HerOutlandishStranger

by Summer Devon

  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.

  “Why did you think that?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t. She had no desire to agitate him and had no notion what he might consider a challenge.

  He shook his head as if to clear it, but his voice still sounded as if he were perplexed. “I have heard a bit about you, Miss Wickman. You
r father’s name is Edward. From England. Yes?”

  She nodded and for the first time felt reassured. He knew of her father. She smiled at him, apparently a mistake. The smile seemed to upset him a great deal. He flushed and jumped to his feet, and even took several paces away. Eliza quickly turned her head and pretended to scan the horizon to allow him to recover from his strange embarrassment.

  She wondered if he suffered from some sort of derangement brought about by war. Perhaps he had seen too much fighting and had what she’d heard her father describe as battle madness. He did not appear dangerous, though, and she thought she might even grow grateful for his company.

  She turned her attention back to him and saw that he had hefted his sack and cloak and reached for her bag.

  “No, please, Mr. White. I can carry that.”

  Despite her protest, he picked up the portmanteau. She braced herself for the possibility that he would run off, carrying all that she possessed with him. She would never be able to catch up with him.

  Instead he waved a hand in the direction of the villa. “Shall we go?” he suggested, his voice normal again, though as Eliza had already noted, his normal manner seemed very unusual indeed.

  “Surely we should not stroll down the middle of the road,” she said in horror as he walked along what was no more than a rutted cart track.

  “No problem. They’re long gone.” His voice seemed entirely too loud, and she winced at the noise. He glanced back and must have seen her worried look. “The French, I mean. And the English, too, for that matter. The armies have finished up any looting and pillaging. I think a group of Spaniards who support Bonaparte caused the most damage.”

  His confidence was convincing. And made her suspicious. “How are you so certain of their movements, Mr. White? Do you have some prior knowledge?”

  He seemed to think that was funny. As he laughed, she noticed his teeth gleamed impossibly white. They also appeared as completely straight, not a missing or crooked tooth in his mouth. Perhaps they were false, she thought, though that hardly seemed likely—unless he came from a country of extraordinary craftsmen.