by Julia London
Liam jerked his gaze up to Ellie; she nodded at the roses, and he looked at them in his hand, having completely forgotten they were there. “Ach!” he exclaimed, annoyed with his awkwardness. “Of course they are!” he said gruffly, and thrust his arm forward.
Ellie walked to where he stood, smiling. He offered the bouquet again, only more gently this time, and as she took them from his hand, her fingers brushed his, and he felt a jolt directly to his groin, strong and pure. So strong, in fact, that he inadvertently yanked his hand back as if he’d been singed. He couldn’t help noticing the flush in Ellie’s porcelain skin, and wondered if it was possible that she had felt it, too.
Whatever she might have felt was abruptly hidden behind the bouquet, which she quickly brought to her face, inhaling deeply. “They are beautiful,” she murmured softly. “Where ever did you find them so late in the season?”
“Hyde Park.”
Ellie glanced at him from the corner of her eye, slowly lifting her head. “Hyde Park?”
“Aye.”
Her brow crinkled; she looked again at the bouquet, holding it up so she could see the jagged ends where he had cut the flowers with his knife. She glanced at him again, and Liam smiled hopefully. Ellie’s face suddenly broke into a wreath of smiles; she laughed gaily, the sound of it musical. “You cut them from the bushes in Hyde Park? How delightful!”
Before he could admit to it, she twirled around, marched for the sideboard, and stuffed the roses into a ewer of water, arranging them just so. “They’re simply gorgeous, Captain, none more beautiful.”
Gazing at her now, those were his thoughts exactly. None more beautiful.
“What a delightful treat!”
Now Liam was smiling, feeling a bit prideful that he had done so well. “Ach, ye probably receive fancier flowers than this. But it was the least I could do, seeing as how I killed yer mouse.”
Ellie turned to face him again, still smiling, and brought the flowers over, placing them in the center of the tea service.
“I was glad to be rid of that mouse,” she continued. “And now you’ve gone and brightened my evening with these lovely flowers. Of course you’ll take tea, won’t you?”
Aye, he wanted to take tea, wanted to very much. But he also understood that it was untoward to be lurking around a married woman as he was. “I’ve imposed on yer hospitality too much as it is.”
“I insist,” Ellie said pertly. “Natalie, come, will you?” she asked, reaching for her daughter’s hand. Natalie came to stand beside her mother. “If you will excuse me for just a moment, sir, I shall put Natalie to the useful task of drawing you a picture.”
“Oh, yes!” Natalie cried. With a sidelong look that Liam could not quite read, Ellie turned away, leading a skipping Natalie through the door.
He stood there, silently debating. The soldier in him knew this to be very dangerous ground. But the man in him was held captive, unable to walk out that door. The man in him was, as a matter of fact, seizing him fully, holding common sense and decency prisoner, and allowing the baser Liam to crawl out and assume command.
Carefully, reluctantly, guiltily, Liam sat on the edge of the upholstered armchair and looked around the room. It was much more cheerful than any part of the house he had yet seen—there was furniture, and decent furniture at that, and little knickknack clutter that signaled females were living within these walls. He rather liked it. It reminded him of his mother’s sitting room, except that it wasn’t nearly quite so cold.
Ellie reappeared a moment later, moving gracefully but purposefully across the room, to a sideboard near the window. She picked up a cake of some sort, which she placed on a small table between them.
“I’m afraid the tea is a little weak, but I promise the cake will be quite delectable,” she said cheerfully.
Liam nodded, feeling all at sixes and sevens, uncertain as to what the protocol was in taking tea, yet another social custom at which he was completely inept. He fidgeted with his neckcloth, pushed his hands through his hair and off his brow, and finally folded his hands in his lap and sat stiffly, staring at her.
Ellie glanced at his hands, then smiled up at him. “How long have you been in London, might I ask?”
“A fortnight.”
She nodded, seemed to want him to say more, but he was entirely unclear what else he might possibly add to that response. She asked, “Have you come on business, I suppose?”
A rather delicate issue, that one. “In a manner of speaking. I’ve come on a family matter.”
“Ah,” she said.
