Maiden in Manhattan

by Abbie Zanders

  “Nay, we dinnae.”

  His laughter ceased when he realized she wasn’t kidding. “Hey, what are you, like some kind of Amish or something?” He knew from growing up in central Pennsylvania that there were many pockets of the strict religious community around who shunned anything even remotely technologically advanced, electricity included.

  Come to think of it, they didn’t dress all that differently either, except he couldn’t quite recall such an enticing neckline on any Amish garb he’d ever seen. Maybe she was doing one of the Amish walk-about things, Rumschpringe or something like that - where the young ones spent a year exploring the outside world before officially committing to the Amish ways. But they were Pennsylvania Dutch, a.k.a., German, not Celtic, right?

  “I amnae Amish,” she said, though he could tell she didn’t really know what that was. “But we dinnae have anything like these magic candles in our village. What was it ye called them? E-lech-trocities?”

  Nick blinked, making a conscious effort to close his now-gaping mouth. “Electricity. And if you don’t know anything about electricity or cabs or elevators, how did you wind up in the middle of the city?”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but he held up his hand. “Wait. Don’t tell me just yet. I have a feeling I’m going to need a few drinks first. Let’s just get you cleaned up and fed, then we’ll hit the heavy stuff, okay?”

  She closed her mouth dutifully and nodded.

  “Right then. First things first. What are you hungry for? Italian? Chinese? Mexican?”

  Isobeille rubbed her arms as she looked around. “Something hot would do quite nicely, thank ye, if ‘tis not too much trouble.”

  “It’s all hot,” he said, bemused.

  Isobeille nibbled that bottom lip again. She probably didn’t even realize she was doing it, but that tiny gesture had a far more significant impact than it should have on him, playing havoc with some of his baser male instincts.

  “What would ye choose?”

  “I’m partial to pizza myself.”

  “Then I, too, would like peetzuhm. If ye tell me how te make it, I will be most happy te prepare it for ye.”

  Nick blinked. “I don’t want you to make it,” he clarified, grabbing the phone and tapping in the number from memory. “I’m going to have it delivered.”

  He spoke briefly into the phone, watching as she reached out and tentatively stroked the top of his leather recliner with her finger, then her whole hand. Like the lip-chewing thing, it shouldn’t have affected him, but it did. As he slipped his phone back into his pocket, he shifted discreetly and told himself to get a grip.

  “Food should be here in about forty-five minutes. That’ll give you plenty of time to freshen up, then I’ll take a better look at that hand.”

  “’Tis fine,” she said quickly, pushing her arm behind her.

  “I’ll be the judge of that. It is kind of what I do.” He paused, hands on hips, not quite believing what he was going to ask her next. But then again, if she didn’t know about cabs or pizza or electricity, maybe it wasn’t so unreasonable.

  “Uh, not to sound insulting or anything, but do you know how to use the bathroom?”

  Another blank look. “Ye have a separate room for a bath?”

  Yep. Not unreasonable at all. “Right. Come on, then. I’m going to give you a crash course in modern bathroom facilities.”

  Sufficiently satisfied that she had the gist of the workings of indoor plumbing (and after discreetly removing all sharp or harmful objects from the immediate vicinity) he left her in the bathroom with some spare clothes Gloria kept at his place. Shaking his head and grinning at her occasional squeals of delight – apparently she had figured out the pulsing massage setting on the shower head by the sounds of it - he cracked open a cold beer and tried to figure out just what the hell had happened to him in the last hour.

  Chapter 4

  Isobeille squealed when she turned the smooth silver handle, effectively dousing herself in the process. She looked up into the circular device above her head with awe. How could such a relatively small thing hold so much rain?

  And to draw forth heated water instantly? ‘Twas far better than collecting from the cistern, bucket by bucket, and heating it over the hearth. One could bathe standing up, and did not even need to dispose of the dirty water afterward, she mused, watching it as it drained away between her feet. Where exactly did it go?

