Highlander Unbound

by Julia London

  The captain had surprised her on another level, too, after she had recalled their encounter in the park, because he wasn’t like the men Farnsworth usually let the rooms to—the previous tenants had been older and decrepit in many ways, usually up from the country for some reason or another, usually alone. The captain(Ellen smiled at the memory of how his chest had puffed up with the mention of his rank) was much younger, obviously vibrant and ruggedly strong…and a Scot! Another surprise, knowing how intolerant Farnsworth could be of the world at large, particularly people who were not of noble English birth. The captain must have offered cash for the let of the rooms, or else the bloody penny-pinching old hypocrite never would have let a Scot into his home.

  With a perplexed shake of her head, Ellen turned away from the window and walked from the sitting room into a small adjoining dining room. She paused at the door, surveying the room with a frown. Like most rooms in the mansion, this one was marked by Farnsworth’s austerity. Only one painting (a poor rendition of a fox hunt) graced the walls; the sideboard boasted only one service (tarnished silver), and no china or crystal. The table, once polished to a sheen, was dull and scratched. The chairs were in various stages of dis-repair, and the silk-covered seats were worn. Not from a lack of funds; Farnsworth was wealthy. He was just a miserable old miser.

  Had it not been for the crates of quality furnishings and accoutrements she had brought from the country, the rest of the suite Ellen shared with Natalie would be as barren and devoid of character as this house. Their suite was the one bright spot in it, actually. It was done in soft pastel silks and brocades; thick rugs scattered about the floors warmed the austere rooms. With the exception of any notable pieces of art, which Ellen really didn’t miss, they were comfortable. Thank God for small favors, she thought to herself, for that was the only thing about this house or her life that was comfortable.

  Yes, well. No point in spending yet another evening dwelling on futile hopes, sliding deeper into misery with each passing hour. Too much of her life had passed laboring from one day to the next, wishing things were different, wishing she were different. And she had at last reached the point where she hardly remembered or felt anything anymore—the point at which she’d just as soon be drawn and quartered than fall into the abyss again. So Ellen pressed her lips together, walked to the bellpull, and yanked hard, signaling to the bare-bones staff below that she and Natalie were ready for their evening meal.

  Below them, Liam was staring at his evening meal with a mixture of disgust and awe. God only knew what the cook had intended it to be, but the kindest thing Liam could say about it was that it looked and tasted like a batch of gruel gone off. Yet it was something to tide him over until he could leave again under night’s dark cloak to look for his cousin and find something decent to eat. Until then, he was a man who lived by a soldier’s rules. He ate.

  Afterward, while his body attempted to digest the stuff, Liam propped his feet up near the brazier to warm them, and amused himself with thoughts of Natalie’s mother, summoning the image of her as she had stood in his door, angelic. Beautiful. Voluptuous. Breasts as soft and full as…as goose-down pillows (the most luxurious thing he could conjure). That image inevitably led to other, more provocative thoughts; he imagined her somewhere in this very house, perhaps preparing for a bath (as best he could, being terribly ignorant of how a woman actually prepared for a bath, knowing only that Mared took a ridiculous amount of time in the process). Perhaps in her bath. Ah… now there was an image that he could hold on to for quite some time.

  Until it became physically uncomfortable to imagine it any longer without taking matters into his own hands, so to speak.

  At which point, Liam realized he was acting like a green-horned schoolboy, and thought it time to put himself to more productive endeavors. He went to his knapsack and rummaged about until he found one of several pieces of vellum he had carried to London with him, and the pencil his mother had given him. He wrote a terse letter home to inform her that he had arrived safely in London, and that their plans were moving along smoothly. He did not say more than that, because, first, he was not much of a correspondent, and second, if the letter should somehow be confiscated, it would be perceived as nothing more than an innocent epistle home. He wrote:

  Dearest Mother, greetings and salutations from London. The weather is quite wet. The parks are large and green and all proceeds as planned. The buildings are of stone, but they are blackened with the soot of many chimneys. I do not care for the food. Devotedly, L.

