The Runaway McBride Read Free Page A

prime ministers. The changes I’ve seen—” She shook her head. “Trains from one end of the country to the other, gas to light our homes, water closets, and I don’t know what all. I understand what is of this world as well as you. I’m asking you to pay attention to what is unworldly and unchanging.”
    “Granny,” Alex hastily interrupted, “I did not mean—”
    She waved him to silence. “I know what you meant. Make sure that you know what I mean.” She looked at Gavin. “I don’t know whether or not you are being tested, but those messages came from my heart. All I want is to see my grandsons happy. Promise me you won’t forget my words.”
    They promised.
    She beamed at them. “Now, make me happy by offering me a wee dram of uisge beatha .”
    It was one of the few Gaelic expressions they all understood.
    “Slàinte Mhath!” said her ladyship.
    “Slàinte Mhath!” her grandsons chorused as they knocked back their whiskey.
    It was moment of complete harmony and happiness.
    In the wee hours of the morning, with her three grandsons by her side, Granny McEcheran drew her last breath.

Chapter 2

    This time, he wasn’t dreaming. He was hallucinating. He, James Burnett, who had never demonstrated the slightest tendency to confuse imagination with reality, was slowly going out of his mind.
    One heave sent the woman on top of him flying back on her bare rump. She squealed in fright and scrambled from the bed. Snatching up her chemise, she clutched it to her bosom as she backed away from him.
    She was stunned. He was a regular customer. She thought she knew him, but this wild man with the fierce eyes looked like a savage who had just walked out of the jungle.
    “One cry from me,” she got out with a catch in her breath, “and big Andy will come crashing in here and break your frigging legs.” He didn’t move; he didn’t say anything. He might have been a sleepwalker, and that emboldened her to say, “What got into you, Burnett? I’ve never seen you like this. Are you all right?”
    James combed his fingers through his hair. Disoriented, he looked around him. Slowly, enlightenment dawned. He recognized the setting. He should. It was practically his second home, this superior brothel just around the corner from Crockford’s on St. James’s Street. This was how he spent most of his nights: an hour or two gambling in Crockford’s, then seeking oblivion either in a bottle of whiskey or with a woman, sometimes with both.
    “It was the mirror,” he muttered, speaking to himself. “Who put that bloody mirror on the ceiling? It’s . . . obscene.”
    He blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the grotesque picture of Granny McEcheran’s reflection in the mirror peering down at him. He’d had too much to drink, he told himself. He was working too hard. His grandmother’s death had affected him more deeply than he realized. No one had ever loved him as she had loved him, and now he felt bereft. She’d only been gone four or five months, but never a day went by when he did not think of her.
    Hearing his own words, he winced. God in heaven, how much whiskey had he had to drink, anyway? If he went on in this vein, he’d soon be blubbering like a baby. He’d loved his granny well enough, he supposed, and she him, but not enough to explain how he’d lost his grip on reality.
    Impatient with himself, oblivious of his nakedness, he reached for his clothes and began to dress.
    Celeste—not her real name—edged onto a velvet upholstered chair and watched him warily. If it had been anyone but Burnett, she would have been out the door, but Burnett was openhanded. She could make more money in an hour with him than she could in a week with her other customers. And he wasn’t demanding. A quick romp on the bed seemed to satisfy him. He spent more time drinking his whiskey than he did in pleasuring his body. In fact, it seemed to her that pleasure was the last thing on his mind. Nor did he care which girl he got, but