HerOutlandishStranger (5 page)

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
upbringing 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.

“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,
seño
r? 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.