HerOutlandishStranger by Summer Devon Page B

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