Highlander Unbound

by Julia London

  “Ah, Mared, how coldly ye speak of our neighbor!” Griffin exclaimed laughingly. “I’d think ye’d be kinder in yer manner, since ye spend so much time traipsing past the man’s house,” he added, absently pushing a bit of grouse around on his plate. “Donna pretend now—ye’ve a soft spot in yer heart for the Douglas.”

  The dark rose of a blush bled into Mared’s fair cheeks; she gaped at her brother. “How dare ye say such a vile thing, Griffin! I’d sooner cut me wrist and bleed to death before I’d find room in my heart for a Douglas!”

  “Ah, come now,” Carson said gruffly through a mouth full of bannock cakes. “The man’s really no’ so bad, is he, then?”

  Appalled, Mared shifted her gaze to her father as Griffin and Liam exchanged a chuckle. “Father, ye donna know what ye say!” she exclaimed, sparing a heated glance at her brothers. “Do ye know what he said to me just today, then?”

  “Aye—that his heart had winged its way to yer window, but ye wouldna let it in,” Griffin said poetically, to which Liam guffawed.

  Mared grasped the edge of the table and stared at her father. “He said if we were of a mind to save our land, we’d join the Douglas lands as one and give over the coos for sheep!”

  That stopped everyone cold. Liam and Griffin leaned forward at the same time, both of them frowning at their little sister. “Ye misunderstood him, then, Mared. He’d no’ say such a thing,” Griffin challenged her.

  “Aye, he did! He said, ‘Mared, will ye deny, then, that the Douglas and Lockhart lands, if they were one, would prosper more than when they are apart?’ I said, ‘Ye must have lost yer mind!’ ”

  “He said what?” Carson bellowed.

  “That we’d all prosper if our lands were together, no’ apart,” she repeated, smiling with smug satisfaction at her brothers.

  No one said anything for a moment, until Griffin opined, “In truth, Father, he has a valid point—”

  “The bloody hell he does!” Carson shouted. “I’ll be damned if a Douglas will possess one rock of Lockhart land!”

  “I should have sliced his arse right off his backside when I had the chance!”

  “Liam!” Aila interrupted.

  “So Douglas wants our land, does he now?” Carson demanded. Mared nodded furiously. “And there’s no’ a blessed thing to be done for it, no’ with the debt we carry,” Carson moaned further.

  “’Tis true, Father, that we’re losing income with the beeves,” Griffin observed.

  “I’ll no’ change the way the Lockharts have prospered for five bloody centuries, Griffin!”

  “There is perhaps another course, mo ghraid,” Aila ventured, drawing everyone’s attention.

  “What?” Carson demanded.

  Aila lowered her wineglass and looked at the four of them. “Bear with me, then,” she said. “Ye’ll think I’ve gone daft. But I’ve been reading a book written by yer father’s father—a family history of sorts. It tells about the tragic death of the first Lady of Lockhart. Ye will remember her, will ye no’, from yer studies?”

  Mared nodded eagerly; Griffin rolled his eyes, and Liam looked at her blankly.

  “Ach, Aila, ye donna believe that Lady’s curse, now, do ye?” Carson groused.

  “No, Carson,” she clucked. “’Tis no’ the curse that interests me. ’Tis the beastie.”

  “The beastie?” Liam scoffed. “Mother, they donna exist—”

  “I know,” she said, politely but firmly cutting him off. “But there did exist a gold statue of a beastie with ruby eyes, mouth, and tail. It was given as a token of esteem to the first Lady of Lockhart by her doomed lover.” That succeeded in gaining everyone’s undivided attention, and Aila proceeded to tell them how the Lady of Lockhart had given the statue to her daughter, how it was stolen by the English Lockharts, then the Scottish Lockharts, and back and forth, again and again, until no one could remember any longer. “The point is,” she concluded, “the beastie has been in England since the Jacobite rebellion. But it belongs to us. And ’tis worth a small fortune.”

  Griffin’s green eyes suddenly lit with understanding. “Mother, God bless ye!” he exclaimed. “Do ye suggest what I think ye suggest, then?”

  Aila smiled.

  “I donna understand,” Mared said, looking to Griffin.

