HerOutlandishStranger Page 7

“No. Don’t move.” Mr. White’s brow furrowed. “The storm is getting worse so maybe you can go into the building.”

  The low white-washed building was empty now, but it appeared to have housed many generations of chickens.

  Eliza didn’t move. She watched him walk away and wondered if the return of his brusque manner meant he at last regretted his decision to travel with her and protect her. At that moment she realized that even if she were safe, she desperately did not want Mr. White to leave her. Her life would be imperiled, but more than that it would be entirely empty without his robust but calm presence nearby.

  Relief flooded her when he reappeared. “Mr. White,” she called.

  The tall figure halted. She didn’t know what to say, begging him to stay at her side was out of the question, so she blurted, “Thank you for all that you have done.”

  He looked at her for a long moment and flashed his twisted smile. “You’re extremely welcome.” She could see in the vanishing light that his face was strained but still, she felt reassured.

  When they entered the low shed, the stench left by the chickens made her wrinkle her nose. Mr. White looked positively green. The poor man was extremely sensitive to odors, she’d noticed.

  “You’ll grow more used to it,” she told him. “This was kept by a good farm wife. I have smelled far worse.”

  He gave a low whistle, clearly amazed at the thought. They spread the blanket over the disgusting floor. In silence broken only by the pounding rain, they ate one of the brown squares he carried and drank the last of the water.

  After the meal, she timidly suggested they put one cloak down and share the other. “The space is so small,” she explained, though she knew that was no sort of explanation at all.

  Mr. White didn’t answer for a long time. At last he spoke in a husky voice. “’Kay.”

  “’Kay, I recall, means it will suit you,” she said slowly. “Am I to understand that this fine hostelry pleases you then?” she asked. Mr. White laughed with her at the silly remark and she hoped the strain he felt had dissolved.

  All traces of daylight soon vanished and the wind blasted through the many gaps in the shed. Even with the main opening and the small crude hole in the wall that functioned as a window they could not see their hands before their faces. They lay down, cautiously feeling their way onto the cloak. Mr. White carefully turned so that his back pressed against hers. Eliza could feel his solid warmth and was reassured. He would not abandon her. She turned toward him and rubbed her face gratefully into his broad back. Despite their days and nights together this was as close as she’d ever been to him—other than brief moments when he held out a hand to help her over creeks or when they’d hidden from the soldiers.

  She breathed in a light scent of sweat and dust and his curiously clean essence, which reminded her of sun-baked, fresh-cut lawns. Her nose borrowed deeper in this welcome change from poultry. She heard, then felt, the pattern of his breath grow harsh and irregular. With a sudden rush of understanding she knew he held back desire. She had not had much experience of passion, other than a few ardent kisses and one rather unsavory incident at an inn. But she knew the wave of hunger that seized him now also pulled at her until she was lost in it. Ah good, she felt rather than thought.

  She timidly placed her hand on his hard, muscled shoulder. His back seemed even broader than when he was standing. She smiled into the darkness when she felt his own hand slowly and almost completely enfold hers. But he did not move another muscle after that. In fact she wondered if the strain of holding so still would cause him discomfort for she swore she felt him tremble.

  “Mr. White.” She spoke quietly, so that if he slept she would not disturb him.

  “Yes.” His voice was raw and wide awake.

  “It would be… I do not mind…” She trailed off, appalled at the realization she was about to invite him to make love to her. And even more appalled by the surge of desire that compelled her to do so. The hand holding hers tightened, but he still did not move.

  The gesture was enough. She threw caution to the wind and inched slowly up. Then very lightly she rubbed her mouth against his neck. The skin below his ear was smoother than she’d imagined. His light, curling hair she timidly stroked was soft. A heavy breath shuddered through him, but still he did not move. She pushed herself higher and kissed his high cheekbone, above the line of his beard.

