First Time with a Highlander

by Gwyn Cready

  “I know how those poor men feel,” she said, and Gerard cursed himself for mentioning the loss of fortunes.

  “My point,” he said, “is that if you can tickle that place of desire in your customers, you can sell almost anything and make a lot of money.”

  She gazed at him with the same mixture of curiosity and amusement she always did. “Do you have a lot of money, Gerard?”

  He made a private groan. Nothing thrust an unscalable wall between people like an unsettling difference in wealth. “Buckets of it,” he said sadly.

  She laughed. “Oh, dear, it’s not catching, is it? You make it sound like a disease.”

  He laughed too. “No. I think it is sometimes. I take no pride in it—well, not the part that came from my grandfather’s great-grandfather. I am proud of the work I’ve done.”

  “And it has made you wealthy as well.”

  “It has. Not the sort of wealth my three-times great-grandfather left his descendants. But a much more satisfying wealth, one that’s come from hard work and trusting my instincts and fighting people who put obstacles in my path—and frankly, if the money was only enough to buy me a shack and a campfire, I’d be happy with it.”

  The spire of St. Giles, in view since they’d started out, now pierced the sky directly above them.

  “Was there really a woman in your bed?”

  Gerard nearly missed his step. He wished he didn’t have to answer, but he did. “Yes.”

  “Is that a common occurrence?”

  “More common than it should be.”

  “Is she waiting for you?”

  He rubbed his neck. The sun was hot. “I doubt it. I’d be surprised if she remembered my name. I never asked hers.”

  He deserved the disappointment he saw in her eyes.

  “Who is waiting for you?” she asked.

  “My dad, I guess. My mom died a few years ago. My grandfather’s still alive. My brother, of course, though we hardly speak. It’s not so much a ‘who’ as a ‘what,’ I guess. My work.”

  She shook her head. “We do love our work.”

  “So what can we do to brand your muslin? You said you’d never seen anything quite so delicate. The most important thing about a product is what makes it different from other products like it. ‘Serafina’s muslin is different…’ Why?”

  She considered. “Most muslin is plain and a little rough. This muslin is almost like silk. And the designs! Stripes, dots, swirls. If one didn’t mind walking down the streets half-naked, one would almost be tempted to wear a chemise made of it by itself.”

  Gerard stopped and put a hand over his chest. “Hang on. Let me try to start my heart again.”

  She laughed.

  “What if we made it into the most beautiful chemises women had ever seen?” he said. “What if it made them want to lift their skirts to the sky?”

  “We would certainly make the gentlemen in Edinburgh happy. The trouble is, women have their seamstresses, and seamstresses have their favored fabric merchants. And women do not raise their skirts, at least in public, so it would require a long run of selling the fabric to merchants, who would sell it to the seamstresses, who would make it for their mistresses, who might—might, mind you—mention the fabric to a verra close friend in a verra private setting. Eventually, the muslin might become Edinburgh’s favored fabric, but it might take three seasons or more.” She met Gerard’s eyes sadly. “I don’t have that time.”

  He frowned. “Hm. What I wouldn’t give to be able to post a picture of you half-naked on Twitter—strictly for business’s sake, of course.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but it dinna sound good.” She raised a copper brow. “Of course, if it works, perhaps I can pin a sketch of you to the wall of the castle as well. I’m a deft hand at drawing, ye see, and I know which half of ye’d be naked.”

  His tongue seemed to lose its agency. “I-I…”

  “Is that a wee blush on your cheeks? Och, ye canna be so shy, aye? ’Tis Scotland, after all. Surely you’ve noticed we prefer our men to be unencumbered by breeks whenever possible.”

  “Serafina!” a child’s voice cried. “Serafina!”

  Serafina turned and her face burst into the biggest smile Gerard had ever seen her wear. “Charlie! Peter!”

  The boys, who looked to be six or seven, flew into her legs, nearly knocking her over, and she bundled them to her like long-lost friends.

  “Will you play with us?” the younger of the boys asked. “Do you know Grandmama is getting worse? She’s been to see the surgeon. Did you come to see Mama? She and Father are visiting one of Father’s friends.”

  Serafina got to her knees and hugged the boys tightly. “You have grown so in the last two years. Tell me about your grandma. Is she very sick?”

  “She coughs all the time,” the other boy said. “Father says she will surely die. Will you come to see her? Then you can play army with us.”

  Serafina looked at Gerard. “Mrs. Turnbull was quite dear to me.”

  Turnbull? Edward’s mother? If so, the boys must be Edward’s nephews. He said, “You should go.”

  “Yes, yes, Serafina! You must come!”

  “No, I mustn’t,” she said, holding her ground. “Especially if she is ill.”

  “She’d like to see you,” the younger boy said. “It’d cheer her.”

  Each boy took one of Serafina’s hands, and they began to drag her down Cockburn, the cross street. Gerard ambled behind. Serafina’s laughter, deep and full throated, mixed with the boys’ higher-pitched giggles, made him smile.

  “Is that your husband?” the older boy asked, stealing a concerned look at Gerard. “He’s following us.”

  “Och, no,” she said, winking at Gerard. “I’m going to marry you, Peter, remember?”