Liam said nothing. He slid his hands to his knees, braced them there, and tried not to stare at her, yet he couldn’t help taking all of her features in, from the smart little nose to the point of her chin, the perfectly sculpted ears, the—
“Ahem.” She touched the back of her head, drawing his attention away from her neck. “Well, then, Captain, perhaps you will say how long you do intend to stay in London?”
Liam shrugged, said, “No’ long, if I can help it.”
“Oh.” Her hand fell to her lap, and she lowered her gaze, and while he couldn’t be very certain, he had the distinct feeling that the answer disappointed her. She leaned over, dropped the silver tea ball in his cup. “Ah…one sugar or two?”
“Four.”
Her hand stilled a moment, but she picked up the teapot, proceeded to pour the water, and carefully dropped the first sugar cube. As Liam watched her long, tapered fingers, he found himself consumed with envy of Farnsworth, ridiculously so, and in a less-than-lucid moment, he surged forward, propped his arms on his knees. Startled, Ellie reared back, another cube of sugar held captive over his teacup as she warily watched him.
Liam reached for the cup, took it away from her. He did not, however, drink the tea, and realized, after a moment, that his mouth was moving ahead of his bean brain. “I beg yer pardon if I should speak out of turn, but I confess I feel a wee bit out of sorts, I do. I’ve thought about it—little else, really—and I canna help wonder why yer husband does no’ sit with ye in the evenings? How is it that he should leave a woman as…as bonny as yerself alone?”
She seemed stunned by his question, and well she should be. It was none of his affair, none at all, and there he went, behaving like a rustic again. But now that he had said it, he was desperate for the answer, and inched forward as she reared further back. “Call me a bloody bastard if ye will, for ’tis certainly naugh’ to me, is it? Yet I swear on me honor, I’d no’ leave a wife as beautiful as ye with the likes of me in the house, I swear I wouldna.”
Ellie lifted a hand to her neck. He had upset her terribly, hadn’t he? Mary Queen of Scots, what a stupid—
“It is I who should beg your pardon, sir, for you are mistaken. I have no husband here.”
That did not register on any part of his brain. He tried to make sense of it, tried to see how—“What?” he choked, then shook his head and frowned. “Ach, I’d no’ claim him were he mine, I donna doubt it, but why would ye call yerself Farnsworth, then?”
“Farnsworth?” she echoed incredulously. “You thought Farnsworth…” Her burst of laughter startled Liam badly; he juggled the little teacup and hastily set it down, looking at her in utter confusion as she laughed until her eyes were swimming with tears. “By the saints, Captain, I’ve not laughed so hard in ages!” she managed to get out between gales of laughter. “Farnsworth is not my husband! He is my father!” she cried, and was overcome with another fit of laughter she could not quell.
In truth, Liam’s first inclination was elation and relief that someone as loathsome as Farnsworth wasn’t touching her. That quickly gave way to bewilderment, for it seemed entirely impossible that someone as hideously ill-favored as that man could sire someone as beautiful as Ellie. And if he wasn’t her husband, then who was? The admiral. Of course! Well, then, he’d misunderstood! She was married to the admiral…which did not exactly relieve him in any way. If anything, it made him feel even more anxious.
“Captain, your tea,” Ellie reminded him, and Liam glanced at the teacup he had set on the edge of the table.
“I beg yer pardon, I must apologize,” he said, reaching for the cup of tea. “I’m no’ generally such a jolly busybody. I beg ye forgive me indiscretion, madam.”
But Ellie was glowing with her smile, and reached across the table, still holding the sugar, and flicked her wrist at him. “Please, Captain, shan’t we be friends?” she asked, dropping the last sugar cube in his tea.
Friends. Aye, he liked the sound of that, given that he had no other, more appealing option. “I’d like that very much, I would.”
“Then I’d like it if you would call me by my Christian name, Ellen.”
Liam unthinkingly shook his head.
“No?”
“I shall call ye Ellie. I had that in me mind the first time ye said yer name, and I’m afraid ye’ll always be Ellie to me.”
Her long lashes fluttered pleasingly; she picked up a plate of tea biscuits. “No one has called me Ellie since I was a girl.”
