HerOutlandishStranger (3 page)

He relaxed against the lumpy boulder and tried to call up
the historical material he’d read during training. Yeah, now Jazz remembered
reading this letter before. The DHU expert could barely contain her excitement
because this letter to the grandchild verified an important theory.

Eliza P. did not conceive the first child, Madame Blanro’s
great-great-great-great and so on-grandmother, with the man she married some time
later.

All that really mattered—Jazz was not the first stranger.

He’d been told often enough he was the second stranger. The
Department called him the “protector”, probably to make him feel like some kind
of knight or whoever it was that cavorted around saving women. The department
liked that kind of thing because it fit the DHU image, after all.

But of course he wasn’t the first guy. Beyond what was
necessary, they never talked to him about the first stranger or “progenitor”,
their elaborate name for “guy who takes advantage of a drugged woman”.

Jazz yawned and wished the progenitor would hurry up. After
that, he and Eliza P. could get started on the traveling portion of the program
so he could warm up too. She wasn’t kidding when she described the place as
damp and dreary. And cold—almost cold enough to drag out the hat, if not the
cloak.

The hat.

Instantly, the fear plowed through him again as he
remembered that forbidden hat he’d grabbed from his DHU supplies.

The black hat.

The minutes sped by too swiftly then, until the appalling
moment when he could no longer deny the truth. When the CR answered that there
were fifteen minutes left, he abandoned caution and clambered up onto a
boulder, the highest point in the area. He balanced on the pointed ridge and
slowly scanned the horizon. He saw no sign of life, other than some large dark
birds slowly flapping though the gray sky.

A wave of cold revulsion washed over him. He at last
understood why he’d been sent here. Why the flipping DNA mattered.

He slid off the boulder and sat down heavily. No, they could
send some other idiot for this job.

No.

As he considered how he could escape back to his own time,
he absently ran his fingers over the scar on his arm. Despite the cold, he’d
rolled up the sleeve. He always did.

Survivors of the Way of Truth had argued the mark should
always show, so when the government took out the chip, they implanted standard
sensitivity nodes that made the skin ache when Truthies continuously wore
clothing over their mark of shame.

Pinner, another soldier survivor, had chuckled with delight
at the news Jazz was to be part of DHU. “Hope they flash your picture all over
the net and include the da’ scar too.”

He didn’t need Pinner to remind him that no former Truthie
had ever managed to get a position in the new government—higher than janitor,
anyway.

And then there was Madame Blanro…

He stood and looked around again. Nothing and nobody.

Jazz climbed down from his high point. After staring at the
sodden bag for a long minute, he pulled out the hat. Then he reached in for the
shimmering warming cloak too. She was cold? The very least he could do was warm
the poor woman up. He was only a tool but at least he knew it. She’d never
understand.

As he headed down the hillside, back to the cave, he grimly
wondered if the effing DHU had known the truth the whole time. The director
obviously did. Him and his flipping “instinct”.

Jazz would have plenty to say to that bastard when he got
back home.

In the cave he reached out a tentative hand and stroked the
skin of her cheek. Chilled and soft. He lightly pressed his hand to her face.
In her drugged sleep, she turned toward the source of warmth.

He backed away, unbuckled the stupid sword and laid it on a
rock next to the CR.

“CR, very low light,” he instructed and remembered to flick
on the timer.

Then he threw the large cloak over her and crawled under to
join her.

He had intended not to touch her unnecessarily, some formal
kind of “inoculation” was the only way he had to maintain her dignity. And his,
he supposed.

A chaste touching of bodies at the crucial points only. Huh.
He had even tried to invent polite phrases to describe this particular task.

Thick, demanding relief—his cock certainly announced its
readiness to perform his duty.

But when he burrowed his hand through the layers of clothing
to touch the center of her body, accessible through some odd, open
undergarments, he discovered a soft brush of hair, soft skin, but no dampness.
Of course she was not ready.

He groaned. No way could he shove anything into her without
hurting the woman.

He lightly traced fingers along the slit between her legs
and tried to recall what he’d learned from Rae and the two other women he’d
slept with.

Foreplay, they might call it for regular sex. For this
event…? Manipulation might be the right word.

Stop thinking. He dampened the tips of his fingers with his
tongue and then reached back under the skirts of the woman. Stroke her there,
at the opening. And there, at the smooth, rounded hard flesh of her clitoris.
He prayed it would help. The feel of her certainly seemed to help remind his
body of its screaming need. His heart raced.

