by Julia London
But then something else caught his eye and made him forget the kilt—the glint of ruby didn’t seem quite as bright as it had last night, and he instantly knew, instantly felt the sick thud of his heart falling into the pit of his stomach. He feverishly unwrapped it, and his heart plunged even deeper, making it difficult to breathe. There was no shiny gold of the beastie; there was the dull gray of…what?
A rock. A bloody fucking rock!
His nakedness forgotten, his body warmed by the rage boiling inside him, Liam angrily threw the plaid aside and stared at the large gray stone. This was impossible, inconceivable! She couldn’t possibly have done it again, but bloody rotten hell, there it was, a big gray rock with a red glass bauble of some sort pasted to it…a bauble from the only necklace he had ever seen her wear. Her mother’s necklace—she had told him so.
Liam let the thing crash to the floor; the red trinket went flying across the room. He stood, hands on hips, staring down at the rock, hopelessly incapable of understanding how this could have happened, how he could have been made such a monumental fool a second time. The rage burned through him, and he took several steps backward, recoiling from the rock and his carelessness, felt the frustration building in him, threatening to explode—
Into laughter?
By God, he’d lost his mind after all, but he was laughing, laughing like a madman as he stumbled toward the bed, shaking his head in bemusement as he donned his buckskin trousers.
Touché, leannan. Aye, but if she thought this war was won, she was sorely mistaken. She might have won the battle, but he had only begun to fight.
Twenty-seven
In a small hotel room in Cambridge, near the university, Ellen peered into the small pouch where she kept her money. It was dreadfully close to empty—the coach fares, the cost of the hotel, all of it draining her meager resources to the point that she had just enough now to buy coach fare to reach a port city. Which meant the beastie had to be sold in Cambridge if she was to have enough to take her and Natalie across the sea to France.
She glanced at Natalie, seated at a small table and drawing on the newspaper a gentleman had given them on the coach ride to Cambridge. She had hardly spoken since their predawn departure; she had not complained about their quiet leaving of Peasedown, but had been rather disappointed that Ellen had no better plan in mind than to go to Cambridge.
“What of Captain Lockhart?” she had asked.
Ellen hadn’t been able to look at her, had pretended to busy herself with their things. “The captain is not coming.”
Natalie remained frostily silent the entire trip.
Ellen could only hope that she’d feel better once they reached France—actually, she could only hope that she’d feel better. It was the only thing she would allow herself to think, for she could not bear to think that Natalie might never be happy, might have fallen too far into the abyss of her little fantasies already. Dear God, what an ugly thought.
She immediately put it out of her mind, because frankly, at present, she had a more urgent matter to attend to—the selling of the beastie. The hotel clerk had been nice enough to point out where she might find a number of shops selling novelty items and antiquities, and she was anxious to get on with it, to see if she might interest a shopkeeper in acquiring the Scottish antique.
“I must go out and see if I might find a spot of supper for us, darling,” she said to Natalie, putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder.
Natalie shrugged it off, continuing to draw.
Ellen repressed a weary sigh. “Do not open the door to anyone, do you understand? Not to anyone.”
“Who should come here?” Natalie asked coldly, grimacing as she raised her head to glance at the tiny surroundings.
“You’ll mind your tongue, young miss,” Ellen said wearily. “It’s the best I can do for you at present, but I intend to remedy that shortly. In the meantime, you will not open that door to anyone. Am I quite understood?”
“Quite,” Natalie muttered, and dipped her head, focusing on her drawing. Ellen picked up her cloak, took one last look at Natalie and the drawing, and noticed that it was the same as all the others—a castle, a tower. And by the time she returned, the figure of a captive princess would have appeared.
With another heavy sigh, Ellen picked up the beastie and left.
She wandered through the market and onto Magdalene Street, but she met with precious little luck. Unfortunately, two shops had closed, and the one shopkeeper she spoke to recoiled at the sight of the beastie. “An unusual piece of art, madam,” he said, his distaste clearly evident. “But I daresay most are looking for something a little less…peacockish.”
