by Summer Devon
“François de Montelzun,” she shouted after him, just to make conversation. “That must be who you are.”
Mr. White looked back at her curiously, but didn’t ask what she meant. Eliza once again walked, bent into the wall of wind.
She glanced up to watch the straight back of the man striding far ahead. She muttered, “If I had known you would have me walk the length of Europe, I might have refused to adopt your plan, Mr. White.”
They trudged and Eliza felt as if she’d spent months in soaking-wet clothing, bent into the steady wind. Her wet skirts clung and pulled at her legs, though only at her calves.
As usual, Mr. White seemed to make sure he kept his distance from her. Eliza, scampering after him, felt more than usually peevish however.
“Mr. White,” she shouted angrily. “You keep an impossible pace. Might we stop? I promise you that I am on the verge of falling over.”
He stopped at once and loped back to her. “You’re sick?”
Slightly abashed at his panic, she tightened the string of her hood and explained, “I’m sorry. I-I am fine really. I am just tired and cross.”
He looked down at her and his rare smile lit his face. “Huh, it is about time you began to grumble, Miss Wickman. I’d begun to wonder if you were human.”
He cleared his throat. “Sorry you’re tired. I thought about getting a horse for you. But I think it might attract too much attention. I’ve moved us away from some skirmishes, but now we can go the right direction. We’re not hanging around this country a moment longer than we have to.”
At that moment it occurred to her that at first, just after her father’s death, he had offered no explanations, and she had never questioned where they were heading or why he bothered with her.
And now? What she would do if he announced he’d had enough of her company and bade her goodbye. Would she beg him? Offer him all her money in exchange for his protection and company? Offer him herself? The thought filled her with that strange heaviness. She thought of the ugly and painful thrusting. Would he stop if she begged him to or keep banging into her? And would she beg him to stop after all?
At the image of him naked, an unnatural heat filled her belly and she forced herself to pay attention to his words.
“You might think we’re wandering aimlessly, miss, but I do have a plan. We’re heading for the coast in Portugal. Lisbon. We may have to head farther southeast to avoid the worst terrain and fighting. Then we’ll see if we can grab a ship to England.”
Eliza’s throat grew tight at the thought of England. Home. She’d left three years earlier under a cloud. Now that whole episode seemed absurd. The man who ruined her no longer mattered. But to return to England alone, without Papa? Impossible.
“Mr. White…” She paused to steady her voice. She would not indulge in tears. “I’m afraid I have no residence in England. But what of you? Where is your own home?”
He gave her one of his peculiar smiles. “My place is impossibly far away, so we’re bound for England. No, don’t bother to protest, we’ll talk about it as soon as we get a safe ship away from here. I’ve heard that some fishing vessels are willing to transport civilians. For a fee and—”
Suddenly the smile vanished and he looked away, off to the side of the road.
“Hear that?” he asked in a low voice.
“I only hear the wind.”
A moment later, he had his bit of wood out and stared down at it. “Yup. Someone’s nearby.”
She took advantage of their pause to lean down and rub at the top of her boot, which was starting to crack. “We passed a farm. Do you suppose it is the farmer?”
“Huh. I think it’s no farmer. Might as well go on, though,” he muttered, and continued to walk. “There’s a peaceful village about an hour’s walk from here. We can buy some supplies.”
“You do have a good knowledge of Spain,” she said. “You seem to have a thorough knowledge of many things.”
Jazz didn’t answer. He slowed again so he could stay near her side.
The back of his neck prickled—again. Danger. He stealthily reached down to slide the knife from his boot. No need to alarm the woman.
Yards beyond the stone wall next to the dirt road they followed, a man walked through long-forgotten stocks of the last harvest, watching them. Jazz knew he’d seen that figure before, hours earlier. The man was following them, and didn’t seem to care that Jazz knew.
She-yit. He wished they were animals so he could give the guy a snarling display of teeth. You’re not the only dangerous one.