  Liam studied the contents for a moment, decided that while it lacked the poetic nature of Griffin’s letters, it was practical, innocuous, and clear. He folded the vellum, used the single candle Farnsworth had allotted him to seal it, and tucked it away until the morrow to post. Having accomplished that small task, Liam walked to the window and peered outside. Night had fallen at last, and he was eager to get on with his task and get out of this ugly town as soon as possible. He crossed to the basin, washed his face, combed his hair with his fingers, and retied his neckcloth. Then, Liam slipped out through the window to the alley, pausing below to look up at the lights above his rooms, wondering if she was up there.

  Seven

  Finding Nigel proved to be easier than finding an elephant in a crowded ballroom.

  Liam had ventured out dressed in a suit of clothing he had borrowed (loosely speaking) from Grif. He wore a coat of dark blue superfine (too tight in the shoulders), dove-gray trousers (too tight in the legs), and a waistcoat so foppishly embroidered that Liam feared someone might actually mistake him for a dandy. But then again, he reluctantly admitted to himself, he did resemble the other gentlemen milling about London (not that he wanted to look limp-wristed and fastidiously groomed). The only detracting feature was his hair, which was swept back and long, to his shoulders. That was because he did not have (nor would he ever have) the proper utensils to coif his hair, thank you, God. But it was not so distracting that he could not pass for a gentleman of means.

  He strolled along St. James and Pall Mall, and the gentlemen’s clubs catering to a privileged clientele there, paying careful attention to his gait (slowing it down) and mimicking the English walking style—leaden and indolent. While it took a bit of going about and in and out of several clubs, Liam finally found him, and truthfully, he couldn’t have missed Nigel if he had tried—his cousin had certainly wintered well these last several years. The buttons of his waistcoat were under such a strain that Liam feared, should one work its way loose, that it might put someone’s eye out.

  As he settled in with a Scotch whiskey, neat, Liam smiled. His plan was working beautifully. All he had to do now was put himself in Nigel’s path. Then Nigel would see him, believe he had stumbled on his Scottish cousin quite by accident, and inquire as to what he was doing in London. The rest would be child’s play. Unfortunately, Liam was soon to discover, getting Nigel to recognize anyone was a damn sight harder than finding the old goat, because jolly old Nigel had fallen so far into his bloody cups.

  In the first club, Liam positioned himself just at the door so that when his cousin left, he could not help but notice Liam standing there. Indeed, no one else could help but notice—he was the subject of several curious glances as he waited.

  Unfortunately, Nigel didn’t notice Liam there, and in fact, brushed past him so carelessly that Liam was pushed into the wall.

  A bit nonplussed by that, Liam had gathered his wits and followed Nigel and his companions to the next club, where they immediately sat down and engaged in a round of cards. Biding his time once again, Liam had a whiskey. Then two. Then a third, rolling his eyes in exasperation as he listened to his cousin’s wheezing laughter at every bawdy joke his companions told.

  When at last Nigel and his companions decided to quit the establishment, Liam once again positioned himself where Nigel might see him. His cousin came lumbering toward the door directly behind his two companions, and this time actually peered at Liam with watery, bloodshot eyes
. But there was no flash of recognition, no hint of anything in residence behind those eyes, and Nigel continued on, lurching for the door.

  Blast it! Sighing impatiently, Liam leaned against the door and watched as his cousin fell out the door (his complete spill stopped only by the bodies of his companions), righted himself, slapped one poor chap on the back, and lunged for his carriage.

  As he watched the carriage (listing to one side) pull away, Liam could clearly see meeting his sot of a cousin would require a different strategy. With a shake of his head, Liam headed for his rooms on Belgrave Square.

  At noon the next day, Liam was starving, having opted, in spite of his military training, to forgo the dark, foul-smelling shape on his morning plate. Absolutely infuriated by the lack of food in spite of the ridiculous rent he had paid Farnsworth, and literally starving for something good to eat, Liam decided that if he was going to survive his London mission and have enough funds to return home, he was going to have to take matters into his own hands.

