Highlander Undone

by Connie Brockway

  “No-oo-oo!”His voice echoed eerily.

  The boy was almost to his goal. Exultantly, he bent forward, his hand stretched out to snatch the flag up on a dead run. You could see it. Read it. The lad was already tasting the glory of his feat. It was there in his eyes, in the dawning smile on his—

  “NO!”

  The single report of the blast preceded the inconsequential little puff of white blooming from the barrel. A look of startled incredulity bloomed across the piper’s face as the impact tripped him and he cartwheeled forward, crumbling, falling . . . dead.

  “No.”

  And now, for the thousandth time, Jack would crawl to the boy’s side and—

  Abruptly, terrifyingly, the sharp green grass beneath his palm withered. The cerulean sky above him bleached to the palest blue and his knees burned against white-hot sand. With a gasp, he struggled to his feet.

  He was in the desert, far away from the familiar, hated African landscape of moments before.

  “Captain!”

  Before him stood a row of Highland soldiers in full dress regalia, shimmering in the waves of heat rising off the pale, golden sands. He recognized each one of them. They were, all of them, dead.

  “What orders, Captain?” It was the young piper from Majuba Hill.

  “Orders?” Jack echoed numbly.

  “Aye, Captain.” A redheaded corporal swept his hand toward the silent troop. “Lead us. We await only your command.”

  “I . . . I haven’t any orders.”

  “Excuse the presumption, Captain, but ye do, indeed.”

  “What are they?” Jack asked. A thread of despair, as if he knew the answer, began uncoiling deep in his chest.

  “Lead us home, Captain. Take us on the High Road. The path promised us, the ones who die in battle on foreign ground.”

  The word was meaningless, an indecipherable phrase he parroted like an idiot. “What is home?”

  “Here, with us, Captain,” the young piper answered kindly. “Dinna worry, sir. We dinna worry. We know you will do—”

  “Jack?”

  From somewhere behind him, her voice reached out and touched his heart like the tip of a white-hot blade. Somehow he’d pulled Addie into the dream and she was frightened.

  He tried to turn around but the fierce need of these dead soldiers held him rooted, pinned facing forward, forcing him to take this last command. He fought their silent entreaty, fought until he shook, trembling and sweating.

  “Jack?” More than fear in her voice now. She needed him.

  Somehow he managed to pivot toward her voice even though the weight of the dead company’s petition bent his back like an overstrained bow. Their voices called his name as a single distant demand, a cry he could not heed.

  Because he saw her.

  She stood in clear, cool moonlight, her mahogany hair dancing in a crisp, clean wind. A gentle light refracted in her amber eyes.

  “Jack.” She held out her hand. “Come home.”

  And all at once that word had sense and meaning and significance. He only needed to take a few steps across shifting sand and touch her to be there. With her. Eagerly, he stretched out his hand.

  Blood covered it.

  He gasped, staring down at himself. He was naked. All his clothing was stripped from his body. Naked except for the pall of sticky blood that covered him from neck to foot. Whether it was from his own wounds or another’s, he couldn’t tell. He only knew he’d been baptized in the stuff.

  At the same time, the voices calling him had risen in pitch and volume, becoming a howling wind, a hot blast of reproach scouring his naked flesh.

  He heard her gasp and looked up. She was staring at him in horror, recoiling. The breeze that had tossed her hair had become a furnace’s roar, her dark tresses lashing her pale face. The hand once held out in welcome now fended off the very sight of him.

  “No!”

  He squinted into the wind, blinded by the pelting sand. She was being swallowed up by the storm, lost in the roar of the dead company’s fury and need.

  “Addie!” He bolted upright in his bed.

  It was pitch-black. And cold. The soft ticking of the mantel clock mocked the heavy pounding of his heart. His breathing was hoarse, the fine cotton bedsheets sweat-soaked and clinging. He sucked air deep into his lungs and dug his knuckles into his eye sockets.

  Majuba Hill. El Teb. Afghan. For years he’d relived the ambushes, conversed with dead companions, led irreversible charges, and fought against unconquerable foes. The dreams were his nightly companions. Familiar demons.

