Taming the Barbarian (9 page)

Boxes and bags of endless merchandise lined the shelves, but Killian barely noticed, for the woman was there. She turned toward him immediately. Her cheeks were unnaturally red and her lashes black despite the paleness of her hair.

Stopping only a few feet away, Killian gave her a nod and searched hopelessly for some small witticism. Nothing came to mind. O’Banyon had been the wit. Killian’s strength lay only in his arm. “Good day to ye,” he rumbled.

She smiled at him. “Good day to you, good sir,” she responded, and let her gaze skim the open neck of his newly purchased tunic. The smithy had not been quite so broad across the chest as Killian, forcing him to leave the simple garment unfastened across his throat. “I noticed you earlier. Out shopping for cravats, are you?”

Killian didn’t know what a cravat was, and didn’t particularly care to be enlightened. But he gave her a nod. He was, after all, a civilized man and not one to fall on her person before the matter of money had been settled.

“It must be the very devil finding garments that fit.” She skimmed her gaze downward, settling it for a prolonged moment on his crotch before lifting it back to his face. “What with your size.”

His wick jerked spasmodically. He tightened his fist and remained very still, lest he change his mind about waiting to clear up money matters. “I would inquire about yer price,” he said.

She raised her darkened eyebrows at him. Her mouth was as red as summer cherries and just as plump. “My price?” she said, and smiled a little as she glanced toward a gentleman near the door. He was busy with a purchase and did not turn toward them.

“For…” Killian paused momentarily, searching for diplomacy he’d rarely bothered to employ “the pleasure of yer bonny company.”

Her brows shot higher. She took an abrupt step to the rear. “I beg your pardon,” she said, her voice rising.

“I’ve naught against the womanish fellow,” he said, and jerked a nod toward the customer who conversed quite passionately with the clothier about fabrics and colors and fashions. “And I’ve na wish to hamper yer future dealings with him.” He loosened his fist, reminding himself that this was naught but a matter of commerce. Still, it felt rather personal. “But I fear I will need the entirety of yer night.”

Her carefully plucked brows were nestled somewhere in her hairline. She pressed splayed fingers against her exposed bosom. Killian could not help but notice how her pale flesh mounded between her digits like luscious, rising bread dough. “The entire…” She licked her lips and glanced rapidly toward the others again. Time seemed to stand still as she considered his proposal. “The whole night?” she murmured.

“Aye,” he rumbled. “And well into the morning if ye’re up to the task. But I’ll na force—”

“My dear.”

Killian lifted his gaze from the woman’s bosom. The effeminate fellow had appeared at her side. He was as lean as a pig pole, his hips as narrow as a lance, his delicate hands flighty and bejeweled.

“You must introduce me to your…” The fop’s smile was naught more than a sneer. “Gentleman friend.”

“I’m sorry.” The woman’s voice was breathy, her eyes wide. “I fear I did not quite catch your name, sir.”

“Killian,” he said, and spread his feet slightly. He did not expect a fight from this fellow, but he’d found a bit of aggression early on could oft prevent further difficulties. “Of Hiltsglen.”

“Killian,” the man said, and laughed. The sound was light and strangely high. “Of Hiltsglen. How charming.” Taking a small silver box from inside his coat, he opened the container, pinched out a bit of white powder, and applied it to his left nostril. His eyes watered immediately. He sniffed daintily and dabbed at his reddened nose with a frilly square of cloth. “And pray, what brings you to our fair city, good sir?”

Killian narrowed his eyes. He had never perfected the questionable art of making small talk, and now hardly seemed to be the perfect time to begin. “Are ye her keeper then?” he asked.

“Her…” The fop canted his head and sniffed again, his eyes still streaming. “Keeper?”

“Aye. The one what makes certain she is safe whilst she conducts her business.”

“Ahh.” The other laughed again. “How quaint. Yes, I suspect I am her keeper.” He glanced at her, probably admiring her obvious charms. “Of course, I am also her husband.”

The words struck Killian like a mallet. Her husband! The absolute wrongness of the situation overwhelmed him. Husbands were meant to protect their wives, to see to their needs, to cherish them, not to parade them about like pet parrots and sell them to the highest bidder.

