. The dialogue is delightful and, at times, a hoot. I was simply enchanted by this wonderful book.”
—Fresh Fiction
“One of the best Regency-set historicals I’ve read in years, with a beautifully developed love story at the center.”
—The Romance Reader
“A wonderful love story with vibrant characters.”
—Rendezvous Reviews
“The Perfect Waltz is a definite keeper, and is one of the best romances I have read in a long time.”
—All About Romance
“You’ll savour every page.”
—Romantic Times
“Duty vs. love is brilliantly battled as Anne Gracie writes the perfect historical.”
—The Best Reviews
Praise for
The Perfect Rake
“Contains bushels of humor, a tiny bit of farce, a generous dollop of romance, the right balance of sweet and tart, a dash of suspense, and, for spice, a soupçon of retribution.”
Romance Reviews Today
“Near perfect.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A stellar read…the kind of book that will make one sigh with satisfaction, and make for enjoyable rereading over the years…Superb.”
—Romance Reading
“Hysterical to read. Gracie’s humor is as engaging as ever.”
—All About Romance
“With wit and tenderness…Gracie entertains and satisfies her fans.”
—Romantic Times
Praise for the other novels of Anne Gracie
An Honorable Thief
“She’s turned out another wonderful story!”
—All About Romance
“A true find and definitely a keeper.”
—Romance Reviews
“A thoroughly marvelous heroine.”
—The Best Reviews
“Dazzling characterizations…provocative, tantalizing, and wonderfully witty romantic fiction…Unexpected plot twists, tongue-in-cheek humor, and a sensually fraught battle of wits between hero and heroine…embraces the romance genre’s truest heart.”
—Heartstrings
How the Sheriff Was Won
“Anne Gracie provide[s] pleasant diversions.”
—Midwest Book Review
“An excellent story with an engaging plot and well-rounded characters.”
—Romantic Times
THEPerfect Stranger
Anne Gracie
BERKLEY SENSATION, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
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(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
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Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE PERFECT STRANGER
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2006 by Anne Gracie.
Cover art by Voth-Barrall Design.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation
of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA), Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-1011-9166-8
BERKLEY SENSATION®
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For my sisters, Jan Westerveld and Jill Graham.
And for all my “sisters of the road”—you know who you are.
With love and thanks.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter One
Long is the way and hard, that out of hell leads up to light.
JOHN MILTON
NEAR CALAIS, FRANCE. SEPTEMBER 1818
VOICES. THERE WERE VOICES IN THE DARK, IN THE SAND HILLS. Men’s voices.
Faith Merridew sat up. A light bobbed in the sand hills above her. It was moving slowly, unevenly toward her hiding place.
“Où es-tu, ma jolie poulet?” (Where are you, my pretty hen?) The man sounded drunk, whoever he was.
She heard another man stumble in the dark, crashing into one of the low bushes that dotted the sand hills. He cursed. “Are you sure she’s here?” he asked in rough French.
“Oui. I watched her go in and not come out. She’s waiting, snug in her little nest for us.” The speaker laughed coarsely. Two others laughed with him. Three men, maybe more.
Faith didn’t wait to be sure. She snatched up her homespun woolen cloak and her reticule and, keeping low, began to creep away as fast as she could.
Behind her lay the town; before her, who knew? But she had no intention of heading back to town. Not at night. The town would offer her no sanctuary. She’d discovered that the hard way. The town was full of men like these. Men who’d driven her to hide in the sand hills in the first place.
There was no alternative. She made toward the beach.
“Là-bas!” (Over there!) They spotted her and gave chase.
It was too late to worry about noise. She ran as fast as she could, weaving through scrubby bushes and low grasses. Her skirt caught on twigs and spiny thorns. She snatched it up in desperate fists and ran on. Sticks and thorns slashed at her legs, but she was oblivious. Behind her, men crashed through the undergrowth. They were gaining on her.
Thump! Faith tripped over a root and crashed into the ground. Pain exploded in her face. She lay on the sandy ground, winded, her empty lungs gasping frantically for breath that would not come. Finally air gushed back into her, and she could breathe.
