Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own and didn't create the characters of Connor MacLeod or Duncan MacLeod, nor do I have any rights to the Highlander universe. I'm just dallying there a bit with them - without permission, of course. No profits have been made (by me anyway), and no pixels were harmed in the writing of this story. I also borrowed the song lyrics without permission. The characters whose names you don't recognize are mine, however, so please don't take them anywhere without checking with me first.
A Merry Little Christmas - part 3
December 24, 1846.
He was half-way through the next block, when her presence slowly faded. Then, with a chattering hum, he felt it return. He stopped. Did an about face, and watched her scurry after him with a sack slung over her shoulder. A large sack and heavy by the looks of it. She managed it easily, though, so she was probably stronger than she looked.
"Change your mind?" he asked, reaching inside his coat to touch his sword.
"No," she said, as she stopped a sword's distance away.
She paused a moment to catch her breath, then with both hands clearly holding the sack - not on her sword - she approached him cautiously. "I say, cap'n you wouldn't have a tuppence to spare ... a shilling, perhaps. I'm not begging mind, you - just a loan to tide me over."
Without thinking, Connor reached in his pocket and touched the few coins that clinked together in his pocket - all he had until pay day. "Do I look like the Bank of England?" he parried, more irritated with himself and his circumstances than with her.
"No, mate, I guess you don't," she said with a sad smile as her gaze took in his threadbare coat and the sorry state of his shoes.
She'd called him mate again. For awhile he'd been cap'n. Great! Demoted in the eyes of a street urchin. Could his luck get any worse?
In his long life, he'd been rich, and he'd been poor - and more often somewhere between the two. When his ship, the Mary Clare, had sunk in a storm off the Irish coast, she'd taken all hands - including his. She'd also taken his entire fortune with her to the bottom of the sea. So at the moment he was just a notch above destitute - and a very shaky notch, at that.
Having lost his taste for life at sea - temporarily, anyway - he'd taken a clerk's position with an importing establishment. Finch and Addison was a thriving business, and he hoped to make some good contacts there, but the owner was as stingy and mean-spirited as the character, Scrooge, in that story Charles Dickens wrote a few years back. Connor really hated how easily he'd fallen into the role of Bob Cratchett.
The girl, woman - whatever she was - stood before him shifting her weight from foot to foot. Between her clothes and the layer of street grime she wore, he couldn't begin to guess her age. She had red hair, though. Even in the dim light of the street lamp he could see that. Great curling clumps of it spiraled over her forehead, refusing to be restrained by the dark stocking cap she had pulled over them.
"Go away," he ordered, then he turned on his heel and continued his journey down the street.
Footfalls, behind him, told him that she hadn't heeded his order. Instead, she caught up to him, then walked beside him matching him stride for stride.
"Could you spare a ha'penny, then?" she asked. "After all, you owe me."
That brought him up short. What the devil did she mean - he owed her? Owed her for what? "You crazy twit ... I don't even know you!" he shouted.
"Well, thanks to you, I got no place to sleep, tonight," she said. "You left a bloody 'headless corpse back there. After all the ruckus, I'll soon have a bleedin' pack of bobbies crawlin' all over the place. And me with a sword on me person ... what do you suppose they'll think about that?"
Connor almost smiled. Not at her predicament or her righteous indignation - but at the fact that her accent kept slipping. She might fool some, but over the years he'd developed an ear for such things. He wondered who she was, where she had been.
"There are lots of alleys in London," he said, studying her for a moment. "Find another." Then he turned and resumed walking down the street.
She followed him. "Ain't no other quite like that one," she said.
He quickened his pace, and so did she.
"You see mate, that there alley 'as a bake shop right next to it. The brick wall is all nice and warm from the ovens."
As Connor stopped at the door of the Bull and Finch pub, it began to snow. He shook off a faint ripple of guilt. It wasn't his fault that fool Rasuli picked that accursed alley for their battle. And it certainly wasn't his fault that this woman's streak of luck was worse than his own.
"Sorry," he said, only half meaning it. "I can't help."
He tugged on the rough iron door handle, then entered the pub. Inside, he waited a moment, expecting her to follow him. She didn't.
He let his held breath out in a faint sigh, then nodded to the barman before taking a seat a table against the wall.It was late and Christmas Eve as well, so the pub was nearly empty. They'd be closing up soon, but Connor figured he still had time for a bowl of stew and a tankard of ale. He fingered the coins in his pocket again, wishing there was enough for a dram of whiskey as well. There wasn't, but he'd known that already.
To make things worse, Friday - tomorrow - was payday. Tomorrow was also Christmas day - which meant he had to make these few coins last until Monday.
"What'll you 'ave, mate?" the pub keeper asked, wiping his hands on a stained apron.
"Stew, if you have any left," Connor said.
"We might," the burly man answered with a grunt. "I'll go check."
"And an ale," Connor said to the pub keeper's back as the man ambled off toward the kitchen.
While he waited, Connor loosened his coat, but he didn't remove it. Despite the fire that glowed in a wood stove across the room, it was barely warmer in the pub than it had been outside. As he drummed his fingers on the table, he realized that the sensation triggered by the presence of another Immortal still hummed around him. He glanced up at the window of the pub, then frowned.
He couldn't see the girl, but he knew she was still there, nonetheless. "Damn her anyway," he muttered. Why couldn't she leave well enough alone?
