Highlander Unbound

by Julia London

  How she managed to make it back to Belgrave Square without collapsing under the weight of that knowledge was nothing short of a miracle, really. Her sudden melancholy was made worse by Natalie’s disappointment at having to give up the promise of fishing, even though Liam tried to persuade her that they would go another time.

  Fortunately, he did not argue with Ellen’s desire to go home. But he kept looking at her as if he expected her to do something. What she wanted to do was tell him that her sister was one of the most high-handed, superior, mealymouthed ladies that paraded about in a ridiculous bonnet, and Eva’s, as she recalled, had been quite preposterous, really, what with all the feathers and silly little flowers stuck everywhere. But to conduct herself as if Ellen had committed a capital offense, when all she had done was enjoy a little sport? And exactly who had appointed Eva her conscience? No, she wasn’t going to be cowed by her sister’s high-handed ways. She had tasted life again, and she wasn’t willing to give it up, not for Eva, not for anyone. She had done nothing wrong. Nothing.

  Dear Liam, but there was nothing he could say to bring a smile to her face. When they reached Belgrave Square, he reluctantly retired to his rooms to ready for the Lockhart ball that evening.

  “Good luck,” Ellen wished him, but in truth she was too angry and resentful of Eva to think. Yet she wasn’t so angry that she didn’t notice the look of bewilderment on Liam’s face as she and Natalie climbed the stairs.

  And indeed, had he the luxury of time, Liam would have followed her and persevered until he understood what had happened at Vauxhall. But at the moment, unfortunately, he had a more important matter to attend to—specifically, a bloody-arsed ball.

  His preparation—without Ellie’s help but with Follifoot’s bumbling hands—was excruciating. But when he at last departed for the event—with a wee approving smile from Follifoot—he was anxious to have it over and done as quickly as possible.

  So anxious was he that he gave into the appeal of the faster hack chaise, cringing a bit when he gave up the crown.

  He arrived at the Lockhart mansion, his tattered invitation in his pocket, and handed the invitation to the penguin manning the front door as he had seen others do, then waited patiently to be given leave to enter. He did not, therefore, see Nigel wobbling forward on his right until the man nearly toppled right into him. “Cousin Liam!” he shouted happily, and clapped him hard on the shoulder. Diah, Nigel was already so far into his cups that they’d likely have to send a man in to extract him. “You must come, you must come and meet my sister, Baaaahbara,” he drawled.

  Oh, aye, he could scarcely wait to meet yet another overly privileged Lockhart, and sensing as much, Nigel clamped a possessive hand on his arm and began to drag him through the throng of guests, of which there had to be three hundred, if not more. They were so tightly packed into the Lockhart mansion that Liam could envision the entire house expanding and contracting with their collective breath.

  The women, at least, brightened the surroundings considerably. They were dressed in varying shades of white and cream and gold, their bodices and hems intricately embroidered, and for many, a wisp of the sheerest silk covered their bosoms. Pearls, feathers, and sparkling little fluffery and ribbons adorned their hair, which was, almost to a woman, dressed in little ringlets about their heads. Delicate little slippers covered their small feet (this, he noticed, after the unfortunate incident of stepping on one as Nigel dragged him through), and he instantly feared dancing with any woman wearing those shoes, for he was quite certain he’d destroy them.

  The men were dressed as he was—long tails, white waistcoats, and neckcloths trimmed so tightly that more than one looked as if his head might very well burst right off his shoulders. Nonetheless, Liam was exceedingly glad Ellie had insisted he take these old clothes, even if they were unbearably tight. At least he looked as if he belonged.

  After bumping into not one, but two, doors, Nigel at last navigated his way into a room Liam had seen before. The furniture had been pushed up against the walls, and the room filled with long tables at which several people sat, eating what looked to be cake, sipping a reddish-brown-looking drink, and all laughing quite gaily.

