Taming the Barbarian (8 page)

Where indeed? Killian questioned silently and wandered from the stables.

The sun still shone with friendly brilliance on the world through which he walked, but his mind was far away, lost in a land of shadows and war.

Where had he been? Why had he fought? Memories shrieked through his mind, the cries of his men, the screams of their mounts.

The sound came again. He glanced up and found himself drawn from his reverie. ‘Twas only a lark that called from a willow that shaded the lady’s gardens. Only a lark, but as Killian scanned the greenery, his gaze fell on the towering statue of the Black Celt.

He felt the blood drain from his face, felt his limbs grow weak. God’s bones, what devilry was in play?

Fleurette leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. It was not yet ten in the morning, but she felt tired and worn. Perhaps Stanford was right. Perhaps she should hire someone to pay the bills and keep the books, but if the truth be told, there were few she would trust with the task. It was hardly unheard of for clerks to steal from their employers, and she had no wish to be amongst that foolish lot.

Pushing back her chair, she rose and paced to the window. Her knee had healed easily in the past three days. There was no swelling and little pain. The same could not be said for her pride. Bending her leg unconsciously, she scowled through the uneven glass to the street below, where two men squabbled and gestured. Farther to the east, where the thoroughfare was intersected by a rough side road, an old man sat alone with a bottle.

Perhaps Stanford was right about her company’s location, too. Eddings Carriages was situated not two furlongs from London’s hideous dungeons. Maybe it was time to move her business out of this deteriorating neighborhood to a more posh address.

She scowled, wondering if, in fact, Stanford was right about something else as well.

Leaning her forehead against the window, Fleur recalled his words about marriage. She remembered, too, the slobbering feel of Mr. Finnegan’s lips against her knuckles, and the predatory look in Lord Lampor’s eyes as he hunted her through the crowd of the ballroom. She was weary of the chase, was tired of being the prize plum in a public orchard. True, men might think it unseemly for her to manage her own business; but with the cost of living rising by the day, there were few who would turn aside her income. It seemed as if every snuff-toting gentleman in London was looking to increase his purse. But if she wed, she could surely curtail their harried pursuit.

She let the idea sink into her tired mind for a moment. If she wed, she would no longer have to suffer the advances of unwanted suitors. And if she wed
wisely
, she could still enjoy her freedom, could still manage her own affairs. There was no reason to think she couldn’t make an amiable arrangement. Surely there were a few suitable gentlemen who would be happy to give her the title of wife without assuming the
rights
that the position assumed.

The memory of Madame Gravier’s party returned with a vengeance. Was Mr. Kendrick truly Thomas’s cousin? And if so, what had he hoped to gain by accosting her, she wondered, but in the back of her mind she realized her real concern.

Sir Killian of Hiltsglen.

The memory of him sent an untidy barrage of emotions sluicing through her. Where the devil had he come from? What did he want? Besides her land of course. The thought of his stealing the quarry out from under her nose irritated her no end. The memory of him taking her horse drove her mad. He’d been gone when she’d finally stormed into the stable in search of
Fille
. And she’d not heard from him since. Yet he’d haunted her dreams each night. Indeed, on one occasion she’d awakened with a start, certain she’d heard the deep burr of his voice. And though she disavowed it, she could not help but remember how his chest had felt beneath her fingertips. It was hard with muscle and sinew, as if sculpted from purest stone. He was unlike any of the titled gentlemen of her acquaintance, but as she would imagine a warrior of old. Hard and lean and unyielding, with—

“God’s wrath!” she hissed, and yanked her mind to a halt. What the devil was she thinking? She had no wish to invite a man into her life. And she certainly wasn’t interested in some overbearing barbarian who would dictate her actions, then steal her horse.

Oh very well—if she were going to be absolutely honest, he hadn’t really stolen
la Fille de Vent
. And there was something about the way he had stroked the mare’s neck that had caused a shiver to tingle up under her hairline. His hands were large and callused, but there had been a careful gentleness to them when he’d touched
Fille’s
burnished hide, and when Fleurette lay alone in her bed she could imagine how they would feel against—

“Damnation!” she snapped, and, snatching her reticule from beside her chair, stormed out of her office and onto the street.