  Peter flushed to the tips of his ears.

  “What about me?” demanded Charlie.

  “I will have two husbands, of course. One for my country home and one for my city—”

  Serafina stopped hard and almost jerked the boys off their feet.

  They’d reached the home to which the boys had been leading them, an ornate four-story townhouse with an arched entry over which a balcony decorated in bas-relief leaves and shields stood. An elegantly dressed couple stood before the entry, glaring.

  “Unhand my sons,” the man said.

  Serafina opened her fingers as if she’d been holding burning coals.

  Gerard stepped instantly to her side and replaced one of the boys’ hands with his own.

  “Here,” the man said to the boys, and they walked, shoulders slumped, to their mother’s side.

  “I’m verra sorry,” Serafina said, voice trembling.

  Gerard squeezed her hand.

  The woman ushered the boys inside, and the man stared at Serafina as if she were vermin. Upstairs, a curtain parted, and an elderly woman looked out. She saw Serafina and smiled, but her smile disappeared when her gaze traveled to the boys’ father.

  “Come on,” Gerard whispered, giving Serafina a gentle tug. She turned and Gerard slipped his arm around her waist, holding her tightly as they walked.

  He could feel her anguish, and he knew she was crying.

  “Who are the boys?” he asked when they had safely reached the Royal Mile and were out of sight.

  “They’re Edward’s nephews,” she said, swiping embarrassedly at her eyes. “The man is Edward’s older brother.”

  “Why are they so angry at you? Surely they know Edward’s the one responsible for your breakup.”

  “They’re not angry at me,” she said, “any more than a man would be angry at dirt under his feet. They are offended by me.”

  “Offended? What could you possibly have done to offend them?”

  “I allowed myself to descend from a gentlewoman to a woman no genteel pe
rson would consort with. While Edward and I were courting, I was a person most dear to them, and they to me. But the instant I moved in with him, I was cut off from them forever. ’Twas as if day changed to night, or summer to winter.”

  “They don’t blame their brother?”

  “A man canna be blamed for his urges. ’Tis the woman who must protect her standing. ’Twas stupid of me to have let the boys lead me there, but I thought I might see Edward’s mother one more time, tell her how much her kindness once meant to me. Oh, Gerard, I had thought my heart a stone, but seeing those boys after so long has undone me.”

  He held her, ignoring the stares of passersby.

  “This isna helping my reputation,” she said with a small laugh, but did not let go.

  “Fuck ’em.”

  She laughed again, a warm, delicious laugh that stirred his heart.

  After a long moment, she released him and swiped at her eyes. “You’re a good man.”

  He wanted to tell her she was better off without Edward and his brother in her life. He wanted to tell her that no one in his world would even blink once let alone twice about what she’d done. He wanted to tell her that the boys would love her even if they never saw her again. But none of those things would make her feel better, so he said simply, “I’m honored to know you, Sera.”

  She straightened a bit. “Thank you.”

  They walked quietly toward the docks. Duncan had given Gerard a pistol and shown him how to use it. Nonetheless, Gerard had made Serafina promise they would be cautious. He had no wish to be forced into a confrontation. “Hero” was not his natural state.

  Halfway there, Serafina started. “Look. ’Tis Lord Hiscock’s daughter. She’s going into the tailor shop.”

  Gerard saw the exquisite carriage stopped just beyond the shop and a golden-haired girl of seventeen or so emerging from it.

  Serafina said, “I’ll bet she’s picking up the dress Edward had made for her.”

  “That’s a rather forward gesture for a man who isn’t her fiancé, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a rather forward gesture for a man who is her fiancé. But Elizabeth Hiscock is a headstrong girl—”

  “The worst sort.”

  “—and I’d be willing to bet she’ll let her parents think she ordered it herself.” Serafina elbowed Gerard. “I heard that, by the way.”

  The girl entered the shop.

  “Talk to her,” Serafina said.

  “What?”

  “Talk to her. You are good with women and she’s a flirter. See if you can pry any information out of her regarding her father and the cargo.”

  “Would she know anything about her father’s dealings?”

  “You said your father cheated on your mother. Did he tell you that?”

  “Oh, right. I see your point.”

  “I’ll wait here. It’s in your hands.”

  Gerard smiled grimly. “‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’”

  “Who said that?”

  “You should know him, actually. He’s one of yours.”

  “One of mine? A Scot? An Edinburgher? A sailor?”

  “No. Born in an era you’d know. John Milton.”

  “‘Let not England forget her precedence of teaching nations how to live’?” She gave him a gimlet eye. “That John Milton?”

  “Oops. Not a fan, I see. Forget I mentioned it. I’m off. Mission calling.”

  Life was funny, Gerard thought as he crossed the street and rounded the carriage. He had all the money in the world, and the one time he wanted to use it to impress a woman, he couldn’t touch a penny of it. How happy it would have made him to dash off a check for ten thousand pounds and hand it to Serafina. No such luck. He had the twenty-first century equivalent of fifty bucks in his pocket. He had no fighting skills, no spycraft. He couldn’t captain a ship—hell, he could barely tie a knot to hold a sail in place. In short, he had nothing to offer Serafina that was of the slightest value to her. Oh, he could please her in bed. But even the world’s greatest lover—which Gerard was far from being—became a bore to a woman like Serafina without an equal amount of industry and output. Work made men interesting, after all; sex only made them tolerable. Duncan had the good fortune to know about finance, not to mention being a hell of a fighter. Gerard just wished there was something he could do to help her—

  He straightened.