  She explored his jaw with a light touch of lips. As her hand smoothed a lock of his curling hair back, he spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Miss Wickman, I give up. I am probably going to put my foot into it.” He stopped and asked, “Know what that stupid expression means?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Fine. Right.” He took a deep breath that she felt all along her front. “Miss Wickman. You are without a doubt the most attractive woman I have ever met.”

  She opened her mouth to protest at such absurdity but of course he didn’t see her.

  Before she could reply, he went on, “I have to fight myself every moment to keep from grabbing you. I would sell ten years of my life to be able to spend a night with you. The moment I knew we’d be in this shed I’ve thought of something—something like this. And I hoped that simply holding you and kissing you would be enough. I almost convinced myself. But Miss Wickman, it wouldn’t be. I’m too starved for you.”

  She slid down so that she lay behind him again, her face hot as she considered the interesting and alarming things his words did to her insides. She turned to jelly. Her hand still lay on his shoulder and she pressed her forehead against his back.

  His next words stopped the heat gathering inside her as if he’d thrown a bucket of cold water over her.

  “Here is the thing I’ve got to tell you—I cannot marry you. If I could, I would.” His voice filled with a wondering awe. “Isn’t it strange? I haven’t known you long but…” He chuckled softly and she felt the vibration of his voice course through her whole body. “Ha! I don’t even know if you even care about marriage, but I was given to understand that this matters to women, I mean ladies like you. I cannot marry you. Well-bred women do not give themselves to men they cannot marry.”

  He sounded as if he were simply reciting a fact. She felt ashamed however and roundly cursed herself. She had thrown herself at him and lost his respect—and her self-respect as well. Perhaps the longest speech he had ever shared with her and it addressed her shameless behavior, with bits of sweetness thrown in, no doubt to make her feel better.

  She gave a soft whimper and he must have sensed her mortification. “No, no, I don’t care a bit. I mean, I don’t think less of you for, um, I mean I wouldn’t if…” He snorted. “I don’t think I can think or speak clearly with you against me. Hey. No, no! Don’t move. I don’t care if I ever spoke or thought again,” he quickly added, grabbing and holding her wrist as she tried to edge away. The man had a grip like iron and almost at once she stopped trying to wedge herself loose.

  “No, please, don’t be angry with me or with yourself. We’re human.” He sighed. “And I’m too greedy not to say one more thing. If there’s a chance you think that you’d be able to live with yourself if you, er, made love with me, I’d be delighted to oblige. And I would not feel you were a bad woman. I don’t know if you believe me, but in my country there is no stigma attached to two consenting adults doing whatever they please.”

  “Mr. White—”

  He laughed aloud, a large, startling sound. “Hey, woman, at least call me Jazz.”

  An odd name, no doubt an abbreviation. Her cousin had a friend whose given name was Charles and his family called him Chas. “Jas? Yes, I suppose under the circumstances Christian names are appropriate. I am Eliza.”

  In the dark she felt him pull her hand to his face. He pressed his warm lips firmly against the back of her hand and then he turned it over and kissed her palm. The touch of his lips caused her whole body to tingle and her feminine parts to ache. Neither of them breathed for a long few seconds.

 
“Pleased to meet you, Eliza,” he said, his voice a soft growl, and she wondered if she’d ever heard her name said so interestingly. He cleared his throat. “What were you going to say before I interrupted you?”

  “I cannot recall,” she said, truthfully. He rubbed her hand against the smooth skin of his cheek for a moment, then slowly, carefully, replaced it on his hard shoulder.

  “I think I must understand you. But may I…” She hesitated, then timidly went on. “Would you mind if I embraced you? As we are, I mean. I think it would warm us both.”

  “I’m glad you understand me. I wish I did,” he said and then fervently added, “But please, Liza. Embrace whatever you wish.”

  She was not fond of warm jokes, but she could not help laughing, partially in relief. She sensed he had hoped to ease her embarrassment and she was grateful.

