HerOutlandishStranger (6 page)

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, she 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.”

She felt absurdly pleased that he’d called her attractive
though she wondered why they didn’t simply flag the men down and beg for safe
passage. But then she recalled the hideous times she’d seen drink-maddened
soldiers. She listened to the soldiers’ slurred songs and bellows, and knew Mr.
White had the right of it. Strange Mr. White understood more—though often
less—than she first judged.

Chapter Five

Because of the almost pleasant weather they covered more
miles than he’d expected they would. They slogged through the marshy land,
usually in silence, skirting any possibly occupied structures they spotted and
staying well south of the Tagus River.

Mag and Else would approve of the strong Miss Eliza Wickman.

Funny, now that he was a few thousand miles and several
hundred years away, how clearly he could visualize his mother and sister, even
his brother, and imagine their responses.

“That Liza’s tougher than you, Jazz-boy,” his sister might
say. “And considering how you’re practically normal these days, that’s got to
be mighty tough.”

On uncomfortable days he consoled himself with thinking
about his family’s reaction to his assignment as a DHUy. He couldn’t tell them
about his mission, of course, but he’d been allowed to say he’d been recruited.
They’d surprised him with their warm responses. His mother had given a rare
whoop of joy when he told her he was a DHU agent.

Even his brother had grunted something about “making up for
it all”. That kind of remark was as close as Sun came to hostility—or even
acceptance—of Jazz. Usually, at his best, he was distantly polite. Though no
one had ever said anything directly to him, he once overheard Else tell someone
she suspected Jazz, as a soldier, had killed a woman Sun loved. More than once
Jazz tried to talk to Sun about what had happened.

What would Eliza think he should do about his brother?
Pinner had scoffed and called Jazz “too earnest to live” and told him to leave
Sun alone. He wished he could, but for some reason he had a strong compulsion
to bug the poor guy. Sheer stubbornness he supposed.

Miss Wickman had slowed. “Why do you frown, Mr. White? Have
I offended you?” Her voice sounded so tentative, he realized she might even be
afraid of him.

He made the effort to smile and reassure her. “Huh, I’m not
mad at you. I was thinking of my brother.”

“And you frown because you recall the reason he is angry at
you?”

He forgot he had talked to her about Sun. Who would imagine
she’d remember all of his babbling?

“Yeah, yes,” he said slowly. “When I see him, I try to talk
to him. About our, er, past problems.”

She’d caught up with him and now strode along at his side.
“And what does he reply?”

Jazz thought about the last time he tried to communicate
with his brother via the web.

He had jumped straight to the subject, hoping Sun wouldn’t
avoid him.

Sun had interrupted him, almost viciously. “We’re not to rub
your face in something that wasn’t your fault and you can’t even remember. No
point, right? I told you.” And Jazz’s mind’s eye, the psunder connection with
him, had gone black.

Did that count as a reply? Not really.

Jazz smiled at Miss Wickman. “He doesn’t say anything. He
doesn’t have time to talk about it. But I suppose I’ll try again when I see
him.” Poor old Sun.

“Good for you, Mr. White,” Miss Wickman answered without
hesitation. She clutched his arm. “Oh, you are right to try to speak to him
even if he fobs you off. You must keep trying!”

He slowed down to glance at her, surprised by the emotion
vibrating through her soft voice.

“Thank you,” he said, touched by her concern. “I shall.”

She nodded, but sorrow skimmed her face and he wondered if
his words had called up some sad memory for her. Poor woman. He felt sympathy
overlaid with a prickling of his usual guilt.
More trouble coming your way,
as you’ll figure out soon enough, lady
.

She turned and as she looked into his face, something more
than concern shone in her deep eyes. He smiled again to reassure her. His smile
faltered as her gaze pulled at him, beckoned him closer.

His breath grew fast and too-familiar symptoms seized him
but he knew this moment was different. The softened quality of her gaze—she had
not watched him like this before.

He had to break that powerful contact and he pulled away by
lengthening his strides. “I’m gonna look for our friend.”

