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“Hush up, ye bletherer! If he wants her to know he can tell her himself in the morning!”
    “He will be recovered by morning then?”
    The big Scotsman gave her a surly look. “He will, aye!”
    “The headaches pass. You can sleep here, miss,” Stevens picked up the bundle McTavish had dumped and shook it out.
    Faith hesitated. It was rather close to Mr. Blacklock, even if he was currently insensible.
    Stevens continued, “It’s best you stay near the fire. I can see you’ve been troubled by midges. The smoke will keep them away.”
    Faith put her hand to her face, which was covered in midge bites from the previous night.
    “Mac will sleep over there.” He pointed to where McTavish was rolling himself in a blanket, far from the fire.
    “Midges don’t bother him. And besides, he snores somethin’ shockin’. I’ll be over here, on the other side o’ the fire.”
    “What about Mr. Blacklock? Shouldn’t someone watch over him?”
    “No. Wulf will watch over us all; he’ll rouse us all at the first sign of any trouble—from Mr. Nicholas or from anyone else.”
    Faith recalled the way the big dog had growled and barked earlier and felt better.
    “Now you get yourself some sleep, miss. You look as if you could do with it. Mr. Nicholas will sleep soon enough. He usually does once the headache passes.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Stevens.”
    He hesitated. “Just Stevens, if you don’t mind, miss. I’m Mr. Nicholas’s groom, y’see. Watched him grow up.”
    Faith nodded. “Very well, if you’d prefer it.”
    “I would. Well, if you’ve got everything you need, I’ll be off, then. Good night miss.”
    Faith bade both men good night and sat down. She brushed the sand from her damp feet and from between her toes, then wrapped herself in her blanket and settled down for the night. She took one last look at Nicholas Blacklock.
    He was breathing more regularly now, so perhaps the headache was passing, as Stevens had said it would. His strong profile was limned by the bright gleam of the fire. He looked gentler in sleep, not so grim and somber.
    Beowulf gave a longing look toward his bearded master, turned three times in a circle, and dropped down on the sand beside Mr. Blacklock and closed his eyes with a big, doggy sigh.
    “Good dog,” Faith told him.
    The dog opened one baleful eye, looked at her, and bared his yellow fangs in a low growl, warning her to keep her distance.
    “Like master like dog,” she told him in a whisper, feeling better for the defiance.
    She wriggled a bit to make the sand conform to her shape, then lay in the dark, watching the flames throw dancing shadows, and thought of her sisters.
    Where were they now, and what they were doing? Probably worrying, she thought ruefully. They would have received her letter saying she was leaving Felix. They’d have expected her home days ago.
    She closed her eyes and tried to send good thoughts to her twin. They could sometimes do that; feel each other’s emotion. Faith concentrated, not knowing if it would work but helpless to do anything else.
    That had been the worst of these last weeks, the feeling of helplessness. She’d had no idea what to do. All her life she’d let others to look after her: older sisters, her much bolder twin, her great-uncle, and finally, Felix.
    Felix. What a naive, trustful fool she’d been!
    She lay in her borrowed blanket, staring up into the velvet dark sky. One star seemed a little brighter than the others, standing alone, yet bright and sparkling. She would be like that star, she decided. She would learn—somehow—to take care of herself. She would never be so wholly dependent on anyone again.
    The fire crackled gently, the dancing flames making a bright glow against the night sky. Beyond the fire, the waves hissed and shushed, hissed and shushed in a soothing rhythm, and soon Faith, too, was asleep.
    She was woken in the middle of the night by a sound; she did not know what. Cautiously she raised her head and