He laid a hand on the pummel of the sword, hoping it looked as if he knew what he was doing.
When he glanced back at the spot in the field, the man was gone. The prickle of danger remained. His breath caught when he realized he’d have to force himself to stay near the woman. No more going ahead to escape her dark gaze and friendly attention.
And nights… He did not want to think of them.
The village held a church with the inevitable stork’s nest and a grubby little store.
And outside the store, the man who’d been following them.
Jazz managed to keep his jaw from dropping when he saw who it was. He walked straight up to him. “Hullo, Steele.”
Steele gaped at him and answered in perfect Spanish. “Do you speak to me, señor? May I be of assistance?”
“No,” Jazz said. “I’m good.”
“So I see,” Steele said, still speaking Spanish.
Miss Wickman came out of the tiny shop, smiling. “I’ve got something other than olives!” she said, excited. “Meat.” She caught sight of Steele. “Oh, how do you do, señor?” she asked in her accented Spanish.
Steele muttered a greeting. He backed away quickly and pivoting on one heel took off at once.
“Do you know that man?” she asked.
“No,” he said, but he knew from her frown she wasn’t satisfied. She already assumed he was a lunatic, the way he’d had trouble with leather. The stuff was made from dead animals so who’d blame him? Not his fault he wasn’t properly trained but he’d have to do better keeping her trust.
Steele had already vanished. No one had told Jazz he was getting official DHU help, and so he had to assume Steele wasn’t there to help him. As long as the agent stayed away from Liza, Jazz had no problem with him. He’d do his job and hope Steele would eventually tell him what the hell was going on.
*
They stopped for a rest and Liza curled up on the ground, unnaturally tired. But the sun seemed to shed actual warmth. How long had she been traveling with Mr. White? She had lost track of the days.
She allowed her nose out of the wrapping of the frieze cloak and sighed. After a few minutes, she got to her hands and knees, then automatically froze to look for any signs that other people lurked nearby, before standing up. The slightly hilly landscape, wonderful after the plains, was still blessedly empty of anything but scrubby trees.
She came across a trickle of water. After a long moment’s hesitation, she whipped off the gloves he’d found for her and used the icy stream to scrub her face and hands clean.
Taking off her boots and stockings, she froze at the sound of a breaking twig. Mr. White leaned against one of the trees, watching her.
Her belly gave one of the now familiar twists but she pretended not to notice him. Let him see her ankles—she had rather nice legs and by heavens, she hoped he’d admire them. Heart pounding at her own daring, she rolled off her stocking and dipped her feet into the freezing water. She scrubbed at her feet with her numbed fingers. When she twisted around, he had vanished.
When she made her way back to the fire, Mr. White did not lay out the usual scraps of bread, cheese and raw vegetables. Instead he had put out two perfectly square brown bars on a rock. She smiled at him and he grinned back. He almost looked friendly.
“Here’s our meal, miss.” He pointed at the things on the rock. “Tastes like dirt to me, but it’s bound to be better for you.”
>
Despite his warning, she thought the square object had a pleasant, sweet flavor. Dull perhaps, and dry, but certainly better than many a meal she’d recently had. And better still, she didn’t feel a pang of hunger after she’d eaten it. She realized that though Mr. White managed to collect more food than she was used to, a complete lack of hunger was a novel sensation.
“Remarkable,” she said, wiping her fingers with a handkerchief before pulling her leather gloves back on. “It is as if I consumed a full meal.” Then she caught sight of the filth on her handkerchief. “Oh my gracious! We must wash.”
At the stream they made a valiant attempt to wash a few items of clothing under the meager trickle. Then they spread the clothes across the rocks and bushes to dry. She blushed when she caught him thoughtfully examining her undergarments. No, she told herself sternly, this is no time or place to be missish.
Mr. White paused from his task of draping icy-wet clothes on the branches of a stunted tree and dried his hands on his cloak. “The reason I was watching you this morning is that I think there’s someone interested in us. And that’s why I’m letting us slow up a bit. I think we might want to get him out in the open.”