She scrambled to her feet and listened for her pursuers. And that’s when she heard it. Music. Soft, but not far away.
Where there was music there were people. People who might help her. Or not. They might be like the men in the town, like the ones who were chasing after her.
No choice. She could not let herself be run down like a hare by hounds. She had to risk it. She would run, run to the music, and pray for safety.
Music had once been her refuge. And lately her downfall.
Risking everything for the sake of speed, she plunged onto the open beach, down to the very water’s edge where the sand was firmest. Shafts of pain jabbed her ankle with every step. She heard shouts as her pursuers spotted her. Faith ran, ran for her life, ran toward the music.
Her heavy boots slowed her down. They’d protected her feet in the rough scrub—her own slippers would never have stood that punishment—but now the soft sand sucked at them. No time to stop and take them off. Her breath came in great gasps. Pain bit sharply into her side. She ignored it and fled on.
She rounded a small headland. Fire glowed in the base of the sand hills. Lungs heaving, she ran toward it. A campfire. A cooking pot hung above it. Fishermen?
A solitary shadowed figure sat beside the fire, playing music softly; Spanish-sounding music that rippled out into the night like water, or wine. A man. A gypsy? A huge dog rose out of the shadows. Faith froze. She’d had dogs set on her twice in the last week. This one was of a size to rip out her throat in one bite.
“Là-bas!” Her pursuers came crashing across the headland. Nothing, not even a hound from hell, could be worse than what these men planned. Terror drove her forward.
“Aidez-moi!” she gasped raggedly as she stumbled toward him. “Aidez-moi…je vous implore!” (Help me, I beg of you!)
The music stopped. The dog’s low growls blossomed into a frenzy of rage.
“Silence, Wulf!” The deep barking stopped instantly, though the dog kept growling.
“Aidez-moi!” she gasped, her breath sobbing from exhausted lungs. The words came out as a whisper.
Somehow, he heard her. He held out his hand toward her, a dark lifeline etched in flame. “À moi, petite,” was all he said. (To me, little one.)
His voice was deep and calm and sure, and it seemed to speak to something deep inside her. And so, despite the fact that she could not see his face, despite the huge snarling beast at his side, Faith gathered the last of her strength and stumbled toward him. He was so tall and solid, and that voice, she imagined, held strength and reassurance. He could be no worse than those behind her, she thought, and besides, she had reached the end of her tether.
The toe of her boot caught again in the undergrowth. Her bad ankle buckled, and she pitched forward and crashed into the man. He caught her hard against his chest, but the impact knocked him backward and brought him down, flat on his back.
She lay for a moment on top of him, exhausted, gasping for breath on his big, hard body. Beneath her, the man lay still, as if his breath, too, had been knocked from him. His arms had closed around her. Hard, strong muscles. He smelled clean, of salt and woodsmoke and soap.
The dog barked again, but now its menace was directed into the darkness. Her pursuers must be almost here.
As she scrambled off him, Faith tried to think of the words in French to explain, to beg for help. Not a single word or phrase came to her frightened brain. She knelt beside him in the sand, struggling to pull her wits together.
His features were in shadow, silhouetted against the fire. “Mademoiselle?” His voice was harsh, deep.
Her mouth opened and closed helplessly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered in English. “I can’t think of the words. Oh God!” She could not see his face. Her own was lit by his fire.
His voice sharpened. “You’re English!” He stood abruptly. He seemed immensely tall.
Faith nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am. And you—” His words pierced the fog in her brain. He was English, too.
“Thank God, thank God,” she whispered. Though why she should feel safer with him just because he was English as well as clean was a mystery. But somehow, she did.
The dog suddenly broke into a renewed frenzy of barking, and she pulled herself together. “Those men, they’ll be here any minute—”
He did not so much as glance away. He bent down and held out his hands to her. “Can you stand?” Distantly she realized he spoke with no hint of an accent. Spoke, in fact, with the tones of a gentleman.
She nodded, though her legs were shaking. He helped her to her feet with strong, gentle hands. She stared fearfully into the darkness. The dog snarled and growled, clearly sensing her pursuers, though they’d gone very quiet. “Enough, Wulf!” The dog stopped, and silence fell.