“But isn’t there anyone who might want it? After all, it’s made of gold, and the rubies certainly could be removed and used in a stunning piece of jewelry.”
The man laid a finger next to his nose, grimacing at the thing. “I can think of no one.”
A lump of tears burned in her throat.
“Unless…I hardly know what he’s apt to buy, but there is a proprietor, Mr. Charles Stanley, who rather prides himself on unusual pieces. He’s on High Street, just near the university,” he said, smiling, apparently relieved for having thought of it.
Ellen hurried to High Street and the establishment of Stanley and Son.
The shop was small, darkly lit, and cluttered with a shocking variety of knickknacks, antiquities, and ornaments. A musty smell permeated everything and the little shop was so crowded, it was difficult to maneuver about the many tables and shelves. There was only one other customer that Ellen could see—a rather large, portly woman with a bonnet so ornate and so big that it defied logic by managing to skirt the cluttered contents of the shop without touching anything.
Ellen made her way to the back of the shop, where a tall, thin man, wearing shirtsleeves held up by arm garters in addition to his visor, was busily working on what looked like a music box. Ellen stood politely for a moment. But when he didn’t raise his head, she carefully cleared her throat.
“Yes, yes, just give me a moment, will you?” he snapped, finished what he was doing, then looked up and peered at her closely, squinting. “Yes?”
“If you please, sir, I have an item I thought you might be interested in—”
“Not in the market,” he said abruptly, and bent over his music box again.
That was it? Not in the market? He would not even do her the honor of looking at her item? Oh, no, no, no—he was in the market, all right, or she’d climb across the counter and shove the thing down his long skinny throat. “Pardon, sir, but if you would be so kind to indulge me but a moment—”
“Madam.” He looked up and sighed at the ceiling before meeting her gaze. “I am well overstocked, if that is not painfully obvious to you. I’ve no room for your trinkets! I suggest you try Parker—”
“I have been to Parker, and he assures me that my object is so unusual and unique that it could only be of interest to you, sir.”
That gained his attention; he looked at her with all due suspicion over the tops of his spectacles. “He did, did he? Well? What is it, then?”
“A beastie,” she said eagerly, moving to unwrap it.
“A beastie? What nonsense is that?”
“It’s really a rather remarkable story. It comes from Scotland, you see, commissioned by the lover of a doomed adulteress hundreds of years ago. It apparently meant something to the two of them, and he had it caste in gold and rubies. But then her adultery was discovered, and she was sentenced to death, and she gave the statue to her daughter. It has been passed…ah, passed to, um, me…through my, uh…Scottish cousin. However, I find it does not combine well with my decor, but as it is cast in gold, I thought perhaps that I might sell it—”
“In debt, are you?” he sneered, watching her unwrap the beastie. “That’s a woman for you, no appreciation for even a farthing.”
Ellen did not respond to that, just took the last fold of plaid from the beastie.
“Dear God!” the proprietor gasped, taking a small step backward. “What a hideously ugly piece!”
“Indeed it is. But as you can see, it is made of gold, and the eyes, they are rubies—”
“Rather ornate for such an ugly thing, isn’t it? I couldn’t sell that if my life depended on it. No, madam, you may take your hideous little beastie elsewhere.”
“But…but can’t you melt it down? Use the gold for something else?”
“If that is what you want, you should acquaint yourself with a goldsmith. I am not a goldsmith; I am a purveyor of fine goods.” With that, he turned back to his music box.
The conversation apparently over, Ellen gaped at his back, paralyzed by a new wave of fear and indecision. “I think it is quite remarkable.”
The woman’s voice startled her; Ellen whirled about, saw the huge bonnet looking down at her, underneath which was a plump face with a kind smile.
“Lady Battenkirk,” the woman said, inclining her head.
“Miss Farnsworth,” Ellen muttered, her gaze falling to the bright red boa the woman was wearing with her walking gown.