  With a pistol in one pocket, his sgian dubh in his stocking, and a pillow covering attached to his belt, Liam set out, striding purposefully across town, past rows and rows of ornate town homes and into the lush green paths of Hyde Park. He walked past trees and benches and play areas where children frolicked. He joined the English on the main promenade, hardly noticing their curious looks in his direction as he strode, arms swinging, eyes straight ahead, his stomach roaring with hunger. He kept walking until he came upon a little pond he had discovered several days earlier, and a smile broke his stoic face. There they were, the four geese he had seen previously swimming languidly across the pond. Breakfast.

  Oblivious to anything else around him, Liam slipped his pistol from his belt, waited until the geese neared the edge of the pond. Sighting the healthiest of the four, he fired. The three surviving geese immediately set off in a racket of flapping wings and honking beaks as he ran down to the pond, splashing headlong into the water before the dead goose could sink or float away. He caught it up by the neck, was inordinately pleased to see that he had managed to shoot the thing so that most of the meat was still intact. Aye, she’d make a delectable meal!

  Liam turned, sloshing his way back to the edge of the pond.

  Only then did he notice that several people had come running at the sound of gunshot, and now stood, gaping, as he bent down on the pond’s edge and quickly began to pluck the feathers. Let them gawk. Bloody English had never gone hungry, was that it?

  “I beg your pardon, sir! What do you think you are doing?”

  Liam glanced up at the sound of the effeminate male voice, his gaze landing on a thin little man who peered at him through wire-rimmed spectacles. Behind him stood a woman gripping a parasol as if she intended to use it on him.

  “You can’t just go about killing the geese!” the man insisted.

  Liam looked around. “I didna see a posting forbidding it.”

  The man lifted his chin. “Clearly, sir, this is not a hunting park, nor has it been for more than one hundred years! I daresay there’s no posting, but I should think common sense and decency would dictate your behavior!”

  “A desire for decent food dictates me behavior, sir. How can ye expect a man to live on the rubbish ye English call food?”

  The man gasped his outrage; he looked at his companion, then at Liam again. “You are poaching sir! You leave me no choice but to summon the authorities!”

  Bloody hell. He’d not be able to clean his goose without an audience, apparently. Exasperated, Liam muttered a little Scottish saying about the English under his breath, shoved the half-plucked, oozing goose into his pillow casing and stood.

  The Englishman took two quick steps back as he peered up at Liam.

  “I’ll take me goose elsewhere, then, if it bothers ye so,” he said gruffly, and slinging the bag over his shoulder, disappeared up the path, leaving an errant feather to drift between him and the gawking onlookers.

  Liam marched back to Belgravia, but not without a small detour to the markets, where he purchased a head of cabbage for a half-pence. With the cabbage in one hand, the goose dangling over his shoulder, and his mouth watering with the thought of cooked bird, Liam strode through town, taking the most direct route to the Farnsworth house, directly across the middle of Belgrave Square. His stride was long and urgent, so urgent, in fact, that he almost walked right over little Natalie when she suddenly darted from behind a hedge, her bright red cape streaming behind her.

  “Good afternoon, Captain!” she called brightly, skipping toward him. Her hair, he noticed, lit by the early afternoon sun as it was, looked as silken as her mother’s. “Where are you going?”

  Aaah, bloody rotten hell, then! Liam stopped. Closed his eyes. Sighed heavenward. God intended for him to starve, apparently—he felt near to death he was so famished, and the last thing he wanted was a conversation with a child. This child in particular. He lowered his head. “My destination is hardly yer concern, is it, lass?” He attempted to step around her, but Natalie moved, too, blocking his path.

  “Do you know where I am going? To the milliner.”

  Liam had no idea what a milliner was, and furthermore, he hardly cared. His stomach was roiling, and he still had to dress the damn bird, no thanks to that spit of an Englishman and his tender feelings. “Splendid,” he drawled. “Now if ye’d move out of me way—”

  “I am going to be fitted for a new hat…for the Christmas pageant in Laria,” she said, walking in a tight little circle before him, round and round, “and I will be one of the actors.”