After a while she sighed aloud and moved against his hand,
blooming into swollen, slick warmth. Her sleepy but heated response increased
his own temperature. He carefully pressed his forefinger into her. Ah, and he’d
forgotten how warm and tight and damp a woman was. Then he had forgotten how to
breathe. He grew dizzy and forgot about his resolution to only properly touch
her at the center of her body.

Under the tent formed by the featherweight warming cloak, he
hiked up her skirts, lowered her blouse, flung aside petticoats. He touched her
everywhere his fingers could reach. He kissed her on the mouth, and he kissed
everywhere his mouth could reach. Licking to taste her warm breasts, the
strange delicious flesh of her soft arms. She groaned again. Her musky sweet
odor filled him with even more dizzying need.

A soft chime from the CR had warned him he had only a few
minutes left. Clumsy, rushing, he moved between her legs, spreading them even
wider, hoping that he wasn’t imagining that she tilted up in response. At last
in the dim light, he carefully positioned himself above the froth of skirts and
with one hand to guide his cock, nudged into her opening, a difficult task
since he was determined not to hurt her—they had many miles to walk, after all.

Innoculation. Fast but gentle—even, he hoped, painless.
Yeah, right.

She seemed so small. As he pushed in, a soft moan escaped
her throat. Blast. He tried to move as little as possible, only a tiny motion
to bring the necessary release.

After a few careful and wickedly slow strokes he had felt
her sigh and wiggle, just a tiny motion that pulled him farther in. No. Too
good. Too much. He lost control and plunged—all the way in.

He responded to a slight exhalation and squirm as if she had
wrapped her arms and legs around him, eagerly pulling him to her.

What would it be like to have this woman a full participant,
eagerly returning his kisses? The most arousing image he’d ever had.

With one final thrust, he exploded deep inside her, shouting
out in astonishment at the intensity. He intended to pull away at once. He’d
done all that was required. Finished in plenty of time—seconds to spare. Yet
wrapped in the warmth of the woman’s body he couldn’t move. Not yet.

“Good enough for government work” was a phrase the DHU
director was fond of. The stupid words had actually floated into Jazz’s mind as
he held himself above the woman panting and spent, still shuddering, unable to
move yet without collapsing his weight onto her body. He shakily laughed aloud
at the asinine thought.

At that moment, her eyes opened to half slits, not wide
enough in the dim light for him to discern their color or quality. He froze,
and waited for her scream of fear and rage. She smiled and whispered, “More.”

That was first time he heard her voice, he realized.

She might have meant more laughter, more kisses, more heat,
or perhaps it was only nonsense uttered from a dream, but he didn’t want to consider
those possibilities. The single word provided the encouragement he needed and
soon he knew he could move in her again. More slowly then. And he touched,
stroked her again and listened to something other than the pounding of the
blood through his own body. Her sighs echoed through the small, odd space, loud
enough to cover the gentle chime of the CR.

He reached into all the layers of clothing to stroke her
breast, feel the blossoming of her nipple, wishing he could see and not just
feel the satin under his fingers. She pushed up, and then, yeah, not just his
imagination. She really did move with him.

He slid his hand down between their bodies, to finger the
lush moisture and the swollen bud of her clitoris. With his touch, she arched
up and cried out in a wordless and surprised exclamation. She quivered, spasmed
around his cock and then immediately fell limp as a rag.

He paused, knowing he should pull out, leave her be. Instead
he drew both hands down to cup her bottom, warm and deliciously round under the
thin cotton of some mysterious undergarment. He held her steady, his hands
beneath her, as he thrust into her, driving himself toward a second release.
Mouth pressed to the side of her head, breathing in the already familiar
flowery scent in her hair, he panted to gulp back moans as the orgasm gripped
his body, longer but hardly less intense than the first.

He pulled out at last and lay next to her. The uneven cave
floor under him seemed too hard even with the blanket he’d put down as a
cushion. Dismay struck him when he realized how uncomfortable she must be. He’d
supported her rear end as he’d inoculated—no, fucked—her, but perhaps she’d
have other bruises, on her shoulders or thighs, from the pressure of his
thrusts driving her into the rocky floor.

