HerOutlandishStranger

by Summer Devon

  “No, I’m not a French spy, Miss Wickman. I don’t give… I don’t care about the French, the Spanish or even the British army’s movements. That’s not important.”

  “What could possibly be important, then?” she asked, still guarded.

  He slowed his loping stride to fall back and walk next to her. “Huh.” He seemed to consider the question. “Getting you to your country, I think. To England. That’s important.”

  An odd answer, though truly she felt relief at his gallant offer to help her until she was reunited with her father.

  She felt she ought to protest. “Perhaps it is important to me, but you need not worry on my behalf, Mr. White. I shall find my father and persuade him to escape with me. You have been more than kind, but I do not wish to trouble you any further.”

  He looked at her straight in the eye, an equal at this particular moment, Eliza reflected. He smiled, a lopsided smile that struck her as appealing, but held either sorrow or scorn, she couldn’t judge which. “Believe me, I have nothing better to do. Let’s go. I understand you’ve got to see the destruction for yourself.”

  He walked quickly and she frequently had to hurry after him. She fell behind and watched his strong gait. He was well formed and often graceful, yet occasionally, for instance when he glanced over his shoulder at her, he seemed out of odds with his own body.

  *

  Mr. White proved horribly right about the destruction. By the time they’d stumbled their way through the muddy countryside—Eliza simply refused to stroll down the road—only a few smoldering chunks of black timber and ashes remained of the villa. Anything valuable was gone. Anything living was dead.

  Mr. White pulled her away from the charred remnants of the doorway, and an unspeakable object that was probably her father’s remains. “Let me check,” he said gruffly.

  He asked her to describe some kind of identifying item he could look for so he could be sure it was Edward Wickman. But there was nothing. The only way to identify the dreadful corpse as her father would have been with his wedding ring, which must have been stolen along with everything else of value.

  Vaguely aware of Mr. White’s watching presence, she wandered aimless, in a fog of grief, searching for something recognizable from the wreckage that had been home. She walked in circles for hours—or perhaps for only a half an hour. She had no notion of time.

  “Gone, gone,” she whispered, and wondered if sorrow could indeed bring on madness. Perhaps insanity would save her heart from entirely shattering. Her bewildered, wandering hunt was at last ended by Mr. White. She didn’t notice him until she felt him tug on her arm. “We need to leave now. We’ll have to find a place to sleep.”

  Eliza looked up and saw that the sun had sunk low and bathed the scene in a soft, pink glow. How strange to observe such beauty at that moment.

  Without a word, she followed him from the devastation. She didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. The sight of the ruins would remain imprinted on her memory forever.

  They had trudged perhaps two miles when he stopped and led her to a dry, flat rock. A few paces away, he assembled a pile of sticks that caught fire almost immediately. Eliza, huddled on the nearby rock, abstractedly noticed he did possess some remarkable skills.

  He was next to her again, bothering her, talking to her, telling her to move closer to the fire, and asking her if she wanted anything to eat. His voice seemed to come from far away. “Gah, I think you’re in shock or some such thing.”

  Here is an observant gentleman, she thought. She chose to ignore his foolish words.

  He nervously fingered an oval of wood in his hand then stared down at it for a moment. “You should stay warm and you need to eat. And you ought to lie down soon.”

  Mr. White managed to push a bit of bread into her hand. She shook her head, then spoke aloud for the first time in what felt like years. Her voice caught in her tight throat and turned to a gasp. “Thank you. I will not eat.”

  He pulled the bread from her and broke off pieces, which he nudged into her mouth, as he mumbled some nonsensical words such as “immune system”. Every now and then he held a skin of water to her lips until she drank a few sips. She chewed and swallowed automatically. After a while, he gently pushed her down on the ground. No, onto a blanket. She lay on her back as he tucked his cloak and then her own cloak on top of her.

  “Sleep if you can,” he said, but she only sensed the words as she fell into an exhausted stupor.