  “Bloody grand, that is,” he said to the little dervish. “But if ye please, suithad!”

  Natalie paused in her circling to squint up at him. “What does that mean?”

  “It means ‘Go now and be off with ye!’ ” he said, gesturing impatiently for her to run along, and as he did so, he noticed two girls on the path walking toward them, a woman trailing lazily behind. They looked to be about the same age as Natalie. “Ah, there now, some children to play with ye,” he said, and pointed at the girls.

  But as Natalie followed his gaze up the walkway, she instantly stepped back, so that she was standing directly in front of Liam. “I…I don’t know them,” she mumbled.

  The child was missing the point. His patience now gone the way of his stomach, Liam clamped a hand firmly on her shoulder. “All right then, ye little bugger, run on, then! I’ve a goose and a cabbage and I’m near to starving, I am!”

  But Natalie didn’t seem to hear him; annoyed, Liam groaned and looked up at the girls walking toward them…but he noticed that they were walking slowly, their hands shielding their mouths as they shared their whispers, their eyes full of laughter. It took him a moment to understand that whatever the whispering, they were laughing at Natalie. And if he had any doubt, Natalie pressed up against him, and her little hand reached up to touch his on her shoulder.

  Confused, Liam looked at the girls again. They were walking and giggling in a way that seemed derisive, and worse, the woman walking behind seemed oblivious to them, examining rosebushes along the path as she was. Why anyone would laugh at a lass as bonny as Natalie, Liam could not begin to imagine, and surprisingly, it angered him. He instantly felt the indignation he had felt as a child when children would taunt Mared about that ridiculous curse. All right, then, he’d just ask the children why they were laughing, have a little chat. But as they neared, Natalie suddenly bolted, disappearing into a gap in the hedge, and the two girls burst into gleeful laughter.

  Liam looked at the hedge, then the two girls, who had scurried on. He could not begin to interpret the children’s actions, but he did understand one thing quite clearly—they had upset Natalie, and without thinking, he walked through the hedge after her.

  Only he was larger than the gap, and it took him a moment to push through the hedge and out the other side. He just saw Natalie’s red cape disappear around another hedge. Damn it all to hell, then. Liam strode after her, rounding the sam
e bend as she had, but instantly and awkwardly drew up at the sight of Natalie’s mother sitting on a bench, quietly reading. Natalie ran and slipped in beside her mother, then laid her head on her shoulder.

  Liam froze where he stood, paralyzed by the sight of that bonny woman again, and suddenly filled with indecision. He looked down at the cabbage he held and immediately decided to turn and retreat the way that he had come with all due haste before she—

  “Captain?”

  Damn. With a wince, he looked up; her blue eyes instantly arrested him on the spot. Run! his mind screamed, but Liam stood like a deaf-mute, staring doltishly at her fair face. He shoved the cabbage under his arm, looked right, then left, but saw there was no easy, polite method of escape. His palms were sweating now, and he adjusted the bag on his shoulder, shifted the cabbage again.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she said.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Liam swallowed and growled, “Good day.”

  She smiled that bloody gorgeous smile of hers that made him feel warm and golden again, put the book aside, and stood, leaving Natalie to sit staring morosely into space. “I see Natalie found you again. I thank you for seeing her safely back to me. I confess she quite got away—I was rather absorbed in my book.”

  Liam put his free hand on his waist. Then dropped it. Then took the cabbage from beneath his arm and held it. “Ah. I…see,” he said with a slight nod. I see? What sort of ridiculous response was that? He cleared his throat and looked toward the hedge again. Think! Think, think…

  “Do you walk in our little park often?” she asked, and Liam jerked his gaze to her again.

  “Ah…no. ’Tis the path to town. For me, that is. I mean, considering where it is I go.” Ach, ye imbecile! Shut yer gullet, then!