And here she had thought he wanted to catch a glimpse of her legs. “What can you mean?”
“We’re being followed.” Her silly disappointment turned to worry. Was this a sign of disordered nerves? Who on earth would bother with the likes of them? “Ah. Is this why you’ve been rather cautious of late?”
“Yeah, and, um, we should stay close together. Um.” He heaved a sigh. “Even at night.”
For some reason, this thought did not bother her.
They filled the water sacks and packed the still damp, cold clothing. “We’ll pull it all out again when we stop for the night,” he decided, and they set off.
The sun warmed the air and the exercise warmed their bodies. Mr. White had thrown off the hood of his cloak and his glorious hair glowed in the sunlight. He glanced around often, but seemed relaxed as he walked. He even whistled through his teeth, a quiet, strange tune Eliza had never heard.
For the first time in ages, Eliza didn’t feel the cold anywhere but her fingers and toes. She had almost forgotten how delicious warmth felt as it penetrated her limbs. No, she suddenly recalled she was wrong about it having been ages. She had felt completely warm recently. Very recently. Her delirium in the cave. The delirium of a man with dark hair and gentle hands who stirred her into impossible arousal.
Such a vivid dream. Only glimpses of the dark figure. Black hair she’d wanted to touch but she hadn’t had the strength to reach for him. He’d known where she needed his touch. She could almost picture his face, although now she’d given the dream figure the face of Mr. White, with the same sensitive mouth that rarely curved into a smile. And what if Mr. White were to put his hands up her skirt? And peel away her bodice and chemise to cover her naked skin with kisses? Her belly twisted at the persistent thoughts of him, pure desire mingled with mortification.
Enough.
Mr. White had grown less short and awkward with her, so she made another attempt to speak to him.
“Please, might we converse as we go?”
He eyed her cautiously. “I suppose so, Miss Wickman. What do you want to talk about?”
“Tell me about your home.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Not much to tell. It’s gone.”
She laid a hand on his arm briefly, registering the hard muscle but resisting the urge to stroke and explore it. “I am so sorry. I did not know. Are you able to…talk about your loss?”
He shrugged. “I’m used to the idea. And perhaps I’ll get back some day. I don’t know.”
“Ah.” She didn’t want to point out that he’d just said it was gone. Dicked in the nob, her cousin John would declare. A Bedlamite. They walked in silence for a time.
“Do you have family?” she asked, wondering how confusing an answer he could give to that.
“A mother, a sister and a brother.” He answered lightly so she felt she could ask more.
“Are you close?”
He considered the question. “I like ’em. I talk to my mother and sister at least once a week, though I haven’t seen them in years.”
“Ah,” she said again.
“Eh, I mean I write to them at least once a week. Talk means communicate where I come from. Sorry I’m not always clear. Our languages are close but not exact, I suppose. Creates some confusion.”
She smiled. “Perhaps that is the difficulty.” She hoped so. Better that than the poor man was mad. “Tell me about them.”
“My family?”
“Yes, please. Unless you find the memories painful.”
“No, the worst ones’re gone,” he said with still another of his momentary lapses into nonsense. He looked over at her. “Do all Englishwomen ask as many questions as you?”
She blushed. “I apologize. I do not mean to pry.”
Mr. White’s quick grin flashed across his face and she was reassured. “I guess I can talk about ’em,” he said at last. “My mother is Mag, my sister is Else and my brother is Sun. They are…” He searched for words. “My mother is a healer. She works long hours and loves her work. She was made a, er, chief healer not long ago and said it was all she wanted from life.” He smiled at some memory. Eliza liked the way his eyes went soft and had slight wrinkles at their corners when he smiled. “And Huy-man, we did celebrate. Tell me about your mother.”
“I never knew her. She died when I was born.”
“No. How awful.” He sounded utterly horrified. And astonished.