  Jazz watched her in the firelight. The soft light shone on her tangled hair and he picked out at least five colors in the strands, ranging from bronze to soft mahogany. Her lips were full, and he remembered the warm taste of them from the cave, her natural sweetness mingling with the sour wine on her lips. She’d returned his kisses… No, he stopped himself. But he couldn’t stop staring at her. Relaxed now, those lips could have been the plump mouth of a child, though the other stronger lines of her face were of an adult woman. Even by the firelight he could see that her cheeks had more color after the day in the sun.

  Nothing in his life had fascinated him as much as the sight of her face. Except maybe the sight of her form. The warm curves under his hands. Every time he thought of the evening before, he was filled with shame, horror and the overwhelming craving to touch her again.

  This wild-state was going to more than distract him. He could barely function. And when she gave him that sweet beaming smile that illuminated her face, shame filled him so he wanted to beg her forgiveness. And yank her against him.

  He watched her sleep and fought the unwelcome memories of what he thought of as “the time in the cave”. To call it anything else made him flinch.

  He jumped to his feet. Unbelievable. He was hard and ready again. It should have been easy to destroy the urge—he simply had to recall those moments when he’d been with her and she drifted away from surface wakefulness, back to the deep, drugged sleep. He hadn’t stopped his hands or his body, even when she had lain in his hands like the dead. The first time, eh. He had to do that.

  It was the other time. That act was contemptible.

  He swallowed hard, but the disgust lingered in his throat. Right along with the harsh tang of desire that lodged there and everywhere else in his body.

  He walked a few yards away from the fire and pulled out the CR for a quick check-in to see if any humans were in the area.

  Might as well ask the CR about any possible solutions for his annoying disturbance.

  The CR was no help. “Lust. Concupiscence,” it diagnosed.

  No, he’d felt lust in his life. This seemed far more consuming. He described more of his symptoms aloud. “Eh, CR, I don’t remember any cruddy lust symptoms like a lack of proper air intake when someone smiled.”

  The CR answered at once. “Lust. Past slang descriptions are…to develop a tendre, a pash, the hots, a crush.”

  Jazz controlled the urge to tell the CR to stop being a condescending ass. “CR, what’s the cure? I’ve got a job and I’m already an amateur. I don’t need this self-involved pash nonsense.”

  “Thirty grams of Nulif suppressant for immediate relief,” the CR suggested, “followed by a longer-lasting subcutaneous dose. Double as standard preventative for adolescence symptoms.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know. If I only could,” Jazz muttered. That was the stuff he used at home. Maybe he could find some sort of ancient form of control. “CR, what do the natives hereabouts do when they are afflicted?”

  The CR was quiet for a long second as it searched its records. “Persons wishing to abate symptoms take potassium nitrate, also known as saltpeter. This substance can cause gastroenteritis, high blood pressure, anemia, kidney disease, and general weakness and torpor. It also has a depressive effect on the heart. Therefore it cannot be recommended. Cold baths are also mentioned. As is avoiding the object of obsession.”

  Jazz made a disgusted noise. He flicked off the CR and shoved it into his pocket. No help there. He’d have to learn to live with the w
ild-state, and the Eliza woman, on his own.

  Back at the campsite, he curled into as small a shape as he could, to stay warm. The damp ground seemed to suck every bit of warmth from him. He thought about taking out the warming cloak again, but he didn’t know how deeply this woman slept. He didn’t want her to wake and see something that wouldn’t be invented for a couple hundred years.

  At least it wasn’t raining and at least there was a fire. He rolled closer to the fire. All thoughts of trying to get comfortable vanished when a voice whispered next to his ear.

  “We should put it out.”

  “What?” He didn’t exactly jump out of his skin, but he was glad he hadn’t been asleep. He’d been warned that, without meds, he could be a danger when startled awake. One of his waking nightmares was that someday someone would attempt to shake him out of a sleeping nightmare, which might cause him to create a waking nightmare.