“I’m rather a connoisseur of art, really. I take a keen interest in history, too. I find it all so engaging. Did I hear you say that this wonderful little thing is from Scotland?” she asked as her chubby fingers caressed the beastie.
“Ah…yes. Yes, from Scotland,” Ellen said, trying to take in the celery green gown embroidered with yellow. Her bonnet, however, was black, adorned with blue and purple feathers. That, along with the red boa, made for quite a strange combination. But Lady Battenkirk didn’t seem to notice her perusal, as she was far too interested in the god-awful beastie.
“It’s marvelous,” she said appreciatively. “Oh, I do so wish my friend Amelia was here!” She sighed, then looked at Ellen with a sly smile. “Amelia does not care for travel, says there is really little reason to leave London at all, and she thinks me gone quite round the bend for traipsing off to all the little villages.”
“Oh?”
“She doesn’t understand in the least, does she?” Lady Battenkirk exclaimed, waving a thick hand at her. “As it happens, I’ve been slowly working my way from the very northern tip of England all the way to the southern tip, and I’m determined to take in every little town I might. And do you see my reward? I’m destined to find such treasures as this!”
“This?” Ellen asked, confused, pointing at the beastie.
“Yes, this!” she said again, and clasping her chubby hands together, rested them atop her ample belly. “Did I hear you correctly, then, my dear? You are in the market to sell it?”
“Yes,” Ellen said, far too quickly. “It…it hardly fits with my decor, for I am certain I have nothing quite as spectacular as the art you’ve managed to collect in your travels. But it’s…it’s all gold, and the eyes, they are rubies. The mouth, too. And the tail—”
“I should like to give it to Amelia, I think. I would offer you five hundred pounds cash!” Lady Battenkirk announced with cheerful amplification.
The proprietor looked up, shook his head, muttered under his breath.
“Five hundred?” Ellen said weakly. It was not, obviously, what Liam had thought it would bring. But at that moment it sounded like a veritable fortune and she feared if she didn’t take it, she’d never find a buyer. “All right,” she said weakly, feeling a little ill.
Lady Battenkirk beamed. “How splendid! Wait until Amelia sees what I have brought her from Cambridge! I avow she’ll be all atwitter to accompany me to York next month, then, won’t she? And how fortuitous that I am to London today? I’ll present it to her over supper, I think. Now, what of that lovely plaid?”
“The plaid?”
“Quite nice, that. Beautiful craftsmanship. How much would you like for it?” she asked, fingering Liam’s kilt.
Not Liam’s kilt. Not his kilt. That seemed to be even more egregious than selling the beastie. “But…but that has been cut, and it’s really not so useful—”
“Nonsense! It will make for a divine collar,” she said authoritatively. “I’ll add twenty pounds for it.”
“Done,” Ellen said, and felt the last thread holding her heart aloft snap clean.
Twenty-eight
Liam first went to Peasedown Park on the slim chance she had not yet left. But as he suspected, she was long gone, and Lady Peasedown was quite upset. She assumed, of course, that her friend had suffered some slight and had returned to London. He did not correct her.
Liam reached the public coach station well after the morning coaches had left. The clerk did not recall seeing a woman and a young girl in the morning rush. “Ye’re certain of it, are ye?” Liam asked sternly, his fist on the counter, leaning across so that he could look directly in the man’s eyes.
“Quite certain, sir!” he assured him, leaning back.
Liam pivoted sharply, stalked out of the station and stood on the porch, thinking. There were only three avenues out of King’s Lynn: through Norwich, Peterborough, or Cambridge. Cambridge was south, which, he thought, would be too close to London to suit Ellie the Thief. Peterborough was inland, a crossroad to several different towns, but he thought those towns too industrial for such a delicate flower as Conniving Ellie. There was Norwich, then, which he knew the least about, other than it was in the direction of the sea. If she intended to make a quick escape, that seemed the likeliest destination. Then again, who could possibly guess what was going through the reprobate’s little mind?
