HerOutlandishStranger (7 page)

“The knife. You throw it very well.”

“Thanks,” he grunted. He wiped the blade carefully with his
shirtsleeve and thrust it back into its scabbard.

He picked up his sack and started to stuff their supplies
into it. He frowned at the food she hadn’t consumed.

“You ought to eat the rest of this carrot, Miss Wickman.”

She made a face at it. “Oh, it tastes of earth.”

He poured a little water over it, hoping it would look more
appealing if it were wet.

“That might help.”

She thanked him then eyed the vegetable. He wondered if she
would stealthily toss it away as they walked.

“I’ll find something better to eat, I promise,” he told her.

She gave him a stricken look. “I am not complaining, sir.”
She nibbled on the carrot and showed him a smile. “See? Delicious.”

Jazz nodded and turned away. Perhaps this new distaste for
carrots was the first symptom of her pregnancy.

She’d figure that out soon enough. What he would do if she
somehow figured out he was the man in the cave? He had to lie, convincingly, or
she would never allow him in her presence again. Whatever else happened, he had
to protect her and the baby, even if it meant outright villainy. Or rather,
more villainy.

The guilt, which never went away, now made his face burn.

He reminded himself he had days to figure out a story,
perhaps even weeks, until at last she discovered the truth about the uninvited
life growing in her body. His personal contribution to her misery.

Gah, he wished he could go home sooner. Or since he knew he
had to stay longer, he wished he liked her a little less.

* * * * *

Long before sunset the wind turned colder and smelled like
snow. The mud began to curdle into ice. It did not bode well for a comfortable
or even safe sleep. The last wrath of winter poured down on them and they
slogged along with their heads ducked to avoid wind and occasional outbursts of
rain. Miss Wickman’s steps dragged and Jazz saw the blanket he’d wrapped around
her shoulders had slid partway off her body. He walked back to her and hauled
up the blanket and pulled it tight around her again. He shouted to be heard
over the storm, “We’ll find shelter in a village. Should be one soon.”

She smiled and nodded.

The DHU experts had convinced him that the upper-class women
of the time were delicate, cosseted creatures. Miss Wickman demonstrated that
the Department’s so-called experts of the age didn’t know what friggin’ gas
they talked. Except for her voice, which matched the descriptions of a
well-bred female he’d been shown, she was hardier than many women he knew back
home.

When they’d started out, he had thought she was demented,
jabbering on about weather and the landscape so soon after the father she loved
had likely been killed. Now he understood she had a desire to hide pain. He
could read her better now, and knew she felt sorrow, but tried to repress it.
With no chemicals, she had to hold back misery on her own. She did a fine job
of it.

“Come on,” he said. She looked up in surprise as he grasped
her hand. Without a word, he tucked her gloved hand into his pocket so he could
pull her up the hill while he kept their fingers as warm as possible. He
resisted the urge to wrap his other arm around her to help her along. No need
to do any more touching than necessary.

She stared over his shoulder, her cheeks reddened by wind
and her lashes covered with flecks of snow, but she did not duck away from the
storm. Her mouth opened and closed. For a bleak moment he wondered if she
suffered from some exhaustion and was about to faint.

Suddenly her lips curved into a broad smile and she pointed.
“Look.”

He turned and saw a dark silhouette of a building. It was an
abandoned shed next to the open ruins of a farmhouse.

“Good work,” he yelled.

“I’ll go.” He started to stride away.

Eliza gave a small yelp. “Oh, must you?”

He paused but only for a second. “I’ll take a look around to
make sure we’re alone.”

Eliza stepped toward him. “May I help? Shall I look for
supplies?”

“No. Don’t move.” Mr. White’s brow furrowed. “The storm is
getting worse so maybe you can go into the building.”

The low white-washed building was empty now, but it appeared
to have housed many generations of chickens.

Eliza didn’t move. She watched him walk away and wondered if
the return of his brusque manner meant he at last regretted his decision to
travel with her and protect her. At that moment she realized that even if she
were safe, she desperately did not want Mr. White to leave her. Her life would
be imperiled, but more than that it would be entirely empty without his robust
but calm presence nearby.