  Miss Wickman briefly put a finger on his mouth to silence him and spoke in a low voice near his ear. He had to concentrate on listening since the touch of her hand and the heat of her breath on the side of his face brought the tiresome disturbance right back. “We must quench the fire. We do not want to draw attention to ourselves, Mr. White.”

  “Ah. Good point.” He knew the soldiers had left the area, but he wasn’t sure about the sentiment of the locals who remained. The CR contained records of battalions, skirmishes and soldiers’ movements but remained vague about details like the peasants who’d survived the combat. He knew some of the Spanish were starting to dislike their allies, the British.

  Together Jazz and the woman kicked the small fire until the last wisp of smoke blew away.

  Jazz lowered himself to the ground in the almost complete darkness. A rustle beside him along with the scent of the woman again and he almost jumped back up.

  She spoke, very softly. “I apologize for startling you earlier. And I wish to thank you for…your assistance back—” She stopped abruptly.

  “Right, miss,” said Jazz hurriedly. “I’m glad to see you’re able to, um, function again.”

  “Function? Yes.” Her voice sounded bleak. In the darkness she held something out to him. “You were very kind, Mr. White. Thank you for your help.” She thrust his cloak at him.

  He shook his head until he realized she probably couldn’t see the gesture now that the fire was totally out. “No, miss. I don’t really want that.”

  “Mr. White, you will take a chill,” she said, wearily. “If you become ill, your safety will be imperiled.”

  “But you must stay war—”

  ”I am healthy, Mr. White. But please consider this. If you grow ill, my safety will be compromised as well. After the generosity you’ve shown, do you think I would abandon you?”

  After a few more minutes of useless argument, he took the cloak and wondered why the Departmental experts had confidently informed him that the women of this era always bowed to male judgment. He wrapped himself up and found that the cloak carried her sweet, musky scent. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, not even noticing the accompanying stench of wool.

  Chapter Four

  Eliza opened her eyes to see clouds skittering across a gray sky.

  Why was she lying huddled on a blanket on the ground with the cold wind flowing over her? Then she saw the charred remains of the small fire, and the sight transported her to the scene of blackened destruction. The Spanish villa, gone.

  Papa. Gone. She forgot the cold and rolled onto her stomach, buried her face in her arms and wept silently. Her family was dead and she had nothing, nobody, left to live for. She couldn’t go back to England. Her former circle had rejected her after her dreadful mistake with Brian. Only Papa had stood by her and now he was gone.

  The tears eventually dried up. She was too worn to cry for Papa now. She rested her head on her folded arms to calm her hitching breathing, then opened her eyes and slowly stood.

  The peculiar Mr. White lay curled and asleep nearby. She momentarily forgot her sorrow as she considered him. No matter what his first name proved to be, she’d privately consider him Strange White, though she no longer distrusted him. If he’d had any bizarre or dangerous inclinations toward her, he would have surely demonstrated them when she was at her most vulnerable. Much of the previous day remained a blur in her mind, but she would never forget the way he cared for her and gave her his cloak.

  What kind of man was he? She couldn’t be certain about the state of his sanity, but his appearance was splendid. He was Apollo, after all.

  Eliza had met too-handsome men before, to her own misfortune. They had a way of giving one knowing smiles when they caught one looking at them. “I see you admiring me” the look said, “I know what you want”. But when her eyes met those of the golden Mr. White, he merely gave her a brief, lopsided grin or a guarded look.

  Once or twice she’d caught him staring at her with a rather foolish, almost astonished look on his face. She wondered if he was attracted to her. She was no raving beauty, but men had found her appealing in the past.

  Eliza almost laughed aloud at herself. Here was she, family all gone, trapped in a ravaged land with suffering and death all around her and she was wondering if the peculiar man who decided to help her found her charming. She suddenly wished she could share her foolishness with her sister, Jane, so they could laugh together until they collapsed. At yet another reminder of loss, the brief few seconds of lightheartedness dissolved entirely.