She gave him a nod, clearly too polite to tell him she
thought he was crazy. Even as he scanned the area, he grinned to himself. Miss
Wickman tried so hard not to question his strange actions. Maybe she was right
and there was no stranger or maybe Steele had lost interest in them. Jazz
wished he believed it, but his overdeveloped sense of danger still prickled.
And why else would Steele be lurking about the place?

Miss Wickman strode along behind, several lengths back. Too
far. He slowed his pace, but didn’t stop to wait for her. They’d rest soon
enough, and he could see by the signs he knew—how she picked her steps, held up
her skirt, the color of her cheeks—she still had energy. Not enough for casual
conversation, which was fine with Jazz. He wasn’t sure it was such a good thing
they talk so much. He enjoyed any face-to-face talking with Miss Wickman too
much.

He realized that in his life he was usually alone with only
CR contact. He could not recall ever spending so much time in the same space as
another person. All these days together made that person more immediate, more
important than anything else. Or maybe Miss Wickman was so important to him
because of his body’s wild-state reaction to her.

No, that wasn’t the whole explanation. His response was now
usually endurable. Usually. Occasionally he’d spot a patch of the pale skin on
her neck or a trace of delicate vein in her wrist or the curve of her back as
she turned. Or he’d have a vivid flashback of a moment in the cave.

Or he looked into her oval face and saw something that
almost made him lose his carefully guarded control.

Those moments could flood him with longing that literally
robbed him of his breath. His body would turn to stone. He’d have to remind
himself to move or inhale again. Or when they hid, pressed close together, he
leaned his bare palms on the boulder until the rough surface bit his
hands—anything to overcome the craving to seize her and pull her to him. No, he
still was too aware of Miss Wickman but as the days passed and he grew used to
the often physically painful sensation, he could function better. And they
developed something of a companionship that eased the awkwardness. Much of the
reason she mattered to him was simple.

He liked her, very much.

He’d never felt close to a woman before. There was Rae, but
he was pretty certain Rae hooked with him because she’d been ghoulishly
interested in being seen in public in his company. She trolled for Truthies.

Now, as he shifted his pack and Miss Wickman’s satchel to a
better position on his shoulder, he realized he couldn’t care less about Rae or
any other troller.

Miss Wickman’s head was bent so he could not see her face.
Her steps dragged now. Of course she’d be tired. He’d almost been sprinting.

Jazz forced himself to slow down. “Can you go another half
hour ’til lunch?”

“Certainly.” Her voice sounded almost breathless, so he
decided to make it fifteen minutes.

As they tramped in silence, another problem occurred to him.
While they were in Spain or Portugal, she didn’t question his presence. But
once they were ashore in her country, he’d have to find a good excuse to dog
her steps.

“When we get to England,” he began.

“Yes?” She looked up expectantly.

Gah, now what would he do if she told him to get lost? He
had to make the question vague. “Well. I wonder if you would continue to allow
me to help you?”

“I am sure I shall be fine.” She smiled and came so close he
could easily touch her, breathe her scent. Just the realization set off his
wild-state response. Did she notice her effect on him? She didn’t seem to as
she warmly went on, “But you know that you will always be welcome in my home.”

“Thank you.” The tightness made his voice rough.

He pointed at a low outcrop of rock. “Shall we stop for
lunch?”

Just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he decided to
look very thoroughly through all of the CR’s data for primary materials about
her journey through Spain. Was there mention of a man following Miss Wickman
and the protector?

Nothing.

He did another search, to see if maybe this time he could
spot his role in her life once they reached her home country. He already knew
he wasn’t going to stay with her forever.

She would marry, of course.

Every now and then, he looked up from the CR to scan the
horizon or watch Miss Wickman eat a lunch of olives, carrots and stale bread.
She sat on the blanket spread over a large, flat rock, her back held straight,
and he could see that as always, she forced herself to not gobble the bread in
her hand.

As he watched, she closed her eyes and tilted her face into
the watery sunlight.

“The sun is wonderful,” she said. “And I do not mind a few
freckles. Do you think freckles dreadfully unattractive, Mr. White?”

“Course not,” he mumbled and wondered if she was flirting
with him.