  Maybe there was.

  He rounded the corner of the carriage and nearly ran into Elizabeth Hiscock. She was pink cheeked with a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. He could smell liquor on her breath—sherry, he thought, and quite a bit of it.

  “Are you going to the tailor?” she asked. “There’s no point. No one answered my knock.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “I was supposed to have one last fitting,” she said. “A gown for my father’s party tomorrow.”

  “Your father’s Lord Hiscock?” he asked.

  “Aye.” She dimpled. “Will you be there? I beg your pardon. I don’t know your name.”

  “Bond. James Bond.”

  “I’m Miss Elizabeth Hiscock.”

  She curtsied, and Gerard bowed.

  “Your father and I may be doing a bit of shipping business together,” he said.

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “My father and his ships. The way he watches the weather and wrings his hands, you’d think he were sailing the goods across the North Sea himself.”

  “He must be relieved when they’re safely in port.”

  “You’d think so. But then there’s the storing and selling and counting and collecting. It amounts to little bother, I suppose, so long as he doesn’t involve me in the details, but just last week he insisted we stop at his newest purchase—a cheerless building in an even more cheerless neighborhood near the castle hill. Shuttered, abandoned—all that was missing were a dozen grimy children playing in front of it. He was supposed to accompany me to the home of the new Lord Beardsley, who has the most enchanting aviary, but I was made to wait in the carriage for nearly an hour.”

  “Nearly an hour? Insupportable.”

  “By the time we got to Beardsley’s, Amanda Cheswick was already there, absolutely pasted to Beardsley’s side, and I was made to walk with the dowager countess.” She made a disgusted noise.

  Elizabeth’s feelings for Edward Turnbull, if she had any, were apparently of a changing and complicated nature.

  Gerard shook his head. “I say nothing against Amanda Cheswick, mind you, but Beardsley has lost the plot if he thinks she is a better choice than I.”

  Elizabeth dimpled. “Thank you, Mr. Bond.”

  “Is the cheerless street Western by any chance?” Gerard asked, making up a name. “I visit a boot maker there and fully expect to find a rain cloud over the neighborhood even when the rest of the city is sunny.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve never heard of a Western Street in Edinburgh. Do you mean West Port?”

  “Er, aye. Of course. Silly of me.”

  “But that’s south of the castle, not north.”

  Gerard was formulating a response that would bring them back on track when she swung back to the shop’s door, evidently diverted by more important issues.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do about my gown,” she said. “I was supposed to be here earlier, but my friends and I were on a picnic on Calton Hill and were having such a lovely time. And I cannot come here tomorrow. My mother and I are to be in the country, visiting an aunt until late in the afternoon. And I must be wearing a new gown at the dinner, or my mother will positively slay me.”

  The laughter of young men emanated from the carriage.

  Gerard leaned closer and asked collegially, “Where did your mother think you were today?”

  It was a guess but evidently a good one. The girl’s eyes widened.


  “Between us, of course,” he added with a smile.

  “At church,” she said, a mixture of embarrassment and rebellious pride on her face, “and the tailor, of course.”

  “Ah. And you’re supposed to be bringing the gown home?”

  “Aye.”

  “Might not the tailor discover he was one short on buttons and have to hold on to the gown until he could find a replacement set in the morning?”

  She grinned. “Aye, he might have at that.”

  There. That won back a little trust.

  “I could deliver it to your home in the morning, first thing?” he said.

  “Could you really?”

  And a bit more.

  “I’d consider it an honor. That would take care of getting it into your hands, but I cannot help you with the fitting.”

  She waved a hand. “Oh, ’twas just some last minute fuss about the bodice—I don’t even know what. The gown looked beautiful the last time I tried it on. I’m sure it will be fine without another fitting. Oh, but you canna let anyone know.”

  “I’ll be very discreet. I’ll leave the parcel with your housekeeper. Just a patron of the tailor making a delivery on his behalf.” Gerard smiled.

  “That would be so very helpful. Thank you, Mr. Bond.”

  Gerard took her hand and kissed it. “’Twould be my pleasure.”

  “And if you talk to my father or my mother at the party—God forbid you talk to my mother—you will not say anything?”

  “Not a single word. You could trust me with your life.” Just not your father’s cargo.

  More laughter floated out of the carriage.

  Gerard gave her a narrow look. “You will be heading back to your home now though, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Give me your word.”

  The green in her eyes turned unexpectedly bright. “I give you my word.”

  Gerard strode to the carriage and opened the door. Two young men with flushed cheeks and barely hidden flasks sat on the brocade-covered benches. He looked at the more startled of the two. “Whose carriage is this?”

  “His, sir.” He gestured to his companion, a boy with an irredeemably smug look on his face.