  But Addie had never been there before.

  Unmindful of the December chill, he got up and paced to the window. There, he braced an arm above his head, leaning his heated forehead against the cold, frosted glass. He stared with unseeing eyes out into the tranquil, star-filled night.

  He knew what had authored the change in his nightmare.

  Paul Sherville had returned from Arabi a wealthy man. And he’d been a friend of Charles Hoodless.

  It was exactly the sort of information he’d begun this deception to acquire.

  He closed his eyes. He had no honor left. He’d taken advantage of his last living relatives to ferret out other people’s secrets—their little failures, addictions, and misfortunes. He used a grieving butler to pry into people’s private lives. He manipulated Gerald Norton, whose only crime was to offer him friendship. Yet, none of these was the worst of his sins.

  He’d known from the beginning the damage Hoodless had done to Addie. But he’d not realized the extent of it. Now he knew better. It didn’t matter.

  He’d considered time and again telling her the truth, but he was in too deep. It was too late. She would despise him for his deception. Even if she could somehow be convinced to let him continue his masquerade, her loathing would expose him. She hated soldiers and that was all he had ever been.

  Yes, what he was doing was monstrous. God! So why was he doing it? He knew that, too. He owed it to the men who had died because of their commanding officer’s greed. It was a debt he could not ignore. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t quit.

  But from here out he had to do so with the least possible harm to Addie. She felt more than casual affection for him. It was there in her beautiful eyes, the spontaneous smile of welcome when they met, the eagerness with which she had responded to his kiss. He had to stop that affection from growing. He had to kill it.

  “Addie.” He wasn’t even aware he’d said her name until it dissolved in the air, leaving the room as silent as though it had never been uttered.

  Sir! Sir?” Wheatcroft panted from behind Jack.

  Jack turned and waited for the older man to reach the landing. Having awoken once again with a feverish need for action, he’d given himself the task of carrying Lady Merritt’s heavy crates of Japanese artifacts down from the fourth-story attic.

  “Yes?”

  “Ah.” Wheatcroft put his hands on his hips and bent forward at the waist, puffing a moment before continuing, “Lady Merritt insists you let the footman do this.”

  “Bloody hell. How did she know what I was doing? Don’t answer. Just tell her I’ve stopped. Tell Her Ladyship I’m lolling beneath a potted palm, sniffing lilies and reading poetry. Tell her any bloody thing she wants to hear. Oh, you needn’t look shocked, Wheatcroft. I think I’ve more than adequately demonstrated my capacity for deceit.”

  Wheatcroft’s expression reflected bewilderment, and Jack’s irritation faded. Wheatcroft was not to blame for this infernal coil.

  “Sir, Lady Merritt asks that you join her in the morning room. She is making a guest list for Mr. Phyfe’s reception.”

  Wearily, Jack ran a hand across his face. It was to his advantage to be in that particular conversation. He had to make sure Sherville attended. “Aye, then,” he murmured. “Tell her I’ll be down directly.” He started to climb the stairs.

  “Ahem.”

  “What is it now, Wheatcroft?”

&
nbsp; “I think you’d best arrange a fitting with Lord Merritt’s tailor as soon as convenient, sir.”

  “What? Have I busted out the seams on these pants, too?” Jack twisted at the waist, looking down at the velvet knee breeches.

  Wheatcroft nodded.

  “I have had just about enough of this accursed masquerade!” Jack erupted. “I’ll be damned if I spend one farthing on another yard of velvet!”

  “If I might be so bold as to make a suggestion?”

  “What?”

  “If you would just refrain from indulging in these daily athletics, you might find it unnecessary to supplement Master Evan’s wardrobe.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. Wheatcroft hurried on. “You have increased in size. Substantially. You no longer look as fashionably wan as you did a few weeks ago.”

  Jack struggled to recover his temper. He closed his eyes. “You’re right,” he finally said. “And now, most especially now, I can’t afford to appear anything other than a posturing fool.”

  “Especially now, sir?”

  “Last week Paul Sherville came close to recognizing me.”

  “Sherville was one of the names Colonel Halvers sent you.”

