HerOutlandishStranger (12 page)

Chapter Nine

Their walk slowed as they talked. Eliza loosened her cloak
then took it off. Jazz reached for it.

She rolled it into a bundle and thrust it under her arm.
“No,” she said. “I am not so helpless yet that I cannot carry this. So you have
not told me. What is the first dish you will order when you return to your
country?”

He shrugged. “I do not think about food that much.”

“How can you not? Good food properly prepared is one of
life’s greatest joys. Surely you have favorite dishes?”

“Hungry, eh?”

She laughed. “Why is it you never give straightforward
replies to my questions, Mr. White?”

As they strolled, he barely took note of the shattered
landscape around them. The tumbled-down walls of a ruined farm, the overgrown
orchard, the corpse of a starved farm animal, didn’t draw his attention. They
could have been taking a ramble through a country garden.

With their dirt and their clothes reduced to tatters, Jazz
had supposed they looked inconspicuous, despite his own fair complexion, and so
he no longer made an effort to avoid the other ragged, blank-faced people they
passed on the weary tramp.

He still stayed alert for the agent. But not alert enough.

She sat down on a wall to take out her shoe and retie the
cloth around it. He made the mistake of walking into a field to forage for some
food. As he squatted to dig through the dirt, looking for root vegetables, a
soft footstep behind him made him spring to his feet. But not fast enough. The
arm around his throat belonged to a man almost as well trained as he’d been.

Dark spots appeared in his vision.

“No. Miss Wick—” he managed to gasp before the arm cut off
his breath.

“She’ll be safe,” a voice said, almost kindly. “Of course
she will be.”

Jazz twisted and ducked. The man did not loosen his grip.
Another DHU agent…sent to kill him?

No, Steele, in a good disguise. Again a Spanish farmer.

Jazz fought back, but he restrained his madness. He twisted
and drove an elbow into Steele’s ribs. Not enough to shatter bones, though and
he wanted to crow with glee—no one would die today.

He slammed the man’s ribs again.

“You fight like a Truthie vermin,” Steele snarled. “No need
to worry. I’ll keep her safe.”

Jazz managed to get his hands around the man’s waist but as
he began to administer the dig to the kidneys, Miss Wickman’s voice cried out
in Spanish, “What are you doing?”

He heard a dull thud, a blow on Steele’s head that Jazz felt
vibrate through his own body and the man’s grip on Jazz’s throat loosened at
once.

Steele rolled away. He stood and ran—hiding his face from
her. Jazz wanted to call after him, ask him why he’d done that and when he
could expect another official visit.

She dropped to her knees, still clutching the large rock
she’d hit the man with. She echoed his own thoughts. “Why did he attack you?
What did he want?”

Jazz rubbed at his throat. “Not you, Liza. You’re safe.” He
felt almost delirious with relief. He had only to protect himself from this
enemy. She would be safe.

The whole DHU, out to get him? They would succeed. But he
recalled the Director’s blunt warnings. “Some are revolted that a Truthie is
being sent on a mission. For your own safety we’re making some of the mission
details need-to-know.”

He’d thought the director meant he’d be in danger when he
returned—not here in the past. The director didn’t tell him the blessed
details, so maybe the “need-to-know” was that he would be hunted and killed in
the past to quell public anger.

“Jas, can I help? Are you all right?” Eliza’s urgent
questions pulled him from his rambling thoughts.

He climbed to his feet. “Thanks. All this time I thought I
was supposed to keep you safe, not the other way around. You gave him a good
hit. Sounded like you’d whacked a melon.”

She frowned. “It is not even slightly humorous, Jas. That
man was trying to kill you.”

“Yeah. And thanks to you he didn’t succeed. Did you see his
face?”

She shook her head. “He has brown hair.”

“Probably a wig.” Definitely a wig.

“Oh. So perhaps he does have dark hair?” She at last dropped
the rock and wiped her hands on her skirt. She stared off in the direction the
man had run. “He had the same kind of bearing you do. Is he from your country?”

He nodded and grinned at the thought that an expert agent
hadn’t managed to disguise himself from the natives any better than amateur
Jazz.