“’Tis not so unusual. Women do die having babies.”
Under his golden skin he turned pale. “Often?” he asked hoarsely. She wondered at the way his eyes had taken on a dark intensity.
“Not so often, I suppose, or we women would never wed.” He was a monk, she decided, or some kind of man removed from the world. Yet didn’t he just say his mother was a healer and that he wrote to her weekly? “But if you do not object, I wish to hear of your life in your exotic country. What of your sister and brother?”
He sighed. “My sister likes to travel and she sends me reports of her travels. I wait to see, er, read them every week. She is good! And funny too. Unlike me, she knows how to use words.
“My brother’s older and I don’t know him well. He never liked me because when I was much younger I did some bad things.”
She sniffed. “All children make mistakes.”
White merely frowned. “Huh. Sun’s the serious one, interested in helping the world. He is a sort of an artist.”
“And your father?”
He shrugged. “No idea. Eh, my mother had more family once, but there were battles, fighting, in my country and they are gone now. The four of us are family enough.”
Eliza’s eyes grew wide and she was speechless. What kind of country did this man come from? His mother could give birth to illegitimate children yet hold an important place in society?
After the long, shocked pause she realized her silence could only appear rude and ventured, “Ah. Your country seems so extremely, er, different from mine in many ways. What is its name?”
He smiled at her, that tilting grin of his that lifted only the corners of his mouth, and she was uncomfortably certain he’d noticed her earlier shock at his illegitimacy. “My country is in North America. You’ve never heard of it since it’s outside the boundaries maps show of that continent. Any day now a cartographer will give you British a better picture of it.”
Aha, now she understood his game. She adjusted the collar of her cape with a show of dignity. “Tell me. Are you simply spouting nonsense to keep yourself entertained? Or do you wish to make a cake of me?”
His grin broadened and lit his whole face. “Whichever you prefer.”
Any minute he would laugh outright at her naiveté. She bit her lip and decided to keep silent. But she couldn’t resist hearing what astounding thing he’d say next. And, sh
e was willing to admit to herself, she was interested in his answers.
“Are you married, Mr. White?”
He raised his light brows. “No. I suppose I wouldn’t be here if I was.”
“And what brought you here? Why are you in this country, Mr. White?” Let’s hear your Banbury tale for that question, she thought.
He didn’t disappoint her. “To take care of you, of course. Didn’t I mention that?”
Walking faster, he pulled a few meters away from her, then drew out the piece of wood and glanced down at it. She watched his long, competent fingers touch the wood he so often handled, and she reflected that whatever peculiar ritual he performed, he seemed to feel the wood as sensitively as a good pianist knows the keys to his instrument. Somehow his odd proficiency at the ritual, silently stroking a bit of wood, made him seem less strange rather than more.
His voice interrupted her thoughts. “Come on, we’ve got to pay attention to where we’re headed now. I think our man is still with us, but apparently the good weather’s brought out even more company. There might be some drunken soldiers or unhappy Spaniards around here. Don’t want to come face-to-face with them.”
“But we are allies with the Spaniards,” she protested.
“Hmmm.” He sounded dubious. They were tramping up a slight hill when he stopped, suddenly, and grabbed at her arm. “I think we’ll just take a quick detour here,” he murmured and suddenly pulled her behind a boulder. They pressed flat against it, listening to the wind and their breathing for several minutes. She just nudged his arm, ready to protest at this strange interruption, when she heard another sound floating on the wind—very drunken English voices raised in a song. The lyrics, which seemed to be about a miller’s daughter, were so obscure, likely obscene, she didn’t understand half of the words.
White leaned close and spoke in a low whisper. His breath warmed and tickled her ear. “Probably fine for them to spot us since you’re a fellow Englishwoman. But…hmm. Best not to take the chance since there are a bunch and they seem to be, um, celebrating. You’re a very attractive woman and they probably aren’t in the mood to ask if you’re interested or not.”
