by Julia London
The companionable silence seemed suddenly deafening, and when he could no longer endure it, he blurted, “What is it, then, that is wrong with yer daughter, if ye’ll pardon me asking?”
The question startled Ellie; her back instantly stiffened. “I gather you mean her tales,” she said tightly. “I don’t suppose she can help it, really—her imagination, that is. And honestly, it’s not as if she has something with which to occupy her time. I teach her the best I can, but I’m hardly a governess. I urge her to read, I urge her to—”
Liam put his hand on her arm to stop her. Ellie flinched; she looked down at his hand. “I didna mean to upset ye, Ellie. I would never.”
“You did not upset me,” she insisted, but clearly he had.
“Donna misunderstand me now,” he said gently, letting his hand slide slowly down her arm to her hand. “Yer Natalie, she’s a bonny thing. I’ve come to feel quite an affection for the wee banshee.”
That brought a soft smile to Ellie’s face and she sighed, bowed her head, and looked into the fire. “She is a bonny thing, Liam. She’s my precious darling,” she said quietly. “I wish you could know how very beautiful she is. But we’ve been practically put on the shelf up here, and it seems that her stories have started to become more real to her than not. I worry for her.”
“What is it ye mean, ‘on the shelf’?”
Ellie shrugged. “Our situation—Oh dear, the bird is burning.”
He had been so engrossed in her that he had forgotten the partridge. He grabbed the stick, took the bird from the fire, and lay it on the leather satchel. “God blind me,” he muttered beneath his breath as he turned over the bird, pausing to suck on one burned finger, then another. He peeled back a layer of blackened skin, pausing again to wave his burning fingers in the air, but the meat was tender and succulent and he grinned broadly. “Ah, look at her now! A fine meal we’ve got, Ellie! Where is the little one, then?”
“Sleeping,” Ellie said, returning his grin. “My heaven, how delicious it all smells! Wait! I’ve got just the thing for it,” she said, and stood, hurrying into one of the adjoining rooms as Liam speared a second partridge and affixed it over the flames. Ellie returned a few moments later with a quilt under one arm and carrying a bottle of wine. She smiled at Liam as she glided into the room. “The quilt was my mother’s,” she said, “and the wine is from Agatha, bless her. I thought we might dine as if we were alfresco.”
Liam didn’t know what alfresco meant, exactly, but when Ellie moved the ottoman and spread the quilt before the hearth, he instantly nodded his approval, for it seemed he was better acquainted with alfresco than fancy tables. Ellie fetched two chipped china plates, two crystal tumblers for the wine, two linen napkins, and a bowl of water, which she placed off to one side. “For your fingers,” she informed him, although Liam wasn’t entirely certain what he was to do with his fingers and the bowl.
When the second bird was roasted, they sat facing each other on the quilt, Ellie with her legs tucked to one side, Liam cross-legged, a layer of woolen plaid the only thing between her and the part of him that most wanted to touch her. It was wildly decadent, this picnic near the fire, and Liam couldn’t imagine his mother engaged in such an activity (although Mared brought to mind a wholly different thought). It seemed terribly inappropriate, somehow, for a woman of noble standing to be sitting here on the floor with the likes of him, eating partridge with her fingers and sucking the juices from them in a way that made it near to impossible to think of anything else but her, much less eating. That was why, he supposed, he found the whole thing so frighteningly seductive. He had never wanted a woman so badly in his life.
Which was why he asked about her mother again. It was his one weak attempt to subdue the desire raging through him, for talk of anyone’s mother generally did it for him.
“She died in Cornwall,” Ellie said matter-of-factly.
He instantly mumbled his condolences, which she quietly acknowledged before tearing off another bite of partridge. “I miss her terribly sometimes,” she said, after chasing the bite down with a sip of wine. “Natalie and I were much happier there, I can assure you…although I don’t think Mother was very happy at all. She preferred London, naturally.”
“Ye lived with the wee princess in Cornwall, then?” he asked absently, stuffing the last of his partridge into his mouth, trying very hard not to look at the tantalizing bit of her flesh above the décolletage of her gown.