His throat hurt from Steele’s grip but he still felt lighter
hearted. Eliza was safe from the assassin. He was too, as long as he stayed
near her. The agent obviously didn’t want Eliza to see his face. Jazz laughed.
Eliza protected her official protector.

She sighed. “You are so odd. A fellow countryman, the only
one you’ve seen, has called you horrible names, tried to kill you and you
laugh. I wish you would explain why he did this.”

Jazz shrugged.

“I don’t believe that you have no suspicions.” She snorted.
“I’m convinced that you are a pestilential knave, Mr. White.”

“No doubt you are correct, Miss Wickman.”

She glared at him, but the corners of her mouth tucked into
a grin. “Idiot.”

“Harpy.”

“You win.” Her shoulders relaxed and her smile glowed.

* * * * *

Relief—and the sheer pleasure of Eliza’s company—made Jazz
too careless yet again that afternoon.

He didn’t notice the five Spanish
guerilleros
strolling in their direction until the two groups could see one another.

Everyone froze.

“Dear God. What shall we do?” Eliza murmured. “Haven’t we
faced enough trouble today?”

Jazz heard the fear in her voice and answered calmly, “If we
take off running or turn away, they’ll be more likely to notice us. Just put
your head down. Here, take my arm and we’ll shuffle past them. We’re so
battered we probably don’t look worth the trouble.”

They shambled slowly past the soldiers, but Eliza’s quiet
exclamation of relief came too soon. One of the soldiers turned and called back
to them in Spanish.

“They want us to identify ourselves, and show them our
papers,” Liza said. “They fight the French, but I wish to heaven they were
regular forces,” she added with a shudder. Jazz nodded his understanding. She
had told him a group of
guerilleros
fighting for the British had raided
their villa for supplies and had killed her friend, the maid Maria.

The five ragged fighters looked scruffy rather than fierce.
Only one wore a uniform, and that had been made for a much taller man. But Jazz
knew they were seasoned combatants and didn’t like the tension he sensed in the
knot of men who waited and watched as he fished Eliza’s reticule from her sack.
He smiled and moved with a cheery air of unconcern, praying his instinct about
the soldiers was wrong. In case his hunch was right, he kept his hand loose and
ready to reach the dirk in his boot, and well away from the pommel of the
sword. No need to draw attention to the ridiculous thing.

He put his other hand on Eliza’s shoulder to comfort her as
she rummaged through her now-shabby beaded reticule for papers.

A young man with dark, angry eyes grabbed at the papers
Eliza held out. Jazz simply shrugged when they spoke to him.

“English,” the man said and spat at the ground near Jazz’s
feet.

“I don’t understand,” Liza said, bewildered. “Our countries
are allies.”

Jazz suspected he knew. These men might have heard how the
British soldiers celebrated their hard-won victory after the siege of
Cuidad
Rodrigo
by pillaging the city. Life could be uncomfortable for foreign
civilians, especially the English.

One of the other men spoke to the young man in a jovial
tone. Even Jazz understood that the older man wanted to get back to eat some
food before that pig Manuel got more than his fair share of venison stew.

The young man with the dangerous eyes seemed to be in charge
of the little group. He didn’t seem to hear his friend’s words. He thrust
Eliza’s papers into his jacket and suddenly reached out and grabbed her wrist.
“My sister was one of the women they took. She’s dead now,” he said, and he
spoke to Jazz. “To hell with Napoleon, to hell with the British. I would drive
all of the foreigners out of our country. I want to teach them a lesson. This
man we met before. He told us the tall blond one was at
Cuidad
.”

The agent trying to get someone else to do his dirty work
for him. Steele again?

A man with thin red lips and a fat mustache spoke. “It is
true this girl is pretty, the large man with her could cause some trouble. I am
sick and tired of trouble.”

The young man barked, “I am not interested in your
troubles.” He looked at Jazz. “She is dead because of you British.”

The man didn’t even glance at Liza as he yanked her toward
him. He wrapped an arm around her, pinning her arms to her sides. The hostile
glare remained fixed on Jazz.

“I’m no British,” Jazz said in his bad Spanish.

He wouldn’t need the dirk. The tension he’d felt had only
come from the one man. No one else was spoiling for a fight, so maybe he could
talk their way out.

