Highlander Unbound

by Julia London

  Liam slipped his hand into hers and followed. Ellie walked to the door, opened it, and proceeded out onto the corridor. Liam woke up then and tried to pull her back. “Ellie, what are ye doing? Do ye think to bring yer father’s ire down around ye, then?”

  “It’s all right,” she said, gently pulling him along. “He’s gone a fortnight.”

  A fortnight. That was perhaps the best news Liam had heard in quite sometime, and in his near euphoria, he stumbled behind her. But when they reached the stairs, she started up. “Ellie!” he whispered, alarmed and stealing a glance over his shoulder. “What of Follifoot?”

  “Asleep,” she whispered. “There are only two others in this house besides myself and Natalie. Agatha’s gone home. Follifoot sleeps like the dead each night, thanks to his whiskey, and the scullery girl sleeps below. It’s just you and me awake and moving about, Liam. So would you care to come along or would you prefer to retreat to your rooms?” And then she smiled, a wickedly seductive smile.

  They could hang him for all he cared.

  Liam grabbed Ellie’s waist with one hand, and with the other pushed her quickly up the stairs.

  Sixteen

  The third floor of Farnsworth’s house smelled musty, the result of having been closed off for several years. A fine layer of dust coated the wainscoting; cobwebs hung thick in the corners. Naturally, it was as austere as the rest of the house—Ellen knew as much, as the discovery had been a delight, and she had eagerly gone through the rooms, methodically looking for something of value she might sell. And while she discovered a veritable treasure trove of Farnsworth family things, years of living that had been boxed and stuffed away, there had been nothing of real value.

  Such typically was her luck.

  There was, however, something of value for Liam, and she led him to a room at the end of the corridor, opened the door, and drew him inside. “Stand just here,” she said, and groped around for a candelabra she had left on a previous visit. After a few moments, the room was filled with the eerie, triumvirate light of three small candles.

  “What is this place?” Liam asked, walking deeper into the room and looking at the trunks and crates scattered about.

  “I’m not entirely certain,” she confessed, following him, the candelabra held high. “A graveyard of sorts.”

  On one end of the room were several paintings and portraits, covered with stained canvas cloths. A smattering of furniture—chairs with torn seats, a settee with a broken leg that sat miserably lopsided. On the other end of the room were more paintings and an armoire with broken kitchenware that looked as if someone had thought to mend them at one time. A single threadbare rug lay in the middle of the room, and beneath the dormer windows was a row of sea trunks.

  “Why did ye bring me here?” Liam asked, looking closely at the settee. “Would ye have me repair it?”

  “No, of course not!” Ellen laughed. “I brought you here because I rather thought you’d need something to wear to the ball. Assuming, of course, you don’t intend to wear your skirt.”

  “’Tis no’ a skirt, Ellie. ’Tis a kilt.”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, nodding her head in acknowledgment of his tender feelings on the subject. “Do you intend to wear your kilt to the Lockhart ball?”

  “Nooo,” he drawled, “but I’ve clothing enough.”

  “I’m certain you do, sir, but I’d be rather surprised if you had formal evening clothes in your wardrobe.”

  “I beg yer pardon?”

  “An evening coat. With tails,” she said, her hands sketching them in the air. “And an appropriate waistcoat and neckcloth. And shoes—”

  “Ach, I’m no’ a Christmas goose! I will do just as well in me own clothes.”

  “But you’ll at least have a look, won’t you?” she asked sweetly, already walking to the trunks along the wall. She lifted their lids so that he might have a look inside. After a bit of hesitation, Liam moved cautiously to stand beside her, peering over her shoulder into the trunks and piles of men’s clothing.

  “Yer uncle, eh?” he remarked at last.

  “And others before him.”

  He sighed, scratched his head, muttered something in his native tongue beneath his breath. “All right, let’s have a quick look about, then.”

  Inordinately pleased, Ellen put the candelabra aside on an old console, and together they dug through the three trunks, laughing at some of the fashions of the past, but finding two coats with tails, a white waistcoat with silver embroidery, and a neckcloth of silver. “Oh, my,” Ellen said admiringly as she held the neckcloth to the waistcoat. “How grand you will look, Liam!”