  “Would ye like a bit of prog before the whiskey?” Nigel asked Liam. Having no idea what prog meant, but having dwelled long enough at Farnsworth’s to fear any English cook, Liam quickly shook his head. Nigel shrugged indifferently. “Just as well, really. Leaves little room for the good stuff, eh?” he asked with a wink, and nudged Liam none too gently in the ribs. “Come on, then, let’s have a look for my sister. She’s quite keen to meet you,” he said, lurching forward.

  They waded through the crowd; Liam was at least a head taller than most, so that he could see quite clearly as Nigel pushed and shoved toward the opposite end of the room, which was why, then, he was able to see Barbara Lockhart long before Nigel spotted her. And there was no question which of the ladies was his cousin Barbara—the poor lass had the exceedingly dreadful misfortune of resembling her brother exactly, down to the measurement of her waistline and the bulbous nose.

  “Babs! Babs, darling!” Nigel called over the din.

  Barbara instantly turned toward the sound of his voice and grinned broadly.

  Nigel, panting from the exertion of having parted the crowd, reached into his pocket and withdrew a kerchief that he dabbed across his forehead. “I’ve the distinct pleasure of introducing you to our long-lost Scottish cousin, Liam,” he wheezed.

  Cousin Barbara instantly dipped (to the extent she could do so) into a curtsy, and extended her gloved hand, over which was one very large glittering ring. Swallowing back a tedious sigh, Liam took the hand, bent over it with as much flourish as he could muster without making himself ill. “Cousin Barbara, ’tis a pleasure indeed to make yer acquaintance.”

  Cousin Barbara managed to lift herself from her curtsy and flutter her lashes. “Ooooh, Cousin Liam!” she exclaimed, and as he let go of her hand, she instantly snapped open her fan and began to wave it at her face with quite a fervor. “What a pleasure to at last make your acquaintance! My brother’s good opinion of you is well known in spite of all that nasty family business, and truly, he’s not done you justice.”

  “Has he no’?”

  She giggled, slanting her gaze at Nigel. “Oh Nigel, you poor dear, I am certain you are quite parched, aren’t you? Run along, then, for I’d be delighted to show our cousin Liam about,” she said, and before Liam could move, she had slipped her pudgy hand into the crook of his arm. “Nigel’s told me all,” she whispered, looking surreptitiously over her shoulder to see if anyone eavesdropped. “Horrid people, your family. But I daresay he was quite inaccurate about you.”

  “Pardon?”

  Cousin Barbara slapped Liam’s arm with her fan so hard that it actually stung. “Silly boy! You’re much more handsome than he described to me!”

  How alarming, but he could actually feel himself color.

  Cousin Barbara laughed. “Oooh, and you’re a shy one!” she squealed, and Liam wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

  But, alas, Cousin Barbara fancied herself his irrefutable escort, and dragged him from one room to the next, making his introduction to various ladies. Most of their lovely faces went by in a blur, most of them looking appalled by his scar, save one very pretty auburn-haired woman with thickly lashed golden brown eyes. Wearing an astounding red gown, Miss Addison was the only one who seemed, all and all, rather perturbed by Barbara’s machinations. “Really, Miss Lockhart, your cousin looks positively exhausted what with all the introductions you insist on making,” she said matter-of-factly as she openly eyed Liam.

  Cousin Barbara swelled up, just like a peacock. “Thank you for your kind concern, Miss Addison,” she seethed, “but I assure you, my cousin is quite atwitter with all the acquaintances he’s had the good fortune to make this evening.”

  Atwitter? He had never, not once in his life, been atwitter about a bloody thing. And he had never wanted
to strangle a woman until this very moment.

  To make matters worse, Miss Addison had the audacity to smirk at his discomfort. “I commend you, Captain Lockhart. You’ve a rather grand way of looking all atwitter,”

  “Do I, then? I didna mean to.”

  “Why, how very exotic of you. A Scot,” she observed, before slinking off to join another group of women. It was time, Liam realized with some consternation, to extract himself from his cousin’s attention before he became the laughingstock of the entire ball, and he was just about to do so when the first strains of string music drifted into the room.

  “Oh, how very splendid!” Cousin Barbara trilled. “I shall have the pleasure of the first dance with my dear cousin Liam,” she exclaimed loudly for all to hear, and immediately began pulling him in the direction of the ballroom.