The idea of such looming immorality was so overwhelming that his right arm swung without volition and suddenly the perverted wastrel was stretched out on the floor, his eyes rolled back into his head and his painted mouth ajar.

The woman squeaked, stared at her downed husband, then jerked her startled gaze back to Killian.

“If you wish,” he rumbled, anger brewing like acid in his gut. “I will take ye from this place.”

Her lips moved. No sound could be heard for a moment, but finally she whispered, “For the entire night?”

He scowled, trying to comprehend such odd goings-on. “I shall find ye a better protector if that be yer desire.”

She blinked. “
You
wouldn’t be my…” Her gazed skimmed him again. She cleared her throat and stopped her perusal on the bulge in his breeches. “Protector?”

Killian shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Me apologies if I misrepresented meself. But I am na free to…” He shifted his gaze toward the door, wishing he had never approached her. He knew far better than to tangle with women. Although he didn’t recall the circumstances exactly, he remembered betrayal with startling clarity. “I canna take on the task meself.”

She took one step toward him. “I’m certain you’re wrong there. Indeed—” she began, but in that moment the shopkeeper chimed in.

“My lady…” He was half-crouched behind his counter, the bushy plumes of his hat barely visible past a row of glass jars. “Is your husband quite well? Shall I call the watch?”

She continued as if she hadn’t heard a word. “Indeed,” she said again, “I think you would be more than adequate for the task at hand.”

Killian realized with a belated blaze of awareness that there was much about this new London that he did not understand, much that could be his undoing.

“Me apologies,” he said again, and, turning like a trained destrier, charged for the door.

Once outside, he strode rapidly down the street. Things were wrong, out of place, out of time. There was nothing that was as it should be. In fact—

But at that exact moment he saw the stallion and stopped in his tracks. The animal was tied to a post in front of a milliner’s shop. Hale and restive, it blew out red-rimmed nostrils and cocked its hirsute head at the passing traffic. His crest was proud and heavy, his dark hide as sleek as a tiger’s pelt. But it was his eyes that spoke volumes. For they were eyes filled with history. Eyes that had seen battle, had waged war, and won.

“Treun,” Killian breathed, then noticed the women who paralleled his route as they traipsed toward the steed. Their backs were slim, their arms linked as they glanced toward each other and laughed together.

But in an instant, the fair-haired maid pulled the other to a halt. Even from a distance of several yards Killian could hear her intake of breath, and then, like one in a trance, she dropped her parcel and approached the dark stallion, her hand lifted wordlessly.

The animal rolled his black eyes. Beyond him, a high-stepping mare swished her tail and nickered. The stallion jerked his head and rumbled a response, but the maid seemed oblivious to danger. Indeed, she reached up to stroke the steed’s brow. The mare moved on and the stallion, desperate to watch her retreat, slammed his body sideways.

The woman, seeming shocked from her idiotic trance, gasped and tumbled backward. The stallion reared in wild frustration, and Killian, without thought or any hint of good sense, leapt into the fray.

F
leurette saw the stallion whip his head to the far side, saw him shift his weight and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she must move. In fact, she tried to leap out of harm’s way, but before she could do so, his hoof struck her foot. She cried out in pain.

Startled by the noise and frustrated with his restraint, the animal snorted and reared. His knee struck her midsection, toppling her off balance. She twisted, trying to catch herself, but her head struck the earth, momentarily stunning her, and suddenly there was nothing she could do. Nothing but watch the giant hooves flail above her, watch the iron rims lower.

Then suddenly the world shifted. One moment she was prone and doomed. The next she was whisked off the ground like a bit of chaff in the wind. She hung suspended in midair, her toes barely touching the street as she hazily tried to sort fact from fiction. The stallion’s hooves struck the street with resounding impact an instant later, and she shivered as if just waking from a hideous dream.

“Flurry! Oh, my good Lord!” Lucille rushed toward her, her face pale, her eyes wide with terror. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“Yes. No.” Fleurette shook her head numbly and found that it hurt. As did her elbows where they had struck the cobbles. “Yes, I’m fine.” Her voice sounded shaky to her own ears. “It’s just so embarrassing. I was…” Her feet settled magically onto the ground, but someone still held her arm, as if she might topple over like a toddler if left untended. “… so foolish. I didn’t… I don’t know what I was thinking exactly. I suppose I was not thinking at all. I just saw him and he reminded me so of the Black Celt’s steed, like a fictional being that I—” She laughed breathlessly and motioned foolishly toward the stallion, her hand making a vague circular motion in the air.