Relief flooded her when he reappeared. “Mr. White,” she
called.

The tall figure halted. She didn’t know what to say, begging
him to stay at her side was out of the question, so she blurted, “Thank you for
all that you have done.”

He looked at her for a long moment and flashed his twisted
smile. “You’re extremely welcome.” She could see in the vanishing light that
his face was strained but still, she felt reassured.

When they entered the low shed, the stench left by the
chickens made her wrinkle her nose. Mr. White looked positively green. The poor
man was extremely sensitive to odors, she’d noticed.

“You’ll grow more used to it,” she told him. “This was kept
by a good farm wife. I have smelled far worse.”

He gave a low whistle, clearly amazed at the thought. They
spread the blanket over the disgusting floor. In silence broken only by the
pounding rain, they ate one of the brown squares he carried and drank the last
of the water.

After the meal, she timidly suggested they put one cloak
down and share the other. “The space is so small,” she explained, though she
knew that was no sort of explanation at all.

Mr. White didn’t answer for a long time. At last he spoke in
a husky voice. “’Kay.”

“’Kay, I recall, means it will suit you,” she said slowly.
“Am I to understand that this fine hostelry pleases you then?” she asked. Mr.
White laughed with her at the silly remark and she hoped the strain he felt had
dissolved.

All traces of daylight soon vanished and the wind blasted
through the many gaps in the shed. Even with the main opening and the small
crude hole in the wall that functioned as a window they could not see their
hands before their faces. They lay down, cautiously feeling their way onto the
cloak. Mr. White carefully turned so that his back pressed against hers. Eliza
could feel his solid warmth and was reassured. He would not abandon her. She
turned toward him and rubbed her face gratefully into his broad back. Despite
their days and nights together this was as close as she’d ever been to
him—other than brief moments when he held out a hand to help her over creeks or
when they’d hidden from the soldiers.

She breathed in a light scent of sweat and dust and his
curiously clean essence, which reminded her of sun-baked, fresh-cut lawns. Her
nose borrowed deeper in this welcome change from poultry. She heard, then felt,
the pattern of his breath grow harsh and irregular. With a sudden rush of
understanding she knew he held back desire. She had not had much experience of
passion, other than a few ardent kisses and one rather unsavory incident at an
inn. But she knew the wave of hunger that seized him now also pulled at her
until she was lost in it. Ah good, she felt rather than thought.

She timidly placed her hand on his hard, muscled shoulder.
His back seemed even broader than when he was standing. She smiled into the
darkness when she felt his own hand slowly and almost completely enfold hers.
But he did not move another muscle after that. In fact she wondered if the
strain of holding so still would cause him discomfort for she swore she felt
him tremble.

“Mr. White.” She spoke quietly, so that if he slept she
would not disturb him.

“Yes.” His voice was raw and wide awake.

“It would be… I do not mind…” She trailed off, appalled at
the realization she was about to invite him to make love to her. And even more
appalled by the surge of desire that compelled her to do so. The hand holding
hers tightened, but he still did not move.

The gesture was enough. She threw caution to the wind and
inched slowly up. Then very lightly she rubbed her mouth against his neck. The
skin below his ear was smoother than she’d imagined. His light, curling hair
she timidly stroked was soft. A heavy breath shuddered through him, but still
he did not move. She pushed herself higher and kissed his high cheekbone, above
the line of his beard.

She explored his jaw with a light touch of lips. As her hand
smoothed a lock of his curling hair back, he spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Miss
Wickman, I give up. I am probably going to put my foot into it.” He stopped and
asked, “Know what that stupid expression means?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“Fine. Right.” He took a deep breath that she felt all along
her front. “Miss Wickman. You are without a doubt the most attractive woman I
have ever met.”

She opened her mouth to protest at such absurdity but of
course he didn’t see her.

