Free Taming the Barbarian by Lois Greiman Page B

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