“Natalie was born in Cornwall.” A shadow glanced Ellie’s features; she paused, looked up, tried, he thought, to smile. “And what about your family? Have you a father? A mother?”
Liam laughed as he picked up his wineglass. “Naturally. A mother and a father. A brother and a sister, too.”
“All in Scotland?”
“Aye, of course! Where else do ye think they’d be?”
“Scotland, of course,” Ellie said, playfully mimicking his gruff tone. “They must miss you. I meant to inquire, how have you found London?”
How had he found London? A blight, a dirty stinking…“Lovely,” he said. “Almost as lovely as ye are, Ellie.”
Her smile deepened and she flushed an appealing shade of pink. Demurely, she glanced at her hands. “Then I suppose your family matter is coming along as you had hoped?”
“No’ as I’d hoped, exactly. Cousin Nigel is a difficult man to come to know, he is,” Liam said, not wanting to think of Nigel at the moment, not wanting to think of anything but her.
“Oh?”
“Do ye know him, then? Nigel Lockhart, of Mayfair.”
Ellie thought, her brow furrowed prettily, but shook her head. “I am acquainted with the Lockhart name, but I’m afraid I’ve not been introduced to your cousin.”
Liam was glad for it. “Ach, Nigel,” he said with an impatient roll of his eyes. “I met him for the first time many years past, when I was at the military college. I remembered him straightaway when I saw him—but it has taken Nigel a wee bit longer to recall me.” He glanced at Ellie, smiled wryly. “The lad is rather fond of his ale, he is.”
“But of course he has recalled you now, has he not?”
“Aye. Recalled me so favorably that he’s asked to introduce me to his father. I’m to take tea on Sunday.”
“How nice for you! Then you may ask for your things to be returned,” she said, obviously recalling their previous conversation. The conversation in which Liam had, less than truthfully, admitted to wanting something from his cousin.
He shrugged halfheartedly. “I’m no’ the sort for tea, truth be told. In fact, I hardly know how to go about it. There wasna a lot of call for it in the war, and truthfully, I need more than a spot of tea to do what I must.”
Ellie seemed confused. “But what do you mean? I thought you had come to ask after some family property. Surely you could broach it at tea? After all, conversation is really what a tea is all about. One sips, one talks. I should think it the perfect opportunity for you.”
“No’ exactly,” Liam muttered.
One fair brow rose in question.
Liam shifted uncomfortably. Never trust a stranger. Never trust anyone but yourself. Never let them see the truth so they can’t hurt you with it. Diah, but he wanted to tell her—the man in him wanted to trust her, wanted to tell her everything, but his instincts, honed by years of war and espionage, warned him against it. Screamed at him, more accurately.
Ellie smiled at his silence. A smile that, heaven help him! could melt the most hardened of defenses. Had Ellie been on the other side during the war, he would have sold all of bloody Britain for the favor of that smile. “Aye, they’ve something I want,” he said flatly. “Something that belongs to me family, and something they may no’ even know they have, in truth. And I’ve come to fetch it back.”
“What is it?”
“A beastie.”
“A beastie?”
“An ornamental one, no’ a real one, of course,” he said in all earnestness. “A gold beastie wi
th ruby eyes and a ruby mouth and a ruby tail—”
Whatever he thought, he did not expect Ellie to laugh so…so easily.
“What, then?” he demanded. “What is it ye find so amusing in that?”
“Do you mean to say that you have come all this way to ask for a statue of a beastie?”
“Aye!” he insisted indignantly, folding his arms across his wrinkled shirt. She laughed again, beaming at him. “Seems a frightfully long way to come when you might have simply written and asked them to return it.”
“’Tis more complicated than that, Ellie,” he said gruffly. “’Tis a valuable statue and no’ something they’d likely give up freely.” And without conscious thought, Liam spilled the whole story to her. Told her of the family troubles, of the lore surrounding the solid gold beastie, that it was worth several thousand pounds, that it belonged to them. When he had finished, he felt rather exhausted and light of bearing. “’Tis a matter that must be handled delicately, then.”
