The Perfect Stranger Read Free

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!”
    Faith waved her stick in what she hoped was a threatening gesture. Light from her blazing brand danced over his features, and for the first time she glimpsed his face. She had an impression of strength. A bold nose. Dark hair, thick and tousled, in need of a cut. High cheekbones. A firm, unshaven chin, dark with rough bristles. His eyes glinted, reflecting the flame. It was almost as if he relished the prospect of a fight. Which was, of course, ridiculous.
    He raised first one pistol, then another. Twin silver barrels gleamed as they caught the firelight. He brandished them with a casual expertise that even Faith could appreciate. There was a sudden hush from the three men in the dark.
    “Not so brave now, my buckos?” His face hardened. “Then take yourselves back to whatever gutter you slithered from, or taste a little English metal.”
    Faith waited, hardly breathing. It was a bluff, of course. He couldn’t possibly see to shoot them from such a distance and in the dark. If anyone was an open target, he was, silhouetted against the fire.
    The silence from the darkness lengthened. “Very well, monsieur, you win,” one called. Heavy footsteps crunched through the undergrowth, moving away. Faith heaved a sigh of relief.
    “Don’t move.” The tall man beside her whispered. He stood braced, tense, like his dog, his head craned forward, his expression intent.
    Faith froze.
    “Toss that thing away and crouch down for a moment,” he ordered her softly. “I need you out of the firing line.”
    She flung the half-burned branch into the sand and crouched motionless, straining her eyes to see. The dog’s ears twitched. Faith watched as her Englishman closed his eyes and cocked his head, as if listening. She could hear nothing.
    She jumped almost out of her skin when he suddenly shot over her head into the dark. There was scream of pain followed by a flurry of cursing.
    “Lucky shot, but can you fight on three sides, Englishman?” came a taunt from the opposite side.
    “With pleasure,” he answered and shot in the direction of the voice. There was another burst of swearing.
    “The devil, Englishman, how can you shoot like that? It’s pitch-black.”
    “I have the devil’s own luck, and I can see in the dark,” he said calmly. He tossed the second pistol onto a blanket and said to Faith, “Fetch me another burning brand.”
    She hurried to obey, and as she passed it to him, the firelight glittered on a wicked-looking blade. The fishermen were not the only ones with knives. He lifted the brand and twirled it easily around his head like a baton. Sparks flew everywhere, but he took no notice. “Come on, you cowards, let’s have a look at you!” He strode forward. Faith grabbed her stick and made to follow. “Stay back,” he commanded. “You’ll just be in my way.”
    He strode forward, twirling the brand as he moved, faster and faster in a barbarous display. His ferocity and control were mesmerizing: a mythical warrior, bathed in fire and a hound from hell baying at his side.
    He looked utterly terrifying. And utterly magnificent.
    Suddenly he hurled the brand at a shadowed figure, even as the other two leaped on him. He warded off one of them with a kick. His fist smashed into the other. Faith