  No less impressive was the gleaming white, oddly-shaped chamber pot bolted to the floor. She had been just about to ask Nick how one emptied such a thing earlier, but then he had pushed down upon a lever and whoosh! With barely concealed joy, Isobeille flushed it again several times, grinning in delight as she watched the water swirl downward and the bowl magically fill up again.

  And the light switches, as he had called them. How clever was that? Located in each separate chamber, she was fascinated by them. Isobeille reached out and touched it with her finger, just as she had seen him do. Immediately, the small garderobe was plunged into darkness. With one more flick, she was once again bathed in light.

  It was all so amazing! Not just the hot water and instant light, but everything she had encountered thus far. When Nick had first ushered her inside his home, she had not known what to expect, but it was nothing short of miraculous. She had seen the tall structures from the outside, of course, but never in a hundred years could she have imagined this. Each large box was divided up into many smaller boxes - homes stacked on top of and next to each other. How very clever! She looked up warily, a brief flash of panic at the realization that there were more such places on top of her even now, but then forced that thought aside. Obviously it was safe enough if the city was filled with such dwellings.

  She had so much to learn about this new world! Her fingers were itching to touch and explore all of the amazing colors and textures around her, but she was averse to keeping her host waiting too long. If she could manage not to anger him, perhaps she would have ample opportunity to further explore and discover more later.

  With that in mind, Isobeille lifted one of the garments he had requested she wear. Holding it in front of her, she twisted it this way and that, wrinkling her nose. Trews? Apparently, it was customary for women to dress in such a way in this strange and wondrous realm - she had seen as much out in the street – but she herself had never done so.

  She shrugged and began to remove her shabby gown. Changing into more acceptable clothing seemed a small enough concession for Nick’s kindness. If this is what he wished, she would at least make an effort to please him.

  * * *

  Nick was halfway through his second beer when the delivery guy appeared. In a classic case of poor timing, Isobeille chose that moment to emerge from the bathroom. Without turning around, Nick knew that it could not be good. The open-mouthed gawk of the nineteen-year-old in his doorway told him as much.

  Steeling himself, Nick turned and swallowed hard at the sight before him. There was Isobeille, in vivid glory. Her towel-damp, glorious curls cascaded down to her hips, a shade of dark red that glistened like a shiny candy apple under the lights. The jeans he had provided were several inches too long at the bottom and too narrow at the waist, requiring that the zipper be left hanging open. If that wasn’t bad enough, the designer T was at least two sizes too small, accentuating substantial breasts and revealing a fair part of her midsection.

  He swallowed hard. Forget the St. Paulie girl. She looked like the quintessential poster ad for Hooters.

  “Nick, I doona think I did this right,” she said simply.

  “Fuck me,” the delivery boy murmured, and Nick was forced to agree with his assessment. In her costume dress, she had been sexy. In tight jeans and T-shirt, she was nothing short of drool-worthy.

  Shaking himself free of the erotic images now dancing in his head, he hastily paid the kid and pushed him out the door. Tossing the pizza to the side, Nick then proceeded to take Isobeille by the arm and lead her back toward his bedroom. He woul
d never manage to get anything past the constriction in his throat if he didn’t do something.

  He rummaged in his drawer for a minute, trying desperately to ignore the way Isobeille was feeling up the down comforter and the fluffy pillows on his bed, mumbling to himself until he extracted a pair of gray sweats and an old football practice jersey. He placed both in her hands.

  “Try these instead,” he said, wishing his voice didn’t sound like he’d just swallowed a cup of ground glass. Then he left, closing the door firmly behind him.

  He would not think of how much bigger her breasts were than Gloria’s, nor the contours of her perfect heart-shaped ass. He would not think of how good she smelled, or how soft and utterly lickable her creamy skin looked. And he would not, under any circumstances, consider the kinds of sounds she might make as he buried himself repeatedly in her lush little body or screamed out his name in that thick brogue of hers.