As Connor stood up, he wondered what was keeping the pub keeper. He threw a quick glance in the direction of the kitchen, then he crossed the room and yanked the door open. The girl sat on the sidewalk to the left of the door. She slouched against her pack, and her arms were crossed over her bent knees.
"Go away," Connor snarled at her.
"You're not boss of the street" she said, lifting her chin into a defiant angle. "I can sit anywhere I like."
"Grrr," Connor growled, but he turned abruptly, then went back inside. He slammed the door shut behind him, then stomped back to the table just as the pub keeper returned.
The bowl the man carried was cracked, but steam spiraled up from it. In his other hand he held a small plate with a hunk of bread. Without a word, he spun both onto the table, then shuffled across to the bar for the ale.
Connor picked up the spoon and reached for the bread. It was stale, but it would have to do.
"That'll be three pence, mate," the barman said as he set a tankard down next to the soup bowl.
Connor dropped the bread, then pulled the handful of coins from his coat pocket. He dropped half of them into the man's beefy hand, then returned the rest to the safety of his pocket.
Inhaling deeply, he shook his head as he picked up the spoon again. Three days until Monday. Those few coins had to last him until Monday. He took the bread in his other hand, dunked it in the soup to soften it, then he began to eat.
By the time he'd scooped four spoonfuls of soup into his mouth, the girl's presence began to nettle him. Cheeky bit of baggage! What did she want anyway?
Just something to eat, same as you, a voice whispered from deep within him. Willing it to be silent, he closed his eyes, then he dropped the spoon back into the bowl and looked at the window.
She was standing now. With one hand pressed against the small square of glass, she watched him. Perhaps she thought to prick his conscience. Or perhaps she planned to rob him when he left.
Once again, he got up and went to the door. "What do you think you're doing?" he snapped.
"Thinkin' cap'n," she answered. "Just thinkin'"
"Well, think someplace else!" he said, unimpressed that she'd promoted him back to cap'n again.
"Got no place else to go," she said with a shrug and a smile, then she sank down to sit on the sidewalk again.
Frustration seethed and roiled within him. What was he to do with her? He could hustle her off, but he couldn't stop her from returning. He could beat her senseless or take her head, but she hadn't done him any harm.
Right after the Quickening, she'd had him at a distinct disadvantage, and yet she'd not taken the opportunity to kill or rob him. She'd let him go on his way without even a challenge.
Snow was falling heavier now. A thin layer covered her knit cap and clung to her red curls, plastering them to her forehead. "Why don't you see if Rasuli has any money," he said with a snorted laugh, tipping his head in the direction of the alley. "He doesn't need it anymore."
Brushing the snow off her clothes, the girl stood again. "Already thought of that," she said with a chuckle. "Poor bloke was worse off than either of us - unless, of course, 'e's got a fortune in gold stashed somewhere. Didn't have a farthing on 'im. Only thing 'he 'ad worth takin' was this." She reached in her pocket, then pulled out a watch.
The crystal was cracked and it wasn't even gold. She could probably get a few pence for it, but she'd likely have to wait until Monday.
Against his better judgment, Connor opened the pub door, then stood back. "Come on," he said, tilting his head toward the interior.
The girl hesitated. "But I 'aven't any ..."
"Come inside, before you catch your death," he said, softening his gruff tone with the shadow of a smile.
"Like it would make a difference to the likes of me," she said, bending to retrieve her sack.
"Not a pleasant way to die," he mumbled as she scooted past him.
"Don't know of any that are," she said, tossing him a smile over her shoulder. "Pleasant ... that is."
Connor grunted as he indicated that she should sit with a wave of his hand. When she did, he pushed the remains of his stew across the table to her.
"Oh no ... I couldn't," she protested.
He picked up the small piece of bread that remained, then considered it for a moment. "Eat," he said, before popping it into his mouth.
She wasted no more time arguing. Shoveling the rest of the thick stew into her mouth, she finished it in no time, then she ran her finger around the bowl to scoop up the last of it.
"What's your name?" he asked without know why he wanted to know.
Smiling around her forefinger, she pulled it out of her mouth, then swiped her hand across the front of her tattered coat. She held the hand out to him. "Abiageal Flynn," she said. "But you can call me, Abby."
Reluctantly, he took her hand. "Where do you come from Abiageal Flynn?" he asked, keeping the situation on a less familiar level than calling her Abby would have taken them.
Dabbing her finger back into the bowl again, she shrugged. "Lots of places."
Connor chuckled as he shook his head and conceded her a few points. That was the exact answer he would have given to such a question.
"So who are you, when you're at home? she asked.
He could have told her he was William Rawlings - the name he'd been using in his current life - but he didn't. "Connor MacLeod," he answered, surprising himself with the admission.
He might have to face her over crossed swords someday, he reasoned. She had a right to know who was about to take her head.
"Well, Connor MacLeod," she said, holding out her hand as a lady might, with her fingers limply bent. "I'm pleased to make the acquaintance of such a right kind gentleman."
"I'm not," he said, ignoring her hand. It wouldn't do to get too friendly.
"Kind, or a gentleman," she asked with a grin."Neither," he answered.
"That's good," she said. Lifting his tankard of ale, she took a long drink, then she wiped her mouth on her sleeve before setting it down again. "Cause I'm certainly not a lady."