Nevertheless, he decided he had to at least take his chances. The fact of the matter was, his fury had subsided somewhat on the long walk out to Peasedown Park, and one thing had become unquestionably certain—he was more determined than ever to get that accursed beastie. But this time, he was doubly determined to retrieve Ellie first, the statue second. This woman, regardless of who she was, or where she belonged (or what she had done, damn her!), was, regrettably, perfect for the likes of him, for he was, fundamentally, a man who relished adventure and excitement, and with Ellie, he could rest assured that there would never be a dull moment. Not a single one. This particular cat-and-mouse game was outrageously exasperating, but his hat was off to her, for she played the game exceedingly well. He loved her. Truly, completely, and deeply. And he’d be damned for all eternity if he made the mistake of letting her go again.
Just one small change in his thinking was in order, apparently. He simply had to stop underestimating her!
Liam booked fare on the next public coach to Norwich, which would not, unfortunately, leave until the following morning. Which led Liam right back to the horrid little inn he had endured these few days, and to more ale than he had a right to buy, given his dwindling resources. But when he was well into his cups, he begged a piece of crude paper from the innkeeper and wrote his mother.
Greetings from bloody rotten England. Spot of trouble previously mentioned now a fat blot, and causes me to curse the fairer sex in all her many froms. forms. How the good Lord above created such an indescribably treacherous creature, I shall undoubtedly still be wondering when they plant me in my grave. Femles Females should not be presented into society unless accompanied by a stern warning for all men, to wit, have a care, sir, for she will lie and cheat and steal your bloody heart while she’s about. And your kilt. Home son. soon. L.
He managed to seal it, gave the innkeeper a half-shilling to post it, then fell into a dead sleep. His dreams, full of trolls and Ellie and Lord Peasedown who, by some troublesome transformation, had become Nigel, woke him shortly before dawn. His head throbbing, his belly roiling, Liam was the first passenger on the coach bound for Norwich.
With five hundred twenty-three pounds in her little pouch and safely put away in the pocket of her traveling gown, Ellen felt like a new person of sorts. The weight of worrying about where their next meal would come from had been lifted from her shoulders…to be replaced by the new, heavier weight of worrying how she might ever live with herself after what she had done. She did not
want to be a thief, would have said three months ago it was entirely impossible for her to be a thief. It was, therefore, appalling to discover how astonishingly easily she had become a thief.
Ellen made the final preparations to leave Cambridge for France while a listless Natalie sat in the window seat staring morosely at the street below. There was nothing to be done for it, so Ellen went through their things. Having no conception of how long their journey might take, she decided that it would be wise to purchase some dry provisions to see them through. They had an hour before the scheduled departure of the public coach that would take them to Ipswich, where they would board the first vessel to take them south, where they would board a second vessel that would take them to France.
A cold north wind was blowing when Ellen stepped outside of the little hotel. No doubt from Scotland, she thought wryly, as she began walking at a brisk pace down the crowded thoroughfare to the small dry goods store she had seen on her earlier excursions. Her head down, her thoughts on Liam, it was a miracle that she heard anything at all, much less something as simple as a laugh, and an even greater miracle that she even recognized it after all these years. Yet somehow the familiar sound of that laugh pierced her thoughts; she jerked her head up, quickly scanned the crowd, and her heart climbed right into her throat and filled it, choking the air from her.
Daniel.
The sight of him was so shockingly unexpected, so incredibly unreal that she hadn’t even realized she had stopped, mid-step, until a man gruffly reprimanded her for it as he was forced to step around to avoid colliding with her. But Ellen scarcely heard him; her mind and heart were spinning in savage turmoil. Her first pathetically deranged thought was that he had come for her. But she quickly realized that in addition to that being absolutely ludicrous, it couldn’t possibly even be true, for how would he have known where to find her? Which meant, then, that this was nothing more than one of those strange little coincidences that rarely happened in a lifetime, something almost too odd to be true.