Might as well give her some kind of comfortable place to
rest for a short while before he abandoned her. He figured his own bulk was a
better bed than the dirty ground of the cave. And the idea had appealed to him
for other reasons he hadn’t bothered to explore. Jazz had long understood how
to avoid certain thoughts.

She remained unconscious and entirely limp as he’d lifted
her and settled her onto his front. A couple of hours later he woke as she
wriggled on top of him. A deep sigh at the end of an unintelligible murmur—she
again rose from the deep state of sleep into a lighter slumber.

Now she would panic. He held his breath, waiting for the
screams of fear. But no, almost awake, she wrapped her arms lazily around him
and snuggled her head against his neck. While her father had probably died a
few miles away, while she had lain drugged, semi-conscious at best, he slept,
holding her to comfort himself.

As dawn drew near, he pulled off the warming cover and
slipped from the cave, leaving the sleeping woman and carrying away exhaustion
and inevitable self-loathing. More of the same old crap.

At least this time he could recall why he’d earned it.

Chapter Three

When Eliza woke, she didn’t open her eyes immediately.
Perhaps if she rested a few moments longer the pain behind her eyes would go
away. Her head throbbed and her mouth felt as if someone had emptied an entire
fireplace’s ashes into it. Each inhalation of the chilled, dank air of the cave
seemed to increase the pounding. Alas, no. More rest wouldn’t help.

She rolled onto her knees and noticed the place between her
legs felt heavy and ached as if the dream of the man had actually happened. Her
fingers brushed her mouth. She even looked around, startled, for a sign of him.
No, utter nonsense. There was no evidence that anyone but her father had been
there.

Hands shaking, she looked through her belongings, taking
stock of what he left in the cave with her. Oh her darling, idiot Papa. She
knew what he’d done and why he’d done it, even before she found the loving note
he’d tucked into her reticule along with all the money they had left. The coins
lay heavy and cold in her hand.

But why did he leave all of this in her old absurd beaded
bag? As a reminder of the life they had lost? She lay down again, overcome. After
a few thick sobs, she stopped, then gingerly sat up again.

Her head did not fall off, as she feared it might, but she
suddenly felt thirstier than she ever had in her entire life.

She crawled to the cave entrance and squinted toward the
sun, which showed itself after several wintry days. She cautiously pulled
herself out of the cave, darting looks in every direction before she stood up
straight.

Papa had left her in a place she knew, near the cliffs, a
few miles from their Spanish villa. The weak wintery sun showed her which
direction to go. She’d find some water, not difficult after the days of snow
and rain, then trudge the miles back to the villa to her father where he waited
for the advancing armies.

She and her father had argued for days after all other
foreigners and most of the other civilians had fled the village after hearing
rumors of soldiers in the area. If Papa insisted she hide, why couldn’t he hide
with her? If he must stay and try to negotiate to save the village, she would
stay too.

He hadn’t bothered to debate this point with her, and had
only repeated, “No, my love. You shall not stay.”

She should have guessed that he would simply take action.
Her father was a quiet man, but extremely stubborn. She could be stubborn too,
as she’d soon remind him.

Something trickled down the inside of her thigh. Too early
for her courses, and it wasn’t blood. No point in worrying about being
ladylike. She quickly squatted and touched herself gingerly. Her womanly parts
felt oddly swollen and sensitive. When she brushed her fingers over herself she
flinched at the odd pleasure—the sort she usually associated with certain
dreams of faceless men. Last night’s drug-induced man apparently held more
strength than the usual sort conjured by dreams. For a moment, her hand had
touched herself, and she wondered what had happened to cause such moisture and
sensitivity.

The word “ravished” came to her but she dismissed it. During
her time in this country, she’d witnessed the horror of rape and there was no
kindness in the act. And the thought itself was absurd. Lovers don’t float into
caves in war zones, enact tender scenes, then float away again.

She straightened up and shook her skirts into place. At any
rate, Eliza had no use for that sort of relation with a man. Brian had been
enough.

The dream, or hallucination, was ridiculous, just entirely
vivid because of the drug Papa had put into her wine. Put into her vinegar, she
thought, as the nauseating taste of the stuff they’d been drinking came to the
back of her throat.

She had to find water then find her way back home. In his
note, Papa had told her to seek help from their friends in the north. She had
no intention of doing any such thing until she could drag him along with her.

A small brook flowed the side of the hill near the cave. She
easily satisfied her thirst, and cool water on her handkerchief relieved some
of the throbbing in her temples. But getting back to her father would not be as
simple.