  “I’d no’ call it grand, exactly,” he muttered.

  “Come now, Captain. It’s the way of the Quality.”

  “Aye, and ’tis the way of the Quality to dance about willy-nilly. I’ll make a bloody fool of meself, I will. I can only pray I donna fall flat on my arse,” he groused.

  “You’ve nothing to fear!” Ellen said, laughing at his expression of misery. “You did splendidly in our lessons.” She suddenly stood, extended her hand to him. “Come then, let’s rehearse again, shall we?”

  “No, I—”

  “I won’t let you fall.”

  He groaned again, peered up at Ellen and her hand. “I have yer promise no’ to laugh,” he said, grudgingly gaining his feet and putting aside the clothes they had found.

  “You have no such promise from me, sir,” she said, laughing, and taking his hand firmly in hers, dragged him to the middle of the old rug. She pivoted about, determined there was enough room, and faced him. Holding her skirt, she curtsied deeply before him. “Will you do me the honor, sir?”

  “Aye. I said I would.”

  Still bent in a deep curtsy, she peeked up at him through her lashes. “Yes, I realize that you did. But now you should offer your hand to help me up.”

  He immediately stuck out his paw of a hand and pulled her, a little roughly, to her feet. And stood there, woodenly holding her hand, staring into her eyes.

  “If you’d like, you might kiss the back of a lady’s hand,” she said softly.

  His gaze unwavering, he brought her hand to his mouth and touched his lips to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. A rush of heat swept over her; she felt strangely unsteady in her skin.

  Liam slowly lifted his head. “Now supposing that the lady has agreed to dance with the likes of me,” he murmured, still holding her hand, “which dance has she chosen?”

  “The waltz,” Ellen said, a little breathlessly. “Do you remember?”

  “Oh, aye, I do.”

  His gaze steady on hers, he slowly pulled her to him until she was standing close enough that he could put his hand on her waist, his palm covering almost all of her rib cage. Liam was staring at her, his gaze boring right through her, seeping down into her very depths, and Ellen felt strangely exposed, as if he could actually see who she had been, who she had become, what the future held for her.

  Her skin flushed dark and hot; she looked away, unable to endure the intensity of his gaze, in spite of wanting to feel the burn of it.

  “What is it then, lass? Have ye forgotten the waltz?” he asked softly.

  “Ah…no, I just—”

  “If I recall properly, it goes something like this,” he said, and began to move, slowly and deliberately, his eyes never leaving her face. “One, two, three, one, two, three,” he murmured, moving her cautiously but fluidly from side to side. “Ye are the teacher, Ellie. Ye must tell me how I do.”

  How did he do? She could scarcely speak at the moment, her heart and body feeling the flow of silent music through them, her mind returning to days long since lost to her, days in which she would dance and laugh and feel a man’s arms around her. How long had it been? Years, certainly. Decades, centuries. A lifetime since she had known a man’s touch, since she had felt immortal.

  Liam began to hum, moving her across the room, his steps growing more fluid, the rhythm of hi
s body a natural grace. “Tell me, Ellie,” he said, his voice husky. “Tell me how I do.”

  She realized she was staring at his neckcloth and glanced up at the man who had kissed her so passionately, saw the pink scar in the shadows of his face, the intense green eyes, the strong jaw, and thought him the most handsome of men, a prince.

  “Well?” he murmured.

  “Astonishingly well.”

  “That’s right kind of ye,” he said, and suddenly pulled her tightly into his body, twirling her around. Ellen felt her skirts swirl away from her body, a sensation as natural as it was ancient, one that snapped something in her—a need, a desire, she didn’t really know—but Ellen closed her eyes and let her head drop back, unwilling to stop her fall into the bliss of carefree dancing.

  They danced to his low hum, Liam an expert now, twirling her this way and that, letting her float along with him, making her skirts swirl wide and full around their legs. It was glorious, magical, transporting her back to a happier time. His arm snaked behind her back; he drew her even closer into his body, so that she could feel the hardness of his torso and thighs, the sheer masculinity beneath his native clothing. Her body hungered for him to hold her, to crush her between his arms.