Three silhouettes were dimly visible against the glimmer of the sea and sky.
“They’re after me.”
“So I presumed. But why are they chasing you? Did you steal—”
“No!” she said indignantly. “They want—they think—they think I am—”
His gaze ran over her, coldly assessing. “I understand,” he said in a clipped voice.
He did, too, she could tell from his tone. She hung her head, too mortified to speak.
“Sit down over there, near the fire,” he ordered. “I’ll deal with them.”
“But there are three men! Maybe more.”
His teeth glinted in a savage smile. “Good.”
Good? Faith stared at the shadowed face, wishing she could see him properly. What could he possibly mean by good?
A voice from the darkness shouted roughly in French, “Hey, you there! That woman is ours.”
“Oui, give her back, and there will be no trouble,” another added.
The tall man answered in French. “The woman is mine.” The dog snarled, as if to reinforce his words.
“The woman is mine.” An implacable statement of fact. Faith shivered. Did she now have four men to flee instead of three? She glanced up at him, a tall, featureless silhouette. A spurt of anger shot through her. She was no man’s woman. Since she’d walked out on Felix all sorts of men thought she was theirs for the taking. Was it only ten days ago? It seemed like an endless nightmare, getting worse each time.
The first man swore. “The whore is ours. We found her first.” He spat. “You can have her when we’ve finished with her.”
They were planning to share her? Oh God! Faith began to shake again. She looked around her for a weapon, a knife, or even a heavy stick, but she could see no sign of anything useful. The biggest pieces of wood had been thrown on the fire. She would have to run. Again. The stitch in her side had eased, and her breathing had returned to normal—almost. Her face ached and her ankle throbbed, but she was in a better state to keep running than ten minutes before. Surreptitiously she bent and began to unlace her heavy boots. She would be faster on the sand barefoot.
The tall man bent sideways and took her wrist with a firm grip. “Stop that,” he ordered softly, drawing her upright again. “You won’t need to run. You have my word you will be safe.”
He raised his voice and announced with quiet menace, “The girl is mine, and I don’t share. She stays with me.” He said to Faith in an undertone, “See those saddlebags over there on the blanket be
side the guitar? There’s a pair of pistols in them. Fetch them for me, there’s a good girl. I can’t take my eyes off these swine.”
“There’s a good girl?” That didn’t sound like a potential rapist talking.
“We found her first,” a man yelled furiously.
“You want her? Then come and take her. But you’ll have to kill me first.” And to Faith’s amazement, he smiled again. There was nothing gentle or humorous in it. It was purely ferocious; a savage baring of teeth in anticipation of a fight.
A scornful laugh came out of the darkness. “Bah, Englishman, we are three to your one. We will feed you to the fish!”
Faith’s Englishman smiled that terrible smile and shrugged, as if to say, We’ll see.
Faith found the pistols and hurried back and thrust them into his hands. The men in the shadows muttered, speaking in indistinct voices. As if they were arguing. Or planning.
He checked the pistols unhurriedly. Faith stared at him, marveling at his calm. One man against three. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but not as heavyset as the three. They were probably the sort of ruffians who positively bristled with knives, too. And though he had his pistols, they would only account for two, at best.
He seemed perfectly unworried by the atrocious odds.
Suddenly a wave of self-disgust washed over her. This man, a stranger whose name she didn’t even know, was risking his life for her. She shouldn’t cower behind him, letting him and his dog defend her from attack. She’d made some resolutions during the last week about learning to take care of herself, about not depending on others—not for anything! Now was the time to put her resolutions to the test.
She hurried to the fire, selected a thick, long branch, and pulled it, still burning, from the fire. Stiffening her shaking limbs, Faith stepped up to stand beside her unknown champion.
“I’ll fight you, too!” she shouted and shook her blazing brand fiercely at the shadowy Frenchmen. Sparks flew everywhere.
Her protector gave a bark of laughter, with real humor this time. “Good for you!” He raised his voice, “A man, a girl, and a dog! Three against three! So come on, swine, let’s see what you’re made of!”