“Sir,” Lucy said, lifting her worried attention to the man behind Fleur. “You have our utmost appreciation.”

“Yes. Yes.” Fleurette turned shakily, feeling utterly idiotic. Good Lord, she knew better than to approach a fractious stallion. But he’d looked so majestic. Indeed, he’d looked quite magical, as if he had stepped out, real and alive, from the ancient past. His kohl black mane hung well past his muscular shoulders, and his crimped forelock half hid his otherworldly eyes. She’d felt herself drawn against her will just as she had been in Paris, just as she was every evening when she returned home to her own gardens. Still… “I must look like an absolute ninny. I’m afraid…” she began and turning, stopped in midsentence as her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “You!” she hissed.

The Scot’s dark brows lowered as he glared down at her “What the devil are ye about now, lassie?” he rumbled.

“What are you doing here?”

“Do ye na know better than to be bothering such a beast?”

“Are you…” She paused, breathless and stunned. It seemed almost as if he’d been conjured out of her restless dreams, drawn magically forth just as the stallion had been. Indeed, it seemed to her reeling mind as if he had come to snatch her from harm’s way once again.

Which meant, of course, that she was going quite mad. She had never been the sort of woman to dream up foolish imaginings, nor believe herself the heroine of ridiculous tales, and the idea that she would become one now made her unmistakably angry. “Are you following me?”

“Following ye!” he snorted, and gave her arm a shake. “I am na yer nursemaid, ye silly flibbergib. Though ‘tis clear ye need one. The beastie coulda killed ye soon as na.”

“Flibbergib! What—You—He—Let go of me!” she sputtered, and jerked her arm from his grasp. The movement hurt like hell.

They faced off like spitting tigers.

“Tell me, lass,” he growled, “might ye be trying to get yerself kilt, or are ye simply too daft to remain amongst the living?”

“Listen you!” she snarled back. “You are hardly the one to be slandering another’s intellect, and I’m certain if you would cease bothering me, all would be perfectly fine. Indeed—”

“What happened?” An elderly man rushed onto the street. He wore an antiquated white wig, which hung askew around his ashen face. “My lady!” His hands were visibly shaking. “Are you well?”

Fleurette straightened her back and struggled for dignity, but her frock was rent near the elbow and soiled below the knee. Her shoes were ruined, her hair a wild mass, and her nose was running amuck, making it rather difficult to look perfectly turned out. Perhaps sane would be a reach, but she’d attempt that lofty goal. “I am quite well,” she said, and brushed at her skirt as though she could sweep away any minuscule untidiness. “Thank you.”

“My dear God! Did he…” The old man jerked his frantic eyes toward the stallion. The animal reared again, its narrow ears laid flat against its poll. “Did he attack you? Did he—” he began, and stumbled back a few shaky strides.

She shook her head. “You needn’t worry,” she said, though she felt irritable and foolish. “In truth it was entirely my own fault.”

“No.” The gentleman shook his head. “No, ‘tis not. ‘Twas vanity to purchase such an animal. My Betsy said as much. Buy a nice cob that the grandchildren can ride, she said but I…” He motioned weakly toward the black. “I feared this would happen.” His shoulders slumped. “He’s been nothing but trouble since the day I purchased him. First the neighbor’s mare. Now this. Well!” He straightened with a decisive snap. ” ‘Twill not do. ‘Twill simply not do.” He turned abruptly away, scanning the crowds that drew near to watch. “I’ll see to the problem this very moment. I’ll find someone to destroy him before—”

“No!” Fleur gasped, but her breathy denial was drowned by the Scot’s angry objection.

She turned to glare at him, then jerked her attention back to the horse’s owner. “I’ll buy him—” she began, but the barbarian was saying the exact same thing.

Not taking time to argue with the irritating giant behind her, she stepped hastily toward the startled gentleman. “Good sir.” She gathered her dignity carefully and gave him a practiced smile. “My apologies. I fear I did not have a chance to inquire about your name.”

“Bayberry,” he said, flitting his gaze from her to the horse. “Lord Bayberry of Kent.”