  He must have read her very thoughts; without warning, he suddenly touched her exposed neck with his lips, brushing the hollow of her throat, the curve to her chin, and around to the soft spot just below the ear.

  She was dancing in a dream. This felt exactly like so many dreams—intoxicating, dizzying—and Ellen, dancing in her dream, lifted her head, put her hands on either side of his head and drew him to her. The only difference between this moment and her dreams was that he was not Daniel.

  He was Liam.

  And Liam said not a word when she kissed him, just lifted her from where she stood, walking with her in his arms as her lips found his ear, her tongue the length of his scar. He moved to the broken settee and let go his grip of her, letting her slide the length of his body to the floor. She could feel his hardness beneath the kilt, the rigid length and width of it, pressed against her groin. It had been so long, so very long… Her body was quivering—the caress of a single finger felt like a thousand little fires on her skin. Every touch of his lips drenched her in an ethereal silkiness.

  “God forgive me, Ellie,” he whispered into her neck. “But I want to take ye now, make love to ye. I would show ye how mad with desire ye’ve made me, how I adore ye.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, feeling almost delirious now. “Yes, yes, make love to me, Liam…”

  He made an animal-like sound deep in his throat as he swept her up and into his arms and laid her on the crooked settee, coming over her and balancing himself with one leg on the floor. Slowly, carefully, reverently, he began to kiss her, leaving no patch of skin untouched. His hand caressed her, his rough fingers sliding over her neck, down the curve of her shoulder to the swell of her bosom above the bodice of her gown. With his knuckles he drew a line from one breast to the other, into the crevice between them, and he sucked in his breath, his hand stilling there.

  Ellen closed her eyes and allowed herself to fall headlong into desire. “Please don’t stop,” she whispered, neither alarmed nor caring of her wantonness, driven by an overwhelming passion to a point where propriety no longer mattered. She just wanted to feel him, to touch him, to have his hands and mouth wander over her body, which had been dead for so many long years. She gripped Liam’s head and drew him up to kiss him, filling him with her breath and her tongue. He clasped her tightly to him, pulling her onto his lap, and kissed her so wickedly that she was quickly burning inside, a burn that roared white hot between her legs. As if to answer her raging passion, Liam pressed his erection against her, let her feel what she evoked in him as he dragged his mouth to her breasts.

  Somehow he managed to unfasten her bodice so that he could lift her breasts from the fabric, sucking them, devouring them until her nipples were jutting out, begging for more. With his hands and his mouth, he performed a torturous dance on her, bringing her to a point just short of begging. “Let me see ye, lass,” he whispered raggedly. “Let me see all yer beauty,” he urged her as he began to disrobe her.

  Without conscious thought, Ellen helped him, until she was standing before him. He openly admired her naked body, gazing for what seemed several long minutes, his eyes drifting from the top of her head, to her breasts, swollen from his attentions, to the hollow of her stomach and the tuft of blond hair at the apex of her thighs.

  “Mi Diah,” he breathed. “There are moments when I look at ye, and I see a bit of yer lovely skin, and I swear I can taste it in me mouth. I can smell it. Ye are beautiful, Ellie, just as I knew ye’d be.”

  Oh hell, now she was melting, spilling into a puddle. And as she watched, Liam solemnly removed his shirt and leather belt, the strange shoes, and then let the plaid drop, holding it with one finger as he stood, legs braced apart, so that she could see him, too.

  Ellen gasped softly, her eyes widening with wonder. He was all man, big and bold and hard. In the candlelight, shadows of sinewy muscles rippled across his stomach. His arms were Herculean, as big as her thigh, and his legs, taut and lean, all muscle. Narrow, strong hips, and in a patch of dark hair, his member, proud, erect…and enormously engorged.

  Liam grinned proudly. “Ye see how much I want ye, leannan?”

  “Yes.”

