Free HerOutlandishStranger by Summer Devon Page A

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