  “If the statue belongs to us, we could sell it. Do ye see, Father? The gold and rubies—there’d be enough to pay our debts!”

  “Aye, I see,” Carson said slowly, shifting his gaze to Aila. “But how is it then, that yer dear mother supposes we get it back? You know what they say about the blasted beastie—’tis English, for it always slips through the fingers of the Scot who possesses him.”

  A fine question. And one for which Aila did not have an answer. “I’ve no’ thought of everything, Carson,” she said with a frown. “But I put no stock in curses and magic. The beastie is in England because the English Lockharts stole it from the Scottish Lockharts, and I rather suppose we must have someone steal it back.”

  “Steal it?” Mared squealed.

  “I’ll fetch it,” Liam said instantly and matter-offactly.

  “Oh, Liam, I didna mean my children,” Aila quickly interjected.

  “Honestly, Mother,” Liam said with an impatient shake of his head. “Ye have a fine idea indeed. And ye canna deny that I am the likely one to go. I am a captain in the army, eh? A captain in the most esteemed military regiment of the crown.”

  When no one seemed to understand his point, Liam groaned. “I’ve been trained for this sort of thing, have I no’? Trained to find things, and should something go wrong, I am best appointed to manage, then.”

  “Aye, aye, indeed ye are,” Mared readily agreed. “I saw him duel today, Mother. ’Tis true—he’s quite good.”

  “I should hope he willna have to duel, Mared,” said Aila.

  “And he’s been to London—a year’s training at the military college,” added Griffin.

  “During which time I acquainted myself with our cousin Nigel Lockhart, irritating bootlick that he is,” Liam gruffly reminded them.

  Aila looked down the table at Carson. His gray-green eyes were gleaming now, and he nodded. “Aye…they are right, love. Our Liam is perfect for it. We need only make a plan.”

  Liam draped one arm across the back of his chair. “I’ve an idea,” he said, and with all confidence, over the black bun cake, he laid out his scenario—he would go to London and befriend Cousin Nigel. “Like taking candy from a bairn,” Liam scoffed. He would present himself as a disenchanted, disowned Scottish Lockhart—“Shouldna be very hard to portray,” quipped Griffin—and relying on the assumption that everyone enjoys a little gossip now and then, particularly the airing of dirty family linens, Liam would use that to ingratiate himself to Nigel and earn an invitation to the Lockhart house in London, where he would find the statue.

  Once he discovered its location, he would simply slip into the house under the cloak of night, retrieve it with all due stealth—“I’ve been commended for me cleverness,” Liam reminded them—and be halfway back to Scotland before the English Lockharts ever knew the blessed thing was gone.

  By the time they had moved into the old great hall, the five Lockharts had argued the plan from every conceivable angle until they were convinced that their plan was not only workable, but really rather brilliant in its simplicity. If their arms had been a bit longer, they might have exhausted themselves with all the pats they gave each other on their backs.

  Two

  London, England

  So sure of his abilities and the importance of his mission—and rather anxious to get onto something more exciting than the bucolic life around Loch Chon while he waited for word of his regiment’s next destination—Liam insisted on leaving by the end of that very week. With his plaid and his dirk carefully packed in his knapsack, along with proper clothing borrowed from his father (and simply taken from Grif), and as much cash as the family could scrape together secreted away in his sporran, Liam kissed
his mother and his sister, clapped Griffin on the back, and shook hands with his father as he set off to retrieve the beastie.

  He arrived, via the post coach, at High Wycombe, just west of London, late on a wet and dreary afternoon, the kind that comes early in autumn to portend a particularly nasty winter. He wrapped his regimental coat around him, adjusted the heavy knapsack on his back, and walked the mile or so from the coach station to the Hotel Marlowe, where he knew there would be various ranks of military men milling about. He was not disappointed. By the end of the evening and after a few too many tankards, Liam had what he wanted—the name of someone in London who might help him find lodging. It was a name that was even known to him—Colonel Alasdair MacDonnell of Glengarry. Liam knew all about the man’s military career, having made it a point to follow as many Scots as he could. But what he didn’t know was that the colonel had helped establish the Highland Society of London, a gentleman’s club of sorts that catered to the old clans of Scotland. Colonel MacDonnell, they said, could be found at the club on St. James Street most afternoons.