She arrived at Lucille’s home not ten minutes later.

“Flurry.” The countess was still sleepy-eyed and dressed in a pink silk robe when she greeted Fleurette in the morning room. “Whatever are you doing here at such an ungodly hour? And wearing…” She let her gaze skim Fleurette’s ensemble with deadpan distain. Fleur’s shoes were decidedly ugly, her gown old and frayed and covered by the leather apron she had taken to wearing while at the shop. “What is that hideous garment?”

“I came here straight from the factory” Fleurette explained.

“And?” Lucille canted her head and took a cup of tea from the tray a prim-faced servant offered.

“I didn’t have time to change into something suitable for your esteemed personage.”

If Lucille recognized Fleur’s sarcasm, she failed to show it.

“That hardly explains why you would choose to wear that disgusting thing at the outset,” she said.

Fleurette took a cup also, though she hardly cared for it. Lucy’s tea was as strong as her personality. “The truth is,” she began, feeling fidgety and foolish now that it came to it, but wanting, nevertheless, to spill her newfound uncertainty, her doubts, her fears. Perhaps she no longer wished to live alone. Perhaps a husband would lighten her load. “I find that despite everything, I think I may want…” She paused, unable to go on.

“What is it you want, Flurry?” Lucy asked, peering at her over her teacup.

“I may need to find myself…” she began again, but old memories assailed her like banked storm clouds. She winced against the barrage. “A new hat,” she said finally.

Lucille watched her for one elongated moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “Some say you have your priorities entirely askew,” she said, and, setting her cup aside, headed for her dressing room. “But as of today I shall tell them that they are most certainly incorrect.”

K
illian’s memory had cleared a bit, yet much lay beyond the shadows of his mind, still lost in the ragged mists of his past. He remembered the River Thames glimmering in the light of morn, and there was something hauntingly familiar about the catacombs that lay not far from Lady Glendowne’s place of business. He had viewed the carriage company just the night before, for he must learn what he could of her as quickly as possible. Of that he was certain.

The structures he remembered from days past seemed strangely decrepit, while the new buildings… The new were bedazzling… huge, elaborate edifices that must surely have taken decades to build.

He scowled, unwilling or unable to believe the truth, to let himself dwell on the only possibility his mind could conceive.

Instead, he stood amongst a bevy of shops that boasted neatly painted signs and glass windows. Two young men walked down the cobbled street. But truth to tell, they wiggled more than walked. Ungodly tight pantaloons hugged their scrawny legs, and prissy white clothes throttled their throats, but it was the accessories that dumbfounded him most. One fellow carried a fan that he constantly burnished, while the other opened a small container shaped like a lady’s bare leg. ‘Twas outlandish, if not downright disgusting, and yet just the sight of that tiny, well-shaped limb made desire rumble through Killian like a roiling storm cloud.

Turning his head, he watched a gent in a pink waistcoat and green velvet jacket twirl an ivory-headed cane as he whistled past.

Nothing was as it should be. Ever since his awakening some days earlier, the world had been all turned about. He had been afoot, which was strange in itself. A knight was known by the steed he rode. But at least his garments had been familiar. He had been wearing his plaid and little else when first he came to consciousness. ‘Twas what men of valor wore. But folk in the first village he’d passed had stared as if he’d been wearing nothing a’tall.

Having no wish to draw attention to himself until he’d sorted out his thoughts, he’d checked the leather sporran that hung about his waist. It was there that he had found a good deal of gold coin. Drawn to the sound of striking metal, he had made his way to a smithy’s shop, and there he had found a man near as large as himself.