“Oh,” she said, sober now, having listened intently to his tale. “Then it sounds as if your tea is quite important.”
“Aye, that it is. The family is counting on me.”
“They must be terribly proud of you, to put so much faith in their brave and handsome soldier,” she said solemnly.
Liam snorted. “Ye’ve had too much of the wine, then, if ye find me handsome.”
She laughed; her blue gaze fell to his scar, and beneath her casual perusal Liam felt his skin go hot, thought perhaps the wine had fermented too long, because the way she was looking at him was actually making him a little dizzy. Without warning, she leaned across the quilt toward him to have a closer look, and he instinctively, unthinkingly, moved to cover the ugly scar with his hand.
Ellie startled him by catching his hand with her own, her long, delicate fingers closing tightly around his. “No,” she murmured, and pushed his hand aside, then touched his scar. The soft glance of her fingertips against his face sent a white-hot bolt of lightning through his body. His blood was suddenly churning; he felt as if he were drowning somehow, being pulled beneath the surface by the mere touch of her fingers. She traced the length of the scar, from his forehead to the middle of his cheek where it ended, then back again, her fingers flowing over him like the water over the rocks in the streams that fed Loch Chon. It seemed minutes, if not hours, before she shifted her gaze from his face to his eyes. “Did it hurt terribly?”
“No,” he said hoarsely. “No’ as much as this.”
Ellie’s gaze roamed his battered face. “Do I hurt you, Liam?” she murmured. He nodded. “But how can I hurt you?”
“Because I want ye, Ellie,” he confessed in a gruff whisper. “I want ye like I’ve never wanted for anything, and it aches in me bones.”
She didn’t say anything, just traced a line from the scar to his lips, letting her fingers rest against them.
I’ve no’ hurt as much as this, he thought, and impulsively grasped her hand, kissed her palm, his lips lingering there, wanting so much more but at the same time fearing anything more as he had never feared anything in his life.
But then Ellie withdrew her hand and laid it tenderly against his rough cheek, and Liam lost all power of reason. He reached for her, seized her, really, and pulled her hard to him, across the quilt, without thought to the partridge or the wine. His lips landed blindly on her forehead, then her cheek, sliding recklessly to her lips. He tasted the wine she had drunk, the faint hint of roasted bird. He felt the succulent surface of her lips, ripe and full of promise, and held fast there, frozen by the exquisite feel of her in his arms.
It was Ellie who moved first, Ellie whose fair lips parted slightly—so slightly—and she whispered, “Do you want me, Liam?” before dipping her tongue between his lips to touch him. And then Liam was falling, drifting down to the bottom of the sea in which she had pushed him.
Somehow he managed to lay her down beside him, the vague thought that he might never have such a chance as this again sounding in his brain. His lips moved across hers, lips that were incredibly soft, feeling and tasting them, inch by extraordinary inch. Then he tasted the inside of her mouth, reveled in the feel of her teeth, her tongue, and the sweet, smooth flesh of her mouth. One hand fell to the slender column of her neck, drifted down to the silk of her bosom, his knuckles grazing her skin, his hand cupping the soft weight of her breast.
Heedless of anything but the strong, magnetic allure with which she held him captive, he grabbed a fistful of her silken hair, which had somehow come tumbling down from its carefully constructed coif. He felt miles and miles of corn silk as the sweet scent of lavender filled his senses. Her body, so enticingly pressed against his, was firm, a testament to her youth and good health, yet at the same time, she was so amazingly soft, so astoundingly plush, her breasts, supple and ripe, practically spilling from her gown. He touched his lips to her neck, the pure satin of her skin, and shuddered when Ellie whispered in his ear, “I want you too…”
Pure male instincts took hold of him—he was without reason or thought, filled with a prurient sense of longing as her hand, her small, perfect hand, slid to the nape of his neck, her fingers entwining in his hair, then down his arm, squeezing it, her fingers softly kneading the flesh, moving to his rib cage, his back. Liam kissed her wildly, deeply, his heart and mind raging to be inside her…and he was, he realized, through the fog that had shrouded his mind and all common sense, just moments away from being inside of her. But then the sound of…of what?…filtered into his consciousness.