  Liam could not possibly have been happier.

  Feeling particularly sprightly the next morning, Liam was the first passenger on the public cab at dawn bound for Piccadilly Circus. But as the cab drew closer to London, the driver managed to squeeze eleven people into the interior (and what seemed like another ten on the bumper seat and running board), which forced Liam up against the stained and threadbare wall of the coach. The crush of humanity included a small lad with big brown eyes who stared at the scar across Liam’s left cheek the entire trip, a man with a crude crate of squawking chickens, and a baby who, having chewed something quite vile, judging by the remnants that covered his wee fingers, had the audacity to pound his chubby little hand on Liam’s knee.

  Unfortunately, Piccadilly Circus was little improvement. Once he was able to extricate himself from the overcrowded cab, Liam was in the middle of a street teeming with people and carriages, carts filled high with goods, various braying animals, and a veritable field of pungent horse manure. Aye, it was all coming back to him now, the many reasons he did not care for London. First, it was full of Englishmen, a lot he had never really warmed to. Second, it stunk to high heaven.

  But that was neither here nor there. Liam withdrew the crude map one of the soldiers had drawn last night, determined the direction of St. James Street, and with head down, the high collar of his coat pulled up around his face, he quietly disappeared into the sea of people and animals.

  He found the club on a small street directly behind St. James, just as the soldier said, and pushed open the heavy door.

  An hour or so later, after a few well-crafted compliments, Liam and the anglicized Colonel MacDonnell were in a room with dark paneling and thickly padded leather chairs arranged in quiet groupings, enjoying a whiskey (for which the man wanted a full half crown), and reminiscing about the war. Rather, MacDonnell was reminiscing, as he liked to talk about himself. In an English accent, which really annoyed Liam.

  “Ah, Waterloo…” He sighed after a time, and looked at something in the distance only he could see. “A bloody bad time, wasn’t it? I despised sending so many men forward.” He shook his head as he studied Liam. “Looks as if you saw your fair share of battle,” he said, motioning to the scar on Liam’s face. “You held a command, did you?”

  No, Liam had not held a command, but had been commanded to the field many times to gain intelligence about the French and then assassinate them. “Aye,” he said simply. “’Tis hard to speak of it,” he said, and hoped to high heaven MacDonnell would drop it. Fortunately, a well-fed man in blue and gold superfine came rushing in at that moment.

  “Ah, what have we here, MacDonnell? A countryman?” the man all but squealed in the exact same English tone as MacDonnell had affected.

  “Lockhart. Served at Waterloo,” MacDonnell said proudly.

  “Captain Lockhart,” Liam reminded him.

  “Lockhart,” the man repeated, and fairly bounced like a ball onto one of the leather seats. “I’m Lovat. Well, then? You’ve brought a plaid, have you? We have fourteen now, not counting your contribution.”

  He looked so terribly eager that Liam reluctantly reached for the knapsack at his feet. He had noticed the various squares of clan tartans on the wall, had hoped he would not be asked. Slowly, he opened the knapsack, pulled out his carefully folded plaid, which he would wear when the time came to complete his mission.

  “Ooh,” Lovat drooled. “It’s the entire tartan, is it?” he asked, reaching for it. But Liam could hardly stomach the thought of these two men touching his plaid and instantly jerked it from Lovat’s reach. Lovat reared back, blinking like a doe. Liam held up a finger to Lovat, silently telling him to wait, then leaned forward, extracted his sgian dubh from the top of his boot, ignoring the wide-eyed look of Lovat as he pressed the tip against the plaid. Gritting his teeth, for this act pained him greatly, Liam dragged the tip of the dagger across the fabric, cutting a small square from one corner, which he handed to Lovat as MacDonnell looked on admiringly.

  “Ah, lovely,” Lovat said. “Fine quality. Your contribution to our quest to preserve clan history is greatly appreciated, Mr. Lockhart.”

  “Captain,” Liam muttered.

  Lovat smiled, folded the square, and tucked it away in his coat pocket. “How long are you in London, then?” he asked amicably.

  “Indefinitely.”

  “Taking up residence, are you? That makes, what, a dozen or more, does it not, MacDonnell?”