  Mr. White’s eyes opened. He woke immediately alert, no bleariness or yawning. Eliza wished she could learn to wake as instantly.

  For a brief second their gazes locked. He looked away at once.

  “Good morning,” she said in a low voice.

  He rose to his feet and buckled on his sword. “Morning. Are you well enough to walk soon?”

  Walk where? The hazy question came to her. She didn’t bother to form the words to ask for she could not bring herself to care.

  They shared bread and a slab of a chewy piece of a dried substance that could have been meat. He packed the few pieces of bedding and lifted her bag. “Is this…leather?” he asked. She nodded and watched, bemused as he hefted it and turned his head to give a quick, surreptitious sniff. His nose wrinkled.

  She considered asking him how he could fail to recognize leather when he wore boots made of the stuff, but he was already walking. “Let’s go,” he said and swung along the trail.

  Though it was clearly marked, their road was often little more than a trail through mud and underbrush.

  As they slogged through the half-frozen slush covering the gray plain, she frequently caught him watching her, but if their eyes met, he quickly looked at the ground. When she drew near him to venture a comment, or take the food he handed her from his pack, he inched away from her, and avoided her eyes.

  She felt grateful he did not speak. Any contemplation of her shattered future made her immensely weary. Any energy in her body was used keeping up with Mr. White, who had a long stride, even when he remembered to slow his steps.

  When they could, they slept in abandoned barns or impressive stone ruins of towers. The biting wind only seemed to slow at dawn and sunset. At least when they lay on the ground, the gusts could only skim over them. For warmth they huddled behind a rock or, if they were lucky enough to be near woods, in small copses.

  When they walked, Mr. White stayed at least twenty paces ahead, but often glanced back. She met his eyes and gave him a slight nod, to signal that she was fine.

  On the coldest nights, he made a tent for her, using the blanket and a walking stick he’d managed to fashion from a tree limb.

  “Would you share the shelter?” she asked timidly one evening as the wind picked up and snow began to fall. “I am afraid you might freeze to death.” She eyed him and his large frame as he hunched over the dinner they shared. She craved warmth far more than she worried about her already sullied virtue. More proof, she reflected, that she was losing all connection to her upbring
ing as a gentlewoman.

  A sudden warmth washed through her at just the thought of sharing such a small space with him. Would he wrap his arms around her? Put his lips on hers? The peculiar heaviness settled in her belly as she imagined stroking the strong arms, feeling the quality of the golden skin. Even tracing the odd scar that lay open and uncovered on his forearm made her tingle with anticipation. Had she ever wished to touch Brian in such a manner? Their courtship, if it could be called that, was conducted in a civilized world, usually under the watchful eyes of society.

  No one came near this godforsaken spot in Spain. She sensed that he would never press her to do more than she wished. And oh, she so dearly wished to kiss him, her body starved for his touch. She inched closer and laid a hand on his arm.

  “No,” he yelped, as if horrified.

  “But Mr. White—”

  “Don’t worry, miss,” he spoke more calmly now, “I’ll survive in the open. I promise.”

  Too embarrassed to say more, she thanked him, crawled under the makeshift tent and slept alone.

  The next morning as they silently made ready to travel, she awkwardly pulled her cloak’s hood over her head, her permanently cold fingers fumbling at the clasp. Mr. White laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Wait.” He pulled off his cloak and shoved it at her. “You use this one.”

  Eliza gazed longingly at the thick cloak he held out to her. Her chilled muscles ached for the extra covering. But she was unwilling to receive yet another favor from a man who did not even appear to like her. “You will look absurd in mine,” she said.

  “Take it,” he said in the quiet voice that brooked no opposition.

  With a reluctant nod, Eliza slipped her cloak from her shoulders and handed it to him.

  She was wrong. Her cloak did not look strange on him. Somehow it made him look even larger and more masculine. With the sword at his side, he resembled a seventeenth century portrait she’d once seen of a French musketeer. Trying to recall the Frenchman’s name gave her a few minutes of something to contemplate other than the familiar misery.