It had taken only one coin to persuade the aging blacksmith to part with his garments and his steed. Except for Killian’s boots and the black blade that remained near his right knee, the attire had felt strange, but with his sword wrapped in a length of cloth and stowed on his mount, the English no longer eyed him quite so warily as before. Though, if truth be told, Killian doubted he would ever be mistaken for a Londonoy

Another young man strolled past. He wore a tall black hat shaped like a brimmed cylinder and a tight-fitting coat with sleeves puffed nearly to his ears. But it was the lad’s lower extremities that fascinated Killian most, for the boy’s pantaloons were white with straps that fit beneath small black slippers and stockings with stripes of blue and yellow.

How could things have changed so in the few years since his last visit, Killian wondered? For he was certain it had been no longer than that since he had visited London.

True, seeing the statue in Briarburn’s garden had shaken him, for at the sight of it, haunting, feral emotions had shaken him. But surely there was a sensible explanation. After all, he must surely have been struck on the head before falling into oblivion. And he knew firsthand that head wounds could cause a host of problems.

It had taken him some time simply to realize where he was. As to how he got there… He winced against the pain of trying to remember.

Battle! He jerked at the clash of swords in his mind. Oh yes, he remembered warfare. Would never forget the slash of pain, the cries of the dying. But they seemed a world apart. As if a lifetime had passed since the battles that haunted him.

On the corner, an elderly man dumped a bit of powder onto his hand and inhaled it with a disdainful sniff and rapid jerk of his side-whiskered head.

London had ever been strange, but now…

A movement to his right caught Killian’s eye. He turned slightly only to watch a woman emerge from a shop. Her gown was the color of spring leaves. It had tiny sleeves that puffed over her shoulders but did little to hide the graceful fairness of her arms. A purple ribbon trilled down to each elbow, and the sides of her garment were split up to her tantalizing knees.

Killian couldn’t take his eyes from her. He found, in fact, that his body felt as hard as granite. A trio of men strode past her, not seeming to notice, and Killian forced out a breath. Obviously, they were accustomed to such sights, or maybe… He watched another man prance into a nearby shop. Maybe they weren’t men a’tall. Maybe they were the sort that preferred the company of their own sex. He’d heard of such things on more than one occasion. Indeed, O’Banyon had been propositioned…

O’Banyon! The Irishman’s image rushed relentlessly into Killian’s mind. Nairn O’Banyon. Was he friend or foe? And how had they known each other? Killian could remember so little, and still the man’s face was as clear as sunrise, his eyes bright and blue, like a laughing window to a questionable soul. ‘Twas little wonder men had been confused. He was as pretty as most…

Women! Another one sauntered toward him. Her hair, near as yellow as summer daisies, caressed her ivory skin like a lover’s fingers. Killian’s body all but quivered at the sight, and as she drew nearer, he realized the fragile fabric of her gown was wet. Indeed, it was soaked so that her nipples blushed through the sheer fabric and strained like cherries longing to be plucked. What had happened to her? Had she been doused, perhaps for her unacceptable attire? But then, surely, she would no longer be dressed so scandalously. He slid his gaze down her body and realized that through the pastel fabric, he could see the dark etching of her most private hair.

He felt himself grow tighter still as she entered a nearby shop. Turning her head, she glanced at him from beneath shadowy lashes. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized he was staring like a farm lad at a magic show. But there was little else he could do. Indeed, staring was the least offensive act he wished to perform. Provocative possibilities rolled relentlessly through his lust-drenched mind, and he could not help but wonder again how others managed to control their baser instincts. And how, by God, did women dare wear such scanty garments when men like himself were only a few feet away, all but drooling as—

But just at that moment enlightenment dawned; she was a woman for hire. ‘Twas obvious now that he realized the truth. Indeed, it seemed that every hamlet in every country in the world had such women, ladies unattached and needing to support themselves by whatever means necessary. He had never found reason to criticize such forthright financial endeavors. On the other hand, so far as he could recall, which, granted, was far from limitless, he had never sought out the company of such a woman either.

His crotch tightened painfully at the mere thought, for it had been a long while since he had eased his aching desires. How long he wasn’t sure. But just now it seemed as if the dearth had begun well before the dawn of time.

Drawn toward her against his will and his better judgment, he stepped onto the shop’s stoop, then turned the odd little sphere as he’d seen others do and pushed the door open.