  “Yes. He was in Egypt at the same time as I. I don’t remember him, though he obviously thought I looked familiar. Thankfully,” he paused and gestured to the overlong, gleaming strands of hair curling on his shirt collar, “what with all this, and being clean-shaven, I believe he thinks himself mistaken.

  “He has all the requisites of our traitor, Wheatcroft. He was in the right places at the right times. He had access to telegrams and strategy sessions and . . . he has returned from his foreign post unaccountably wealthy.”

  “What of the others on the list? Hopper, Neyron, Lobb, and Hoodless?” asked Wheatcroft.

  Jack shook his head. “Lobb acted as secretary to Wolsey. If he were involved, the general would have had to be, too. I wouldn’t believe that for a second.”

  Wheatcroft nodded.

  “Neyron,” Jack went on, “is the Marquis of Stanton’s heir. I doubt he would risk that fortune on something so dangerously acquired and so relatively small. Hopper . . . Hopper could be our man. But his reputation is spotless, both with the enlisted men and his fellow officers.”

  “And Charles?”

  “What of him?”

  “Well, sir,” Wheatcroft said uneasily, “he was a Royal Dragoon. His name reckons prominently amongst the dispatches Colonel Halvers had copied and sent to you. He was in Alexandria—”

  “No,” Jack snapped. “No, Wheatcroft. Hoodless was a captain. He would hardly have the opportunity to misdirect dispatches and alter orders. We are looking for a major, at the least.”

  “If you say so,” Wheatcroft said doubtfully before asking, “What can I do to help you, sir?”

  “Talk to Sherville’s servants. Find out what clubs he belongs to, where he spends his nights, what his vices and weaknesses are.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wheatcroft inclined his head. “Anything else, sir?”

  “No, just inform Lady Merritt that I shall join her in ten minutes. Don’t worry, Wheatcroft. I’ll squeeze into the last pair of Evan’s trousers before I go down. And, Wheatcroft?”

  “Sir?”

  “If you would kindly make the necessary arrangements with Lord Merritt’s tailor? Can’t show up at Ted Phyfe’s fête exposing my smallclothes.” He paused. “I imagine Mrs. Hoodless’s in-laws will be present as well as her immediate family?”

  “Doubtful, sir. The Hoodlesses are rather retiring. Besides, they haven’t the—” He stopped, obviously embarrassed.

  “The what?”

  “The wherewithal necessary to move in society.”

  Jack frowned. “And the Phyfes?”

  Wheatcroft relaxed slightly. “They haven’t the interest.”

  He knew he hadn’t the right to ask, to discuss her, but he could not help himself. “They are eccentric?”

  A wry smile flickered across Wheatcroft’s normally phlegmatic mien. “Extremely.”

  “I see. Thank you, Wheatcroft.”

  Without waiting for dismissal, Wheatcroft retraced his steps down the stairs, leaving Jack standing on the landing. He’d wasted enough time. He had a duty to perform.

  It didn’t matter that he understood exactly what he risked by performing that duty. He risked Addie’s heart.

  What would happen when she discovered she’d been duped again? How long would it take for her faith in men, in herself, in love, to be restored this time? A year? Five years? Never?

  It was well past midnight when Jack left the Merritt townhouse. Wheatcroft, in his nightshirt and cap, held the servants’ back door for him as he slipped wordlessly from the mansion. He made his way down dark back alleys that twined amongst the expensive row houses and headed for the river. A fine mist had risen from the banks, beading moisture on his cape’s shoulders and slicking the cobbled streets.

  The growl of a cat and the staggered clomp of an exhausted hack were the only sounds that followed him down the narrow lane to The Gold Braid, the military club Wheatcroft had discovered Paul Sherville frequented.

  At the doorway, a half crown convinced the bored attendant of Jack’s membership. He shrugged his cloak into the man’s waiting hands and took off his hat, raking back his hair.

  He queried the attendant and followed his directions to the gaming room. His entrance into the crowded, smoke-filled room produced a pause in the conversation. Jack could understand why. Though the black trousers and velvet cutaway jacket with satin lapels he wore had been the least outré of Evan’s clothing, he hardly looked like one of the regulars.