“I donna mean to offend ye—”
“And you don’t.”
He smiled. “Naturally, ye must call me Liam if we are to be friends, eh?”
Her glorious smile returned. “Liam! How lovely! It suits you, I think.”
He’d prefer not to think of his name as lovely, but to hell with it—if it made her smile, then God blind him, it was a lovely name. He glanced at the plate of tea biscuits. “So, then, if ye donna mind me asking, is yer husband at sea?”
“At sea?” she asked, puzzled.
“The admiral,” Liam clarified.
Ellie’s brows dipped into a confused vee. “The admiral?” she echoed, and seemed so mystified that Liam instantly suspected he had been duped again by the little demon Natalie. Confound that child! He frowned into his teacup. Was there no end to the tales she had told him? Had the imp uttered one bloody word of truth? “Yer daughter has quite an imagination, does she no’?”
A light of understanding dawned on Ellie’s face. “I see,” she said simply. “I confess I don’t quite know what to do with her.” She extended the plate of tea biscuits to Liam; he took a handful. “In spite of Natalie’s wishes to the contrary, the truth is…I am not married.”
A widow! Liam had munched two tea biscuits before the implication of that sunk into his brain, and it intrigued him terribly. Actually, he felt dangerously on the verge of bursting into song. He popped two more biscuits into his mouth, considering Ellie—a young, beautiful widow. No doubt she was the object of more than one gentleman’s fantasies; he could just crowd his in next to theirs, he supposed, but really, she was far too good for the likes of some foppish Englishman. In fact, he thought, gazing at her expressive eyes, the high curve of her cheekbone, the purse of her full lips, she was really too good for any man. Save him.
“I beg your pardon. Perhaps I have said too much,” she said demurely.
“No’ at all,” he quickly assured her.
“Are you married, Captain?”
“No.”
“No one waiting for you at home?”
“For me?”
She nodded.
Liam laughed, looked again at the tea biscuits. Ellie extended the plate, and he took another handful, and realized that he felt safe with her. “No. I’ve been in the king’s service at one place or another too long, I think.” Aye, and who would have him? He was a soldier, and an ugly one at that.
“Ah,” she said, nodding. “Then perhaps you’ve come to London to find a wife?”
He all but choked on his biscuits. “God, no!” he sputtered. “Ye donna understand, then, Ellie. Our family is at odds with our English cousins,” he began, and amazingly, in spite of all his military training to the contrary, he talked. Not that he spilled the whole sordid story, preferring to leave some of it out, such as how destitute they were, but at least that the English Lockharts had something that belonged to the Scottish Lockharts, and how he had come to see if he might get it back. Naturally, he did not reveal that he intended to steal it. Or that it was worth a fortune.
Ellie did not ask too many questions, which he found rather refreshing, given that his sister Mared was an interrogator worthy of the Inquisition. Better still, she smiled a lot, seemed interested, made the appropriate responses in all the right places.
When he realized he was actually monopolizing the conversation, he was mortified, and stopped himself. He asked about her. “And where do ye hail from, then?”
“London,” she said simply. “This is our ancestral home.”
Didn’t say much for her ancestors, unfortunately. “And the lass’s father. Where did he hail from?”
She colored slightly, averted her gaze for a moment. “Ah…Cambridge.”
“And yer mother, is she here, too?”
“Quite dead, more than two years now.”
“Terribly sorry.”
She acknowledged him with a modest nod of her head. “It’s just me and Natalie now.” She shifted, unknowingly revealing the shape of her bosom.
Diah! All right then—he had to go, and go now, because he was, inexplicably, and for perhaps the first time in his life, quite smitten. Smitten! Which meant that he could not trust himself. At least, he didn’t think he could, for the last time he had been so horrifyingly smitten, he had been all of twelve years old, and he had indeed been terribly untrustworthy around the object of his great esteem. Well, that young Highland lad was alive and kicking in his groin at the moment.
“Well, then! Thank ye kindly!” he said abruptly, coming to his feet.