Her profile showed the outline of her face. Too thin, he
thought nervously. Her delicately cut features and her slender throat exposed
to the light seemed to make her even more unprotected. Though she never
mentioned hunger, he worried that the diet was not enough for a pregnant woman.
He slipped vitamins into her drinking water, but did not dare to do more.

The sunlight brought out the soft auburn lights of her hair
that glowed even through the layer of dirt. He found it hard to drag his
attention back to the dull print of the CR or the gray landscape, although it
now had the tinge of green.

The sight of her captivated him more than any list of facts,
even facts about her. Enough. He growled and bent his head to read about the
men in her future.

In about a year she would marry a fellow citizen of England,
a man called James Sandton. The records from the marriage were blotchy because
the book of records was destroyed by a later flood in the small church where
she married. But there was no doubt as to her husband’s name, or his stature,
from later records. An influential sort of solid citizen by the time any
reliable historical records bothered to mention him, Sandton was a gent
eventually granted the title of baronet.

Once or twice the baronet was referred to in the press as
“the eccentric Sir Sandton” and he seemed to hold liberal views, but Jazz
thought he seemed thoroughly tedious.

Jazz gave a near-silent snort of derision as he read
snippets from letters and other primary sources about the bart’s country seat,
his fine stable of horses, his good deeds, wholesome life, interesting
innovations, and celebrated rose gardens. Just the sort of stable and boring
blockhead of a homebody a woman returning from a war-ravaged land would long
for.

Rose gardens, he thought, disgusted.

A secondary source, a particularly dull piece by a DHU
expert, explained why no good portraits of Sir James Sandton existed. The
family portrait was destroyed in a fire several generations later, and the
small portrait Sir James had commissioned and given to his wife had been lost.
What kind of a man gave his wife pictures of himself? Hard to imagine sensible
Miss Wickman married to such a conceited nitwit.

Jazz tugged out the dirk he kept tucked in his boot and
practiced tossing it at a stick.

He skimmed the CR and found a personal letter written by
Lady Sandton, born Wickman, he’d be sure to add to the general net when he got
back. The “P”, taken from the damaged record of her marriage to Sandton
remained a mystery.

Jazz didn’t remember the letter from his training. No
surprise there. Until he met Eliza, it would have bored him silly. Now he found
the charming letter fascinating. Pages long, it was written to a girlhood
friend who’d been thoughtful enough to preserve it for history.

Thunk
.
The blade grazed the target. While he
read, he absently flipped and picked up the knife a few times. He practiced
aiming with only peripheral vision.

He reread one of the less charming bits of Eliza’s letter.

I have known and admired James since the moment he was
introduced to me by my sister when I was a young girl. You can imagine my joy
when I met him again after such a protracted period of sorrow. I felt I had at
last come home when I agreed to be his bride. Do you recall how Jane once said
that she could never marry a man who did not dance? I thought it a silly
requirement for a life’s mate until I performed the waltz with my new husband.
He dances divinely.

He wandered over to retrieve his dirk—he’d thrown it too far
and missed the dried stick. As he yanked up the knife where it had buried
itself deep in the ground, he wondered what a waltz could be. Sounded obscene.
Maybe it was some kind of euphemism for sex.

He settled back and glanced through the more familiar
letters and notes for what seemed the thousandth time. This time he searched
again for more mention of the second stranger, the one who helped her in Spain.
Only a line or two and never a name, which as he had to remind himself, was
entirely appropriate for a DHUy. He’d do a good job then. Just “a singularly
strange person, ’tho clearly a good man”. That last bit was something, anyway.
No mention of his death or disappearance. Take that, Steele.

Flip.
Thunk.
The stick split in half. He grabbed the
knife and stabbed the stick a few more times, then tossed it away.

He continued his search on the CR, still absently tossing
the dirk, now with no particular target.

No luck. Other than the letter to her grandchild, the CR’s
archives had virtually no primary material about the first stranger, the
“progenitor”.

“You are remarkably good at that.” Miss Wickman’s voice
interrupted his search on the CR.

He squinted up at her.