  This ball, it seemed, was destined to be the venue for the complete personal humiliation of Liam Carson Lockhart.

  Or so he thought. But as it turned out, he quite unexpectedly impressed the hell out of himself.

  The first dance was a quadrille, which he despised with all his heart, and was certain would end with him on his arse in the middle of that beeswax-polished dance floor beneath dozens of shimmering candles suspended above them, which would cast light on hundreds of bobbing English heads tittering all about him. If that happened, he’d simply have to draw his pistol and kill the lot of them, and he really didn’t relish the thought of that.

  But miraculously, as he bowed in front of Barbara, his feet began to move, and before he even knew what was happening, he was turning and dipping and passing behind the ladies like a bloody rooster. Even more astounding, Cousin Barbara begged to be led to a chair at the conclusion of the lengthy dance, exclaiming loudly about the heat and her poor aching feet. Liam was more than happy to plant her there, and even went so far as to fetch her some punch with the hope she might even put down roots. And when he was certain she would not grab him by the tails, he begged his leave and managed to escape…but ran smack into Miss Addison, who eyed him suspiciously as he attempted to pass.

  “No doubt you meant to inquire if my dance card was full,” she said pointedly.

  Liam couldn’t help himself; he sighed. It wasn’t as if there weren’t two dozen roosters all lined up along the dance floor, was it? Why him? “So ye want to stand up, do ye?” he asked.

  That less-than-enthusiastic invitation caused her to raise an imperious brow, but she nonetheless held out her gloved hand and drawled, “Yes. I do.”

  He escorted her onto the dance floor, winced when a minuet was begun. He managed to guide her through the first movements—no easy feat, that, as Miss Addison watched him carefully—which meant that Liam watched her carefully as he attempted to discern what she was about. That in turn meant that he had less opportunity to think of his damned feet, and made more than one clumsy mistake.

  “You don’t dance much, do you, sir?” she purred as they dipped.

  “No,” he said, putting his hand on her back and forcing her to turn.

  “I’m always rather suspicious of men who don’t dance,” she said, as she gracefully twirled away and back again. “It leads me to believe they’ve been living under some wretched rock if they’ve no more regard for society than that.”

  “Is that so?” he responded politely. “As for me, I am always suspicious of women who talk too much. Empty prattle, empty head.”

  Miss Addison smiled a little at that. “How positively charming,” she said, and twirled away from him, then dipped back to him. “How did you acquire the scar?” she asked as Liam took her hand to promenade.

  “Under me wretched rock.”

  Miss Addison laughed, a pleasantly full laugh, and at the end of the dance, Liam was satisfied she was merely a woman who was as bored as he was with all the glittery pomp and circumstance, and was only seeking amusement, nothing more. She needed, he thought, a taste of life. Real life, not salon life.

  After escorting Miss Addison back to the pack of ladies, Liam managed two waltzes and another quadrille before he was able to extricate himself from a group of debutantes and the ballroom altogether.

  The corridor was teeming with small groups, couples, and still another set of ladies stealing shy glances at various gentlemen. As he moved through the crowd, more than one guest paused to look at him as he passed, assessing him, peering at his scar. He clasped his hands behind his back as he had seen the English do and strolled insouciantly down the corridor to the staircase. He knew below were the rooms set up for dining, cards, and the manly pursuit of whiskey and cigars, for Barbara had dragged him through each in her zest to display him to the other ladies. He had noted then, unhappily, that the beastie was not among the many objects on display.

  That left the upper floors. How exactly he might make his way up without being noticed posed a bit of a problem. It was impossible to ascend the staircase without being seen. Wouldn’t someone stop him? Question him? That left the outdoors. All he required was a trellis, a tree, or even a hedgerow would do the trick. He was pondering that when someone touched his arm, and he turned slightly; it was Miss Addison peering up at him with a knowing little smile. Beside her stood two ladies who had been previously introduced to him, but whose names he had, of course, forgotten.

  “Why Captain Lockhart, you seem positively perplexed.”