  “Mr. White, Jas, since we are speaking our minds, I should tell you that I believe you are one of the most unusual people I’ve ever met. Yet you are certainly the most generous I’ve ever met. I am more glad than you can know that our paths crossed.”

  He did not answer and she wondered if she’d been too forward again.

  She settled against his warm bulk and wrapped herself around as much of him as she could, trying to ignore the persistent thrum of her body where she touched him. Since she was exhausted, the tension melted from her more quickly than she expected. And pressed against the reassuring muscular heat of Jas she slept more soundly than she had since she discovered the ruins of the villa.

  She saw her father and sister were walking in a field that caught fire. She screamed and cried to them, but they ignored her and just smiled and talked to each other. At last she felt the fire burning her and she had to run away without them.

  “Hush, hush, you’re safe.” A voice next to her ear dragged her from the nightmare. Somehow Mr. White had raised her up and into his arms. She lay across his lap as he held her close, cuddling and rocking her. She understood that she had been sobbing in her sleep.

  “My family. My father. M-my sister,” she tried to explain as real sobs, not just the useless dry weeping of bad dreams, shuddered through her. He crooned soft, meaningless words into her hair and she clutched one of the strong arms that reached across her body. She held on to his solid arm and cried until she couldn’t breathe without pain. At last she lay limp and exhausted in his lap.

  After such a long time, he must have thought she slept. He softly placed her on the cloak, this time facing away from him. He pulled her tight against him, and wrapped the cloak around them both. She could feel his heat and arousal against her back, and his ragged breath on her cheek, but he did nothing other than enfold her in his arms and hold her for the rest of the night. Once she thought she felt his fingers stroke her hair but by then she was nearly asleep. Again the tension inside her melted and for a few seconds before sleep overtook her, she thought she was in the arms of the man in her hallucination.

  She was only dimly aware of a chill that bathed her back as he eased himself away from her at last.

  *

  The storm worsened and they spent the next day in the small shed. Eliza knew the chaotic strain his presence created inside her was not going to dissipate, but she was strong enough to ignore the nagging desire to touch him—a desire that occasionally created the most astounding twists and swoops inside her belly and played havoc with her breathing.

  When the sleet and rain slowed, they ventured out into the wind and Jas returned with some torn and dirty cloth and handfuls of straw he found near the shed. He put the least-damp pieces of cloth and straw under the cloak so that they lay on a soft layer. “It is almost cozy in this nest,” Eliza commented as she snuggled under the cloak that lay on top of them.

  “And that is not all,” Jas said, triumphantly. “This is a very superior inn, Miss Wickman.” He held up an orange for her inspection.

  “Oh Jas,” she breathed, impressed. He peeled the orange carefully and fed her the sections. She blushed as she realized she’d lightly scraped her teeth and tongue over his finger as he fed her. She could taste the salt of his skin along with the juice of the orange. At the touch of her mouth, he’d whipped his hand away, almost dropping the rest of the section between his fingers.

  They both pretended nothing had happened, but Eliza felt the artificial hush fall and contain them both for almost a minute. Her heart beat too quickly. “You must eat some of this treat,” she protested, hoping to push past the awkwardness.

  “Nope. Don’t like them much.”

  Eliza wasn’t sure she believed him, but didn’t argue the point. After the high point of the orange feast, she stretched and yawned. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a book. I’d even welcome a collection of edifying tales for the moral enrichment of young women or some other of the dreadfully dusty volumes Aunt Carolyn gave to me every Christmas. Ah! Perhaps I can recite some of the lessons for your edification or entertainment.”

  He nodded. “Please, yeah. I could use some moral enrichment.”

  She told him a few of the more awful stories that detailed the abysmal fates of women who strayed down the path of wickedness. His rumbles of disbelief made her giggle. At his request, she recited some of the rules of proper decorum, until they both were roaring with laughter.

  “Such conventions are formed for a purpose,” she protested when she had caught her breath again. “Many of them. Granted of late it might cross my mind to wonder why the color of gloves to be worn on such-and-such an occasion should be of such vital importance. But many of society’s rules allow life to flow more smoothly.”