She wished Papa had dressed her in better clothing for the
hike home. Her sturdy boots would let her cover miles through the mud and
patches of snow. But the rich, blue velvet tea gown her father had shoved on
over her nightgown would have to be hidden under the rough frieze cloak at all
times.

If Maria, her maid, had been with her, they’d have laughed
together at Papa’s choice for her gown before they chose something plain and
much more practical. Before sorrow could grip her, Eliza forced her thoughts
away from the dead Maria. She could not spare the time to mourn yet, nor even
change her clothes.

She was carefully picking her way down the slippery hill
when a figure appeared, striding west among the scrubby trees. Instinctively,
Eliza flung herself down. Too late. The man had seen her, and worse, turned and
tramped up the slope toward her. Her still-aching head grew dizzy with fear.

“Good morning,
señorita
.” The man spoke calmly, as if
he frequently witnessed women dropping flat to the muddy ground in front of
him. “I hope you are well. Did you hurt yourself just now?” He spoke Spanish
roughly, with an extremely odd accent. A Frenchman?

Eliza felt ashamed of her display of cowardice. She stood
and straightened her spine. She brushed the reddish muck off her cloak and
skirts the best she could, intent on facing her potential enemy proudly.

He did not charge toward her or raise a gun. The tall, fair
man simply gave her an awkward, unpolished bow. They studied one another for a
few seconds. He wore no uniform, just a frieze cloak and some rough clothes
that hung too loosely on his lean, muscular build. He carried a rolled blanket
and a pack flung over a broad shoulder. He wore boots that might have been
military issue, but he carried no weapons that she could see. He shifted
slightly and she saw she’d been wrong. He wore a knife tucked into a boot and a
sword. It looked to be a good weapon, too, though she was no expert.

Under her steady examination, the man dropped his gaze and
ducked his head, an almost submissive gesture. A peasant, perhaps, though a
very peculiar one and not simply because of the boots and sword. She saw that
not only was he taller, he looked much cleaner than anyone else she’d seen in
this country, herself included. His skin had a soft glow, as if the sun had
been caught inside him, and his hair blazed so pale it was hard to see if it
was silver or gold. Despite the peasant’s clothes, he had the straight back and
broad shoulders of a military man—until he slumped and gave her the blank, blue
stare.

“Good morning,
señor
,” she answered as loftily as she
could manage. “Could you perhaps tell me if there is a road nearby? I seem to
have gotten separated from my party and need to find my way back to our villa.
It’s to the east of here.”

She knew she sounded absurd, as if she were a guest who’d
strayed from a dinner party. But the tall man merely gawked at her. Again she
wondered if he were French. She almost smiled at the thought—despite the exotic
appearance, his odd responses seemed to fit that of some kind of local idiot or
madman. Harmless, she hoped.

Then he spoke again, this time in something almost exactly
like her native tongue. “Huh. I’m not sure I caught the whole of that.” He
sounded cross. “What’d you say?”

Now she gawked at him. “Sir, you speak…English.” She
stopped, confused. “But your accent. From which country do you hail? If you do
not feel the question is impertinent,” she added hastily. It did no good to
offend anyone these days.

He frowned as if trying to recall. “It’s hard to say, miss,”
he finally answered, reinforcing her theory that he might be a lunatic. “But
may I ask where you are going?”

She pointed to the east. “That way. I-I need to get to a
village in that direction. I wonder if you might tell me if—”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “No, don’t. I mean it. Don’t head
that way. It’s terrible back there.”

“I do not require a report.” She did her best to imitate her
haughty ex-governess. “I merely wish to know if there is an easier path to
follow. These rocks slow one down and I need to—”

The man took a step toward her and she at once gathered her
skirts and shifted away. As she instinctively stepped back, a peculiar look
flitted across the peculiar man’s face. Guilt or alarm, perhaps?

She forced her attention back to his urgent speech. “You
must not, miss. Houses are on fire. There is nothing left. Nothing.”

Her heart thumped harder. She had no reason to believe this
stranger, yet his serious intensity affected her. “Nevertheless.” She attempted
the governess again. “I wish to return to the villa from whence I came.”

The man dropped the pack and blanket and, with athletic
dexterity, he collapsed on a nearby rock. He crooked up one leg, propped his
arm loosely across the knee, and took a deep, long breath.