  He had a girlfriend, goddammit. A girlfriend who he would be with right now had he not been running late. If he had picked Gloria up on time, she never would have been in her little cubicle when the editor came by with an extra assignment, and he wouldn’t be pacing back and forth in his tiny living room sporting the hard-on from hell.

  Was it unusually hot in the apartment? It sure felt hot. Nick exhaled heavily and checked the thermostat, which displayed a completely illogical seventy-one degrees. That was obviously not right. Nick made a mental note to call the building super first thing in the morning and get it checked out.

  In the meantime, he pulled his thermal over his head, leaving him in his plain white, short-sleeved cotton T and went back to the problem at hand.

  What was he thinking about again? Oh, right. Gloria.

  At least she hadn’t sounded too pissed that he’d blown their date. Nick wasn’t quite sure what that meant, exactly. Maybe Gloria was glad for the opportunity to get a little extra credit. Her job and her career were very important to her; she was always trying to suck up (though she preferred to call it ‘capitalizing on an opportunity to advance her career’).

  Or maybe Gloria was glad for the chance to put things off between them for a little while longer. Hadn’t she told him that she wanted to keep things from getting too complicated too quickly? That she needed ‘space’ and ‘time’ to ‘discover who she was’ before she could even think about committing to something more than the occasional, albeit exclusive, hook-up?

  He would have to wait and see; the answers weren’t going to magically come to him tonight, and he had other, more pressing issues to deal with at that moment. In any event, Nick had managed to wrestle his hormones back under some semblance of control by the time Isobeille emerged from his bedroom.

  “Does this please ye better?” she asked doubtfully.

  He brought his hand up to his mouth to try to hide the smile he could not completely contain. Tiny feet peeked out from beneath his baggy sweats, rolled up several times at the ankle. His old jersey hung to her knees, but sufficiently covered all of those tempting curves from view.

  Thank God.

  “Infinitely,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Now let’s take a look at that hand, then we can eat.”

  Nick was acutely aware of Isobeille’s gaze as he examined her hand. As a paramedic, he was used to all sorts of reactions from the patients he treated. Some were grateful, some were scared, some were just plain nasty. Occasionally he would feel the heat of a woman’s stare (or less commonly, a man’s) as he tended to their injuries. But none of them seemed to affect him quite as strongly as Isobeille’s. It felt warm, like the sun on his skin, and sank down deep into his bones (and various other body parts).

  Outwardly, he remained coolly professional. But inside his chest, his heart pounded out a thunderous tattoo. A viscous warmth spread from where he held her hand in his, travelled up his arm and into his chest, settling somewhere around his midsection. This time, he didn’t bother checking the thermostat.

  And it wasn’t just her tangible gaze or the blossoming warmth from holding her hand that was messing with his senses – it was her scent, too. With each breath he took, he drew in the scent of fresh snow and wildflowers. He had to wonder where the hell that came from, because he couldn’t think of a single product in his bathroom that smelled like that. Maybe Gloria had left something.

  Then again, Gloria never smelled like this. Like nature at its finest.

  “Ye have a gentle touch for such a strong mon,” she said softly, bringing his ears into the sensory party. The only thing left was taste, and he was so not going there. “Are ye a healer?”

  A healer? “Sort of, I guess. I’m a paramedic.” When she didn’t seem to know what that was (and why was he not surprised?) he explained simply, “When there’s an accident or someone is hurt, my job is to assess their injuries and treat them until we can get them to a hospital.”

  She smiled at him as if he had just told her he’d hung the stars in the sky. “Ye help people.”

  Nick felt his cheeks burning. Jesus, was he blushing? “It’s no big deal.”

  “Aye, ‘tis,” she insisted, her smile growing wider.

  He decided to drop it, focusing on coating a few of the deeper scratches with some antibiotic cream and applying some band-aids. She seemed legitimately impressed with him, yes, and that made him feel pretty good, at least until he remembered that she’d been pretty damn impressed with a light switch and a flushing toilet, too.