  “I have to take your word on that,” he said, still chuckling. “You’re the expert.”

  They sprawled at each edge of their nest, obeying an unspoken agreement not to touch one another, though she felt acutely aware of each breath he took, each tiny shift of his large body. They listened to the sleety rain pounding on the roof.

  She marveled at his ignorance of what seemed to her the basics of polite behavior, as if he were indeed a savage—or at the very least appallingly informal. Again she wondered what his life was like in his unusual country. She pictured a rough settlement in the wilds of the new world. Since he seemed loath to talk about himself in any detail, she knew she must continue to speculate.

  Experience of Mr. White had taught her that he would, on occasion, answer her questions, but volunteer little information.

  She decided to pry for less-private information. “I know you like to read. What sort of writing do you enjoy most, Jas?”

  “Fiction, I suppose,” he said. “At home I don’t have enough time to read as often as I’d like.”

  She sat up and tried to discern his face in the gloom. He lay on his back, his hands behind his head. He looked relaxed but awake. She prodded him with her forefinger. “I also enjoy stories. Since we cannot read, can you tell me a story from your country? A legend, perhaps? Do you have your own heroes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me about one. A hero of whom I have never heard.”

  She lay back down and waited. He was silent for a long while, staring at the low thatched roof above them. She wondered if he was ignoring her question when at last he slowly answered. “I suppose our most legendary hero would be Madame Blanro. We have several stories about her. She is a legend like your King Arthur. Or maybe more like the early gods? Anyway, I first heard of Madame Blanro when I was about thirteen.”

  She thought it an oddly late age to first hear a common fairy tale, and wondered why he picked a female, when she asked about a hero.

  “Madame Blanro,” she prompted him and settled back to enjoy his tale.

  Chapter Six

  Eliza watched Jas sit up and shove impatiently at the straw. He plopped back down on his back with a grunt and braced his hands behind his head. Then, without so much as a “once upon a time”, he launched into the story.

  “Madame Blanro decided to become a-a magician. While she was a student, she met and fell in l
ove with a fellow magician. He was an idealist but he changed somehow, got warped and he joined a group of young radicals called The Way of Truth.

  “Eh, Eliza, you know all about people who want to rule the world. Bonaparte—he’s someone like that. But the most dangerous regime was the one Madame Blanro’s lover formed. The Way of Truth was more than just one man and one country. It had five different leaders in five countries. Madame Blanro’s love, Verren, was one of The Five, the group of leaders.

  “Madame Blanro soon saw what was happening, but was powerless to do anything. She tried to influence Verren. He still adored her, but lived for his dream of ‘Unity Under the Way of Truth’, which was actually the slogan of a religious movement.”

  Eliza interrupted. “I have never heard of a religion that adopted such a phrase.”

  He nodded and said, “Makes sense you don’t know about it. Few people in your country have heard of the religion. Anyway, it is hard to understand, and harder to explain. I guess the basic idea is that the world was created to someday grow to be one unit or one creature, and the people in it are developing into what might be called the world-creature’s brain. The people share information on something called a network. Eventually the network will be the thoughts of the world’s mind and the people and all other life forms, the substance or body.”

  Eliza couldn’t stop herself. She abruptly sat up and demanded, “Is this peculiar story true? Is there actually such a theology?”

  His brow furrowed for a moment then he hesitatingly answered, “Only in my part of the world. A few outlying communities. But it is no longer popular. Remember, this is a very old tale.”

  She still could not keep silent. “Do you hold this belief?”

  To her surprise, Jas shrugged. “I’m not sure what I believe.”

  She nodded. That was something she occasionally felt herself. Her papa had reassured her that even clerics had their doubts.

  She remembered something else her father had said. “Oh now I think I have heard of these queer theories. My father described something he called the ‘God as a clockmaker’ school of thought.”