Ellie looked perplexed, but preceded him to the door, her long tail of hair dancing above her hips. Liam was so entranced by the swing of her curvaceous bum that he nearly trampled over her when she suddenly stopped and turned about. He did not realize they were at the door, that she had opened it, even, was actually aware of nothing but the sweet scent of lavender that suddenly filled his senses. And as Ellie stepped up against the wall to let him pass, he discovered that he was, indeed, quite untrustworthy, a bloody rake, really. An animal instinct had consumed him, something far beyond his capacity to control, and he unthinkingly leaned forward, following her scent, so that his chin was just at her temple.
Ellie didn’t move, just froze there, trapped. Liam closed his eyes, slowly bent his head, taking in the heady, feminine scent of her perfume, his lips grazing her hair, then turning just slightly so that his lips whispered across the creamy skin of her cheek.
Instead of screaming, as he half expected, she released her breath in one long sigh, looked up at him through thick golden lashes, the blue in her eyes shimmering like raindrops. Her cheeks were softly pink, and he was overcome with an intense, hard longing. He took her hand in his, caressed her palm with his finger. “Duin an doras,” he whispered hoarsely, feverishly. “Fuirichidh mise.”
Close the door. I’ll stay.
Ellie flushed dark, her lashes fluttered shut. “I…I don’t know what you say,” she murmured.
Liam dropped her hand, gently laid his at the base of her bare neck. Her skin was soft and warm against his callused palm, and he whispered in her ear, “I know.” He moved his head; his lips whisked across hers, shimmering like a whisper of silk.
He breathed her in once more, made himself remove his hand from her heated flesh.
Ellie drew a long, ragged breath as she gazed up at his mouth. “M-my father,” she whispered, “leaves every evening at five o’clock promptly, after the daily servants leave.” She lifted her gaze then, and looked him boldly in the eye. “After they are gone, there is no one here but Follifoot and a scullery maid.”
Desire coursed through him hot and molten; Liam grasped her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and pressed his lips against her palm, lingering there, battling between the desire to stay and the very real need to go. At last, as common sense battled to the forefront of his brain, he let go and stepped around her. “Sweet dreams, lass,” he said, and
walked out the door, down the hall, his mind swimming with the image of her, his groin pounding with desire for her.
Eleven
How long she might have stood there, melted hard against the door, Ellen really didn’t know—not only was she incapable of movement, her head had filled with cotton. The only sensation that assured her she was still very much alive was the burn of her skin where his lips had touched her. Lightly, her fingers fluttered against her cheek as she recalled his breath, a salve to the delicious sting of his lips. She retraced the path of his fingers, her hand fluttering to her collarbone, where his huge hand had engulfed her throat and shoulder, the pressure of it so unbearably light.
God in heaven, she hadn’t felt so on fire since…since Daniel.
Daniel, damn him. She hadn’t thought of him in so long, perhaps as long as forever now. Time passed so monotonously here that minutes bled into days and then months and years without her noticing them. But she had, finally, put him out of her mind, packed him into some neat, tiny parcel and buried him away in a lifetime’s worth of memories. The bitter sting had subsided, and on those rare occasions a flash of color or the scent of a man’s cologne jarred her memory, the whole affair seemed like something from a dream.
Certainly there had been no one since Daniel, certainly no one who made her skin burn with a mere touch, no one—no moment to remind her that she was a woman, a living, breathing woman. Until now, until this very moment, and God help her, she was alarmed by the powerful reaction of all her senses to the Scottish captain.
Ellie…he had called her Ellie! Her beloved grandfather had called her that; it had been that kind old man’s pet name for her. Yet he had never said it quite like it sounded on Liam’s lips. The way he said it made her light-headed. Dizzy.
Ellen pushed away from the door, drifted toward the couch, smiling, and melted into a chair, burrowing deep into the cushions, hugging herself as she thought of the bold man who had just left her sitting room. There was something about him, something that, in concert with his hard exterior, made him extraordinarily appealing in such an unconventional way. He was raw flesh and bone, no pretense about him, purely masculine and unapologetic for it. And he made her laugh—Lord, how he made her laugh! Laugh like she hadn’t done in ages.