HerOutlandishStranger Page 6

  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.

  “The knife. You throw it very well.”

  “Thanks,” he grunted. He wiped the blade carefully with his shirtsleeve and thrust it back into its scabbard.

  He picked up his sack and started to stuff their supplies into it. He frowned at the food she hadn’t consumed.

  “You ought to eat the rest of this carrot, Miss Wickman.”

  She made a face at it. “Oh, it tastes of earth.”

  He poured a little water over it, hoping it would look more appealing if it were wet.

  “That might help.”

  She thanked him then eyed the vegetable. He wondered if she would stealthily toss it away as they walked.

  “I’ll find something better to eat, I promise,” he told her.

  She gave him a stricken look. “I am not complaining, sir.” She nibbled on the carrot and showed him a smile. “See? Delicious.”

  Jazz nodded and turned away. Perhaps this new distaste for carrots was the first symptom of her pregnancy.

  She’d figure that out soon enough. What he would do if she somehow figured out he was the man in the cave? He had to lie, convincingly, or she would never allow him in her presence again. Whatever else happened, he had to protect her and the baby, even if it meant outright villainy. Or rather, more villainy.

  The guilt, which never went away, now made his face burn.

  He reminded himself he had days to figure out a story, perhaps even weeks, until at last she discovered the truth about the uninvited life growing in her body. His personal contribution to her misery.

  Gah, he wished he could go home sooner. Or since he knew he had to stay longer, he wished he liked her a little less.

  *

  Long before sunset the wind turned colder and smelled like snow. The mud began to curdle into ice. It did not bode well for a comfortable or even safe sleep. The last wrath of winter poured down on them and they slogged along with their heads ducked to avoid wind and occasional outbursts of rain. Miss Wickman’s steps dragged and Jazz saw the blanket he’d wrapped around her shoulders had slid partway off her body. He walked back to her and hauled up the blanket and pulled it tight
around her again. He shouted to be heard over the storm, “We’ll find shelter in a village. Should be one soon.”

  She smiled and nodded.

  The DHU experts had convinced him that the upper-class women of the time were delicate, cosseted creatures. Miss Wickman demonstrated that the Department’s so-called experts of the age didn’t know what friggin’ gas they talked. Except for her voice, which matched the descriptions of a well-bred female he’d been shown, she was hardier than many women he knew back home.

  When they’d started out, he had thought she was demented, jabbering on about weather and the landscape so soon after the father she loved had likely been killed. Now he understood she had a desire to hide pain. He could read her better now, and knew she felt sorrow, but tried to repress it. With no chemicals, she had to hold back misery on her own. She did a fine job of it.

  “Come on,” he said. She looked up in surprise as he grasped her hand. Without a word, he tucked her gloved hand into his pocket so he could pull her up the hill while he kept their fingers as warm as possible. He resisted the urge to wrap his other arm around her to help her along. No need to do any more touching than necessary.

  She stared over his shoulder, her cheeks reddened by wind and her lashes covered with flecks of snow, but she did not duck away from the storm. Her mouth opened and closed. For a bleak moment he wondered if she suffered from some exhaustion and was about to faint.

  Suddenly her lips curved into a broad smile and she pointed. “Look.”

  He turned and saw a dark silhouette of a building. It was an abandoned shed next to the open ruins of a farmhouse.

  “Good work,” he yelled.

  “I’ll go.” He started to stride away.

  Eliza gave a small yelp. “Oh, must you?”

  He paused but only for a second. “I’ll take a look around to make sure we’re alone.”

  Eliza stepped toward him. “May I help? Shall I look for supplies?”