Before she could reply, he went on, “I have to fight myself
every moment to keep from grabbing you. I would sell ten years of my life to be
able to spend a night with you. The moment I knew we’d be in this shed I’ve
thought of something—something like this. And I hoped that simply holding you
and kissing you would be enough. I almost convinced myself. But Miss Wickman,
it wouldn’t be. I’m too starved for you.”

She slid down so that she lay behind him again, her face hot
as she considered the interesting and alarming things his words did to her insides.
She turned to jelly. Her hand still lay on his shoulder and she pressed her
forehead against his back.

His next words stopped the heat gathering inside her as if
he’d thrown a bucket of cold water over her.

“Here is the thing I’ve got to tell you—I cannot marry you.
If I could, I would.” His voice filled with a wondering awe. “Isn’t it strange?
I haven’t known you long but…” He chuckled softly and she felt the vibration of
his voice course through her whole body. “Ha! I don’t even know if you even care
about marriage, but I was given to understand that this matters to women, I
mean ladies like you. I cannot marry you. Well-bred women do not give
themselves to men they cannot marry.”

He sounded as if he were simply reciting a fact. She felt
ashamed however and roundly cursed herself. She had thrown herself at him and
lost his respect—and her self-respect as well. Perhaps the longest speech he
had ever shared with her and it addressed her shameless behavior, with bits of
sweetness thrown in, no doubt to make her feel better.

She gave a soft whimper and he must have sensed her
mortification. “No, no, I don’t care a bit. I mean, I don’t think less of you
for, um, I mean I wouldn’t if…” He snorted. “I don’t think I can think or speak
clearly with you against me. Hey. No, no! Don’t move. I don’t care if I ever
spoke or thought again,” he quickly added, grabbing and holding her wrist as
she tried to edge away. The man had a grip like iron and almost at once she
stopped trying to wedge herself loose.

“No, please, don’t be angry with me or with yourself. We’re
human.” He sighed. “And I’m too greedy not to say one more thing. If there’s a
chance you think that you’d be able to live with yourself if you, er, made love
with me, I’d be delighted to oblige. And I would not feel you were a bad woman.
I don’t know if you believe me, but in my country there is no stigma attached
to two consenting adults doing whatever they please.”

“Mr. White—”

He laughed aloud, a large, startling sound. “Hey, woman, at
least call me Jazz.”

An odd name, no doubt an abbreviation. Her cousin had a
friend whose given name was Charles and his family called him Chas. “Jas? Yes,
I suppose under the circumstances Christian names are appropriate. I am Eliza.”

In the dark she felt him pull her hand to his face. He
pressed his warm lips firmly against the back of her hand and then he turned it
over and kissed her palm. The touch of his lips caused her whole body to tingle
and her feminine parts to ache. Neither of them breathed for a long few
seconds.

“Pleased to meet you, Eliza,” he said, his voice a soft
growl, and she wondered if she’d ever heard her name said so interestingly. He
cleared his throat. “What were you going to say before I interrupted you?”

“I cannot recall,” she said, truthfully. He rubbed her hand
against the smooth skin of his cheek for a moment, then slowly, carefully,
replaced it on his hard shoulder.

“I think I must understand you. But may I…” She hesitated,
then timidly went on. “Would you mind if I embraced you? As we are, I mean. I
think it would warm us both.”

“I’m glad you understand me. I wish
I
did,” he said
and then fervently added, “But please, Liza. Embrace whatever you wish.”

She was not fond of warm jokes, but she could not help
laughing, partially in relief. She sensed he had hoped to ease her
embarrassment and she was grateful.

“Mr. White, Jas, since we are speaking our minds, I should
tell you that I believe you are one of the most unusual people I’ve ever met.
Yet you are certainly the most generous I’ve ever met. I am more glad than you
can know that our paths crossed.”

He did not answer and she wondered if she’d been too forward
again.

She settled against his warm bulk and wrapped herself around
as much of him as she could, trying to ignore the persistent thrum of her body
where she touched him. Since she was exhausted, the tension melted from her
more quickly than she expected. And pressed against the reassuring muscular
heat of Jas she slept more soundly than she had since she discovered the ruins
of the villa.