Liam forced himself to stop; Ellie, precious Ellie, heard it too, and she fell away from him, the heat of her body fading from his as her breath came in long, deep draws and her gaze fixed on the door. There it was again, that sound. Slowly, unsteadily, Ellie came to her feet, repairing her bodice and shaking the wrinkles from her gown as she stared at the door.
It came again—someone was climbing the stairs. Liam rose silently, listened to the unmistakable footfall of Farnsworth, his little feet betraying his girth.
“My father,” Ellie whispered frantically. Her eyes were wide with fright—the blood had drained from her face and she lifted her hand to her throat, terrified. She feared the little pea hen of a man, which angered Liam, irrationally so. Yet whatever the bastard had done to her, it would have to wait. He calmly swept his arm around Ellie’s waist and pulled her into him, kissing her hard and passionately, letting her know all the desire that would remain within him. But she pushed against his chest, and he cupped her chin, kissed her softly, tenderly one last time. “Donna fear,” he said, and hearing the footsteps again on the last stretch of stairs, walked away from her, toward the window. He lifted the heavy frame, looked down at the alley below. Not a particularly congenial exit, but there was nothing that could be done for it. “Close it after me, Ellie,” he said, and with one last smile for her, he disappeared through the window.
Fourteen
Her heart racing badly, Ellen closed the window behind Liam (What did he do, jump?) as she heard her father’s footsteps on the stairs. He never came to this floor unless he had something to complain about, and if he found Liam in her suite—well, that was something Ellen really didn’t want to contemplate.
Frantic, she rushed to hide the wine and the glasses, threw the carcasses of the bird onto the fire and shoved Liam’s forgotten leather satchel under the sofa, along with the quilt and dirty plates. She was foolhardy—reckless! What of Natalie? Had she no more regard for her daughter’s well-being than this? Of course she did, yet she could feel the well of resentment bubbling up. She was almost nine and twenty years. She shouldn’t be forced to steal about like some wayward schoolgirl!
The pounding at her door caused her to jump with a soft shriek. She stood for a moment, fighting for composure. With one last wild look around, she kicked a corner of the quilt beneath the sofa and strode to the door, taking a deep, steadying breath as she pulled it open.
Her father was standing there, looking his usu
al hateful self.
“Good evening, Father.”
He glared at her with his little eyes narrowed in suspicion, as he was wont to do. “What in blazes is going on here?” he spat.
The color drained from her face. Follifoot. He must have seen Liam, must have mentioned—
“I am not in the habit of seeking your audience, Ellen! If I desire to speak with you, I demand you come when I say!”
That confused her—she certainly had not received word that he wanted her. “Come when you say? I—”
“I left explicit instructions for you to come to my study at precisely seven o’clock! It is now well past eight o’clock!”
“You sent for me? But I—”
“You will not keep me waiting like some jilted lover!” he said acidly.
Ellen felt her blood run cold. “Father, I was not made aware that you had sent for me. Of course I would have come had I known.”
Farnsworth was not listening—he was peering past her into the room Liam had just vacated. “What in the devil are you about?” he demanded again, pushing past her, waddling into the room.
Her heart in her throat, Ellen watched him clasp his hands behind his back and stroll to the middle of the room, glancing about as he fished his monocle out of his pocket. He peered very closely at the furnishings.
Ellen panicked. She followed her father, stood in front of the sofa lest a corner of the quilt somehow be seen.
“Where’s the girl?” Farnsworth asked, whipping around so suddenly that Ellen reared back.
“Asleep, sir.”
“Asleep, is she?” he snarled suspiciously. “Perhaps I’ll just have a look!”
“By all means. She’s just through there,” Ellen said, pointing to the appropriate door.