Why did he heave such a sigh? Was he recalling the houses on
fire?

“Fine, miss. We’ll do just that if we must. Rest first,
’kay?”

She frowned and mouthed the letter. “’Kay?”

The man rubbed the back of his neck. “Eh, you know, okay?
No? ’Kay, okay—they mean, um…will that suit you?”

She shook her head. “I thank you for your concern, sir, but
I must beg your pardon. I shall be on my way now.”

She started to move past him. His large hand shot out and
grabbed her wrist. He held her loosely but with unnerving strength as he easily
scrambled to his feet. Her heart took a dive to her feet and she cursed herself
for believing a woman could hope to survive on her own.

Life for a lone woman would be a hard undertaking in her own
society, but impossible in a land that had shed its civilized veneer. Oh dear
Lord, she had lasted less than a half hour out in the open before disaster had
struck. If only her absurd Papa had allowed her to stay with him. She would
have hidden herself in the villa.

The jumbled thoughts flashed through her mind in an instant.
A moment later she realized the man had not moved. She released the breath
she’d unconsciously held.

“Rest,” he said softly as he looked into her face. She
stared up into blue eyes as clear yet unreadable as the sky above their heads.
“And I’ll go head back with you. To make sure that you’re…kept safe. Will you
agree to this plan?”

She gazed at him for a long moment, wondering at the blue
eyes. Had she ever seen such a color before? Yes, once upon a time, in another
life. At a Royal Academy show, she had seen a fanciful painting of Apollo. The
man who held her wrist looked very much like that painted god, even in the way
his golden-brown skin contrasted with his pale hair and eyes. Where had this
exotic man with his peculiar English come from?

She no longer concluded he was an idiot. Intelligence, or
perhaps it was guile, filled those eyes. His manner made her uncomfortable. She
appreciated a society of well-defined ranks. This bizarre man’s demeanor seemed
to shift from that of a servant, to someone her equal and, now, fleetingly, her
superior. Yet beneath the implacable glare, she saw an almost frighteningly
urgent plea in his face as well. Another more disturbing sensation filled her,
from the warm grasp on her arm to the hold of his eyes. A power over her stupid
body she would not grant to a man again. Certainly not to a mad stranger.

“Yes,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I agree to your
terms, sir. Please, unhand me.”

He dropped her wrist as if it were on fire. “’Scuse me,” he
said, flustered, and made another quick sketch of a bow. Servile once again,
she thought. What was his game?

He picked up his bag and peered into it. “I thought you
might, I mean, are you hungry?” He held out a squashy, paper-wrapped package.

Eliza opened it and saw a bit of stale cheese and a whole
loaf of bread. She forgot her fear and other misgivings at once. “So much,” she
breathed. “Thank you, sir.”

He raised one shoulder in an odd, informal shrug. “Take the
whole thing. I’ve had my breakfast.”

They spread out the blanket and sat down on a sunny patch of
damp, rough thatch. He leaned forward and gazed at her. Such a power in his
eyes, she wanted to squirm. At last she suggested that they’d do better to sit
back to back.

At his quizzical frown, she explained, “My father says when
venturing abroad in the countryside that, though the hills are safer than the
plains, it’s best to keep watch on as many sides as possible.”

He nodded approval and turned away. Eliza forced herself to
nibble the bread, which tasted delicious. She remembered what Maria had always
said, “
A buen hambre no hay pan duro”—
there’s no such thing as stale
bread when one is really hungry.

She would not forget that she was a lady and no matter what
the circumstances, she’d not wolf down food. This wretched war could not take
away everything she possessed. At last she stopped herself, and reverently
wrapped up the heel of the bread for later.

She wiped the crumbs off her lap and stood to face him. “I
thank you, Mister…” Her words trailed off when she realized she had not even
bothered to find out the man’s name before taking his food. So much for her
resolution to preserve the manners her aunt and governess had taught her.

“White,” the man grunted. A few seconds later he asked, “And
you are?”

“Miss Wickhman,” she replied, and wondered at the sudden
astonished look on his face. “Do you know my name, Mr. White?”

“I thought…” he said slowly. “It’s very odd.”

“A perfectly normal name, I assure you.”

“No, I mean… I thought it started with a P.” He rubbed his
cheek with a broad palm. In the still air, she could hear the rasp of his
unshaved skin.