  “A dozen?” Liam asked.

  “Displaced Scots.”

  Why a Scot worth his salt would be displaced to London was something Liam could not fathom. He’d rather sail to America than be stuffed inside the bounds of London for all eternity. “Aye, that I am,” he said on a weary sigh, trying very hard to sound displaced. “And ye’d be most kind if ye could direct me to lodging,” he said. “I shouldna like a large place—something very simple would do.”

  “Lodging?” MacDonnell echoed. “Aren’t there Lockharts in London? I’m certain I’ve heard the name. Perhaps you should seek quarters there?”

  “Ah…no,” he said carefully. “The Lockharts of London…well, my father, ye see, has had a bit of a falling-out with Uncle. I think it best if I billet nearby…but I’m no’ a rich man.”

  Lovat and MacDonnell looked at him as if he had just announced he had developed leprosy.

  “Ye understand…sheep,” he said, by way of vague explanation.

  “Aaah,” they both declared in unison, nodding their heads in sympathy.

  “Have ye any knowledge of a room or two for let, then?”

  Lovat’s brow wrinkled as he thought about it, but MacDonnell nodded thoughtfully. “There is one place…but really, I couldn’t recommend it in good conscience.”

  Lovat looked at him questioningly.

  “Farnsworth,” MacDonnell said with a grimace.

  “Egad!” Lovat exclaimed. “I can’t say as I’ve met a tighter Englishman. And he’s rather disagreeable, all in all, don’t you think? Oh, I shouldn’t recommend it, really, Captain. You’d do far better to present yourself to your uncle.”

  “I’m afraid that’s no’ possible. At least no’ at the moment,” Liam said, and sighed in an effort to demonstrate how deep the family feud ran.

  MacDonnell considered him for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose it’s really not so bad as that, if you can stomach Farnsworth. He at least has the suite of rooms to let. And it’s perfectly situated for town, I daresay, just there in Belgravia,” he said, motioning toward the back wall. “Not the fashionable side of the square, but nonetheless…Really, you could do much worse, Captain, although you ought to clear it all up with your uncle.”

  “Yes, milord, that is me primary reason for coming to London,” Liam quickly assured him.

  “But still, Farnsworth is such a dour man,” Lovat complained. “He’s an eccentric old bird. He likes the gaming tables to be sure,
but God forbid he should lay one single farthing of his own considerable funds on the table. He lets the suite and uses that income to feed his dreadful lust.”

  Ah… a pinchpenny with a nasty little habit. One who perhaps could be manipulated should the situation warrant. Liam bit back a smile—it sounded perfect. “Might I have the direction, then?” he asked pleasantly, and reached for the last of his whiskey.

  Three

  Liam found Belgrave Square easily enough, but wasn’t very sure at all which side was fashionable, and as a cold wind had begun to pick up, he hoped that something fashionable would present itself sooner rather than later.

  As he walked across the square, he noticed that a woman approaching him was struggling with her parasol—and as a strong gust suddenly caught it, turning the thing completely inside out, Liam glimpsed her angelic face. She saw him, too, and smiled. Liam instinctively put his head down as he had learned to do because of his battered face, and hastened his step to get around her as quickly as he could. Unfortunately, the wind came up again, snapping her parasol, and she moved directly into his path as she wrestled with it.

  “Oh, dear, I do beg your pardon, sir!” she exclaimed, smiling still, laughter glimmering in her blue eyes. “And it’s not doing me a bit of good in this climate, so I suppose I should put the thing away once and for all.”

  Surprised and pleased that she did not recoil or stare curiously at him, Liam smiled back, tipped his hat, and stepped to his right at the exact same moment she stepped to her left. Her cheeks turned an appealing shade of pink as she laughed again. “I quite beg your pardon, sir! I’m rather out of sorts today, aren’t I?”

  “Shall I?” he inquired, gesturing at the mangled parasol.

  “Would you mind terribly?” she asked, handing it to him. “You’re so kind.”

  He took the thing from her; his fingers brushed the smooth silk of her gloved fingers, which sparked a peculiar warmth beneath his collar. Liam forced the parasol right side out, pleased that he had done so without tearing it, and risked another look at the angel.