“You are not Spanish. You come to our land and kill.”

In countless nightmares Jazz had seen that mask of
bitterness on other faces. His heart dipped when he realized that good sense
had been sapped from the young man. The soldier operated on pure hatred.

Not the knife, he reminded himself.
Nothing more than
necessary.

“We are making our way to a port and will leave as soon as
we can,” Eliza said, breathless from the pressure of the young man’s strong
grip.

“No,
señorita
, you are never leaving.”

Jazz took a step forward but stopped when he saw the steel
at Eliza’s throat. The man held a small blade pressed just below her ear.
Jazz’s heart froze. Did the stupid DHU agent think of this possibility when he
riled the men up? Perhaps Steele lurked nearby and would barge out to rescue Liza.
Or try to.

Jazz gave the man a small apologetic smile. “You must let
her go, my friend. I do not want to hurt you.”

The other Spaniards snickered, whether at his terrible
accent or the bravado of a single man threatening a company of five, he didn’t
care.

“
Payaso
,” one of the other soldiers called. Clown.

He only wished their laughter would defuse the situation,
but the hatred darkening the young man’s face ran too deep.

“I will have her, then cut her throat. That is what they did
to my sister.” His voice rose to an unsteady, high pitch. “You both shall rot
in hell.”

Jazz moved again, impossibly slow, toward Eliza and the man,
as if he approached a wild animal in a trap. He wanted to look at Eliza, to
reassure her, but he couldn’t allow his eyes to leave the young man’s face. He
stopped only when he stood so close he could hear and almost taste the mingled
unsteady breath, anger and fear, of the man and of Eliza. Then, in a flash, the
man’s wrist was caught up and bending backward in Jazz’s large hand. The knife
thudded to the ground.

“Let her go,” Jazz said again, quiet and reasonable. He
hoped.

The four other men came forward, nearly as slowly as he had
done, wanting to defend their comrade, but clearly uninterested in getting
involved in a brawl. One of them muttered that he had lost his taste for
fighting long ago.

“Come on. Curb your temper,” another of them advised. “We
have at least an hour’s walk to camp and I want to get some food. Let them go.”

Only the one man who burned with fury wanted blood. Without
warning, he thrust Eliza hard toward Jazz. Jazz staggered as he caught her by
the shoulder to stop her fall. He swung her around and shoved her behind him
with one smooth movement.

By the time he regained his fighting balance, the young
soldier had produced another, larger knife. The blade glinted as he sprang into
a deadly lunge.

Jazz reached out and caught the man’s face easily and
twisted. Another single motion, as effortlessly performed as a well-rehearsed
dance step.

The snap was sickeningly loud and the angry young man died
before he hit the ground. For a long, horrible moment the four men stared down
at their comrade.

“Broken neck,” one of them said.

“Holy Mother,” another breathed.

Jazz held his empty hands out to them. They cursed him
fluently, but backed away. When they were a safe distance they took off at a
run.

Eliza was about to thank him for saving her when she saw
Jas’ expression. His face was white and his eyes blank with anguish as he
stared down at the corpse’s face. A small dribble of blood ran down his arm.

“You’re hurt!” Eliza cried. She rushed to him and rolled up
his sleeve.

He glanced down at his forearm where the Spaniard’s knife
had nicked him. Eliza had out her handkerchief. She pulled at his arm. “I must
make a bandage, Jas. Let me see your arm.”

“No. Not now.” He took her handkerchief and absently pressed
it to the cut, but his attention was on the figure of the dead man.

“I didn’t have to do that,” he whispered as if he addressed
the man. “I didn’t stop myself. I thought… I hoped. I stopped before, with that
other attack. I thought I could stop myself every time.” His eyes filled with
tears and he turned to look at Eliza as if she had an answer for him.
“They—said—they kept warning me that I’d have the skills. All this time I was
sure they were wrong. I had control with that other man. But… Skills! Oh gah,
what a name.”

He knelt down on the road then leaned over his knees. Within
a minute, the tears flowed down his cheeks. She stooped beside him and put her
arms around his shoulders. She rocked back and forth, hugging him just as he
had done when he’d held her and murmured comforting words.