  “Do I, now?”

  “We were just to the ladies’ retiring room.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, wishing to hell she’d go on about her retiring and leave him be.

  But Miss Addison smiled boldly at him. “Perhaps you are in need of a retiring room, sir? I should be happy to point the way.”

  Her companions gasped at her boldness, but Liam rather liked it. He was always one to appreciate those who spoke their mind, and moreover, he rather liked the idea of her pointing him to a retiring room. Preferably, one on the floor above. “That’d be right kind of ye, lass,” he said, and grinned right back when the ladies tittered at Miss Addison.

  She arched that fine dark brow again. “Well then, you may follow us. I believe the gentlemen are in the room just adjacent to ours,” she said, and lifting her skirts, began a smooth, authoritative ascent. Her companions were instantly behind her, stealing shy looks at Liam over their shoulders, which were accompanied by titters, giggles, and a bit of whispering.

  Mo creach, women!

  He unabashedly followed them up, noted the door to which Miss Addison carefully nodded, and returned her smile when she slipped into the ladies’ retiring room. Waiting a moment until he was certain they were indisposed, Liam moved silently and quickly down the corridor, opening each door he passed, glancing inside. But the rooms were dark—he could make nothing out—and when he reached the far end of the corridor, he paused again, ascertaining that he was alone for the moment, and slipped inside the end room.

  Shutting the door quietly behind him, he paused in the dark, his hands on his hips. It would be a quarter of an hour at most before Cousin Barbara or Miss Addison would notice him missing. Not much time to search several darkened rooms. Instantly, he groped about the door for a candle, which he found on a small table just a foot or so away, along with matches. He managed to light the thing, and holding it high, had a look around. He was in a sitting room of some sort; a writing table and a smattering of soft chairs adorned the room. Paintings, ornate fixtures, and elaborate frieze moldings on the ceiling made him growl. The English Lockharts had more money than they needed, obviously, judging by the way each room was overly appointed for show. He quickly searched among the many trinkets, but there was no evidence of a beastie. There was, however, a door leading to the adjoining room.

  He pressed his ear against the door, heard nothing, and very slowly, very carefully, opened it onto yet another sitting room. The English thought quite a lot of sitting, apparently. This one appeared more masculine in its decor. Holding the candle ahead of him, he moved slowly, walking the length of one wall, then the next. Nothing. As he ne
ared the door that led to the main corridor, he could hear several voices engaged in conversation, and holding his breath, he stood there until he was certain the voices had passed. That was when he noticed the armoire. He had not seen furniture like it in any other room. He walked to it, jiggled the handle. Locked, damn it.

  Cursing under his breath, he squatted, reached under his trouser leg, and withdrew his sgian dubh from his stocking. Then, setting the candle aside, and still on his haunches, he reached up and picked the lock. One of the doors sprang free so quickly that it startled him, and he grabbed the candle as he surged to his feet and staggered back, still holding the dagger.

  He saw it.

  Liam lifted the candle, saw its hideous face staring out at him—the beastie. It was the goddamned beastie, all right, sitting among various other dubious works of art, glaring at him. It was just as hideous as he had heard tell: Its ruby-red eyes were too big for the thing’s face; its yawning mouth glittered with a larger ruby and gold fangs; and the claws, crossed on the beastie’s chest, seemed to be honed to a deadly point of gold.

  “I suppose you’ve found something quite interesting, by the look of it.”

  Miraculously, Liam held on to both dagger and candle at the sound of the woman’s voice, and calmly slipped the dagger into his pocket before shifting his gaze to Miss Addison. “Aye, that I did,” he said, and smiled.

  Nineteen

  In the hack on the way back to Belgrave Square, Liam had to congratulate himself on his quick thinking and unflappable abilities. That wasn’t to say he didn’t experience a moment of panic when he saw Miss Addison standing there, knowing she had slipped in through the door he had left open between the two rooms—that alone was a careless, inexcusable blunder. But he had recovered quite nicely, if he did remark it himself, and in fact left the poor woman so discombobulated, he was certain she would never remember the door to the armoire was open.