  True to its name, The Gold Braid was popular with military men. A full three-quarters of the men in the room sported double-breasted dress jackets, polished brass buttons, and gold braid appliqué glinting in the gaslight.

  Jack stood out like a crow amongst a flock of cardinals. A few older men, their grizzled muttonchops bristling with indignation at his foppish appearance, sneered openly in his direction. Jack met their gaze directly with a clipped nod. After a few brief seconds of scrutinizing him, most of those assembled turned back to the more interesting proceedings at the gaming tables.

  Hours of smoking cheroots and cigars had built a bluish haze in the room. Empty mugs and glasses stood in wavering lines on tables scattered around the perimeter, a comical testimony to the military rigor of inebriated hands.

  Good, thought Jack, taking note of the piles of coin and bills lying on the gaming tables, empty bottles beside them. It was late enough in the evening so that victory and liquor should have loosened tongues and pockets. If he played this right, he might learn something useful.

  He went to the bar and hitched his boot onto the brass foot rail, setting his hat down and taking a seat. He glanced over at the craggy-featured balding major beside him. The man continued contemplating his nearly empty shot glass.

  Jack motioned for the thin, middle-aged bartender to draw him an ale. After wordlessly complying, the man clomped a heavy glass mug down in front of him. Jack slid a half crown across the sticky countertop. “Keep the change.”

  Lifting the mug to his lips, Jack downed half its contents before turning and casually surveying the crowd.

  “Busy for past midnight,” he said conversationally.

  “It’s when we gets most of our trade. We just gets a-poppin’ after midnight.” The bartender, eager to foster Jack’s unexpected generosity, grinned. “Haven’t seen you here before, Cap.”

  “Cap?” How had he known?

  “Just an expression. We gets so many of the military lads in and the faces change so often, I just picks meself a nice, respectful rank and calls all the blokes by it.” He leaned forward and jerked his head in the direction of a sullen-looking boy with a subaltern’s braid on his uniform. “That’s Lieutenant Holmes to his regiment but in here he’s a captain. No harm done, what?”

  “None at all.”

  “So, Cap, what brings a bloke li
ke you in here?” His gaze lightly raked over Jack’s velvet clothing.

  Jack smiled thinly. “I’m looking for a fellow. We shared a mutual friend. I was told I might find him here.”

  The bartender began wiping up the counter. “Yeah? And who might you be looking for?”

  “Paul Sherville.”

  The swirling motion of the bartender’s rag slowed. “Might want to talk to that lost pup down there then. Fair idolizes Sherville, he does.” His expression became skeptical. “What friend might you and Paul Sherville share?”

  “Charles Hoodless.”

  “Charles Hoodless is dead.” The youngster the bartender had identified as Lieutenant Holmes had twisted round and leaned an elbow against the bar. “It might be interesting to hear how a dead man makes friends.”

  “Now, Mr. Holmes,” murmured the bartender soothingly, obviously worried that the young man would chase off a generous patron.

  “That is Lieutenant Holmes.” The lad turned his attention back to Jack. “Maybe you’re a table-rapper and that’s how you know Charles Hoodless. You look like one.” He snorted with amusement.

  Jack laced his fingers around his mug, studying Holmes. The lad was drunk. His eyes were glassy and unfocused and he held himself too stiffly, in the way of a man just barely maintaining his balance. His tone was the aggressive one of the habitual drunk, overly loud and petulant.

  “Charles Hoodless’s family and mine are from the same county. We were at school together,” he said. “He wrote a letter to me some time back.”

  “Must have been sometime back,” Holmes sneered. “He’s been dead a year.”

  “It was,” Jack said easily. “I have been out of the country studying for nearly that length of time. I am only newly returned to England. Amongst the letters awaiting me was one from Charles. In it he mentioned a Major Paul Sherville. Having just recently learned of poor Charles’s death, I thought Major Sherville and I might lift a glass in his memory.”

  The young man made a scoffing sound. “Can’t see Hoodless chumming about with the likes of you.” There was no mistaking the derisive curl to Holmes’s lip. “He was a soldier, not a—”