  * * *

  Isobeille studied him closely as he took a slice of pizza and bit into it, intending to mimic his actions. She had done the same with the bottle of beer he had given her, lifting it to her lips and tilting her head backward (she likened it to a weak but pleasant ale). For some reason, he seemed to find it amusing. His kind brown eyes held flecks of gold that sparkled when he laughed; it required deliberate effort on her part not to lose herself in them entirely.

  Forcing her eyes away, she focused on the triangular-shaped food in front of her instead. Carefully lifting it to her mouth, Isobeille took the first bite. Her eyes widened as the combination of spicy, cheesy flavors exploded against her taste buds. She savored it, then swallowed and eagerly took another bite.

  “Good?” he asked as she polished off her piece and tried to discreetly lick her fingers.

  “’Tis the most delicious fare I have ever tasted!” she proclaimed. “May I have more?”

  “Absolutely,” he grinned back, nudging the box closer to her. “So. How about telling me who you are and why you’re in New York?”

  Isobeille extracted a slice and set it upon the thin, lightweight trencher he had provided. Her voracious appetite faded somewhat when she realized the time had come to give him the answers he wanted. Mayhap it was just as well; she had a few questions of her own.

  “Is that what ye call this place? New Yorick?”

  “New York. And you’re obviously not from around here.”

  “Nay, I amnae.” She paused, taking the time to carefully chew and swallow as she considered her next words. “I doona wish te lie te ye, Nick, as ye have been verra kind, but I doona ken if the truth is what ye really want te hear.”

  “What makes you think I wouldn’t want to hear the truth?”

  She gave him a nervous smile. “I fear ye will think me a wee bit daft.”

  “Sweetheart, I already think you’re a little daft. The first time I saw you, you were smack-dab in the middle of the street about to do the horizontal tango with a ten-ton bus, barefoot and dressed like a Braveheart extra. And nothing I’ve seen since then has done anything to tip the scales into the rational zone.”

  “Ye do make a fine point,” she agreed, even though she hadn’t understood half of what he said. “All right then, I will tell ye my tale, and hope that ye doona see fit te stone me.”

  Nick nodded encouragingly, holding up both hands. “Go on. No stones, I promise.”

  “A few sennights past, I accompanied my father to the Michaelmas celebration in the nearest village
to our home, Gwynnevael.”

  “Michaelmas?” Nick interrupted. “Is that like Christmas?”

  “Michaelmas is a feast in celebratory remembrance of the Archangels. ‘Tis named for Michael especially, ye ken, because he is the greatest of the Archangels for defeating Lucifer and all.”

  “Got it,” he nodded. “Go on.”

  “Weel, ‘tis a verra important time, marking the end of the harvest and the beginning of the year’s accounts. All debts have te be settled by the end of the celebration, ye ken, and my Da couldnae make the reckoning. Sir Galen was at the festival as weel, and saw the bind that my Da had gotten himself inte. He offered te settle my father’s debts in return for my hand.”

  Nick shifted on the sofa. “Wait – are you telling me that your father sold you to dig himself out of a financial hole?”

  Isobeille winced. “’Tis not quite that simple, but aye, that is the gist of it.” She took a drink from the bottle before continuing. “Sir Galen is a fine and decent mon te be sure, a celebrated knight with many commendations for courage and bravery.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Nick said.

  “Nay, it doesnae,” she agreed. “A woman could do far worse than Sir Galen, even though he is closer te my father’s age than my own. ‘Tis not unusual for an older man te desire a younger bride, and Sir Galen made no secret of the fact that he wanted a hale young wife te breed his heirs.”

  “I can see where you might have a problem with that. I guess saying no wasn’t an option?”

  Isobeille shook her head and chanced a look at Nick, expecting to see censure or at least disapproval on his face, but found none. Was it possible that he might be able to empathize with her desire not to marry the knight?

  “I went te Sir Galen when my Da was deep in his cups and begged him te take me inte indentured service instead te pay off my father’s debt, but he wouldnae hear of it.” She dropped her gaze in embarrassment. “He said he wanted te give me something better than a life of servitude. He dinnae ken that for me, ‘twas not all that different.”