  Still smiling that terribly wicked smile, Liam turned away for a moment, laid the plaid across the rug, then took her hand in his and pulled her into his embrace once more, crushing her to him so hard that it felt as if her bones were melding into his. And then she felt as if she were suddenly drifting, landing softly on the plaid beneath him, the warmth of his body seeping into hers. Around them, pale candlelight danced across the walls, reminding Ellen of how this exquisite moment had begun.

  Liam kissed her again while his hands wandered the length of her, feeling her arms, her legs, then floating, feather light, to her waist, stomach. The sensation of his callused skin on her body was like lightning—she felt each caress down to the very depth of her. Spurred by his languid exploration of her body, she reached for him, cupping his testicles in her palm as he drew a tortured breath, feeling the girth and weight of them in the palm of her hand, sliding slowly to the velvety tip and back.

  She sighed, reveling in the feel of a man.

  Liam gasped quietly into her ear; his breathing was becoming more ragged with each stroke she made of the smooth skin covering the marble shaft. He was so thick, so long, so hot, and without thinking, she was gripping him harder, stroking him faster. When his breath came in short spurts, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away from him. “I’ll no’ have it thus,” he rasped, and still gripping her wrist, he put her hand above her head. Ellen lifted the other arm, entwined her hands and smiled deeply as Liam began another, deeper exploration of her body with his mouth.

  Slowly, he made his way down her arm, his mouth moving from her underarm to the crook of her elbow, the inside of her wrist, and her palm. With his lips and tongue he traced a path down her side to her hip, nipping the skin there, then moved on to the top of her thigh, her knee. Ellen drew one leg up, but it quickly fell away from her body, and Liam moved like a cat into the valley between her legs, his body long and sleek and absurdly graceful. He paused to first breathe her in, his gentle breath tormenting her.

  His catlike movements had destroyed any semblance of self-control; Ellen grabbed at the leg of a chair behind her head and gripped it tightly, trying to steady herself as Liam’s tongue slipped between the folds of her sex. “Aaah,” he sighed into her body, and Ellen was suddenly writhing, lifting her hips to meet him. But Liam caught her hips, held her still so that he could lave her at his leisure, tasting and nipping as he desired. His onslaught was slow and steady, unmindful of her bucking, and when Ellen thought she would simply die of his attentions, his lips closed around the bud of lust that pulsed with years of pent-up desire.

 
; He drew it between his teeth, sucked it, and Ellen cried out as she felt herself explode into tiny shards of flesh and bone, raining down on Liam. She moved wildly, trying to escape the consummate pleasure; it was too great, too intense, too perfect. Still, Liam was not through with her, and he was too strong for her to resist. Effortlessly, he held her steady in his hands and continued to nip and suck that tiny bud until Ellen felt tears of pure carnal pleasure on her face.

  Physically drained and emotionally exhausted, she whimpered under his gentle assault, but Liam would not stop, just kept devouring her as if she were some sort of delicacy, until Ellen felt the pressure begin to build in her again, building to a stupendous end that would leave nothing of her.

  Of a sudden, Liam lifted his head and came over her, kissed her roughly, passionately, leaving the taste of her own body on her lips as his thigh parted her legs. Stroking her hair, he lowered his body to hers and pressed the tip of his erection against her damp heat.

  “I’ve never desired a woman as I desire ye, Ellie. Ye’ve made me feel alive, so alive!” Gently, he slipped the tip of his erection inside her. Ellen’s body seized—years of celibacy had left her body stiff and unyielding, but Liam rested there, patiently giving her body time to accept him. Ellen touched his forehead with her fingers, then his lips, marveled at how this man had come into her life and let her live again. She lifted up on her elbows and softly touched her lips to his to assure herself that he was real, that this was real. “Make love to me, Liam,” she murmured.

  “M’annsachd,” he murmured, and slid inside, opening her body to him, moving with fluid grace, withdrawing to the tip, then thrusting again and watching her eyes with each stroke. “Come to me again,” he whispered hoarsely. “Feel me inside ye, Ellie, and come to me again.” His strokes moved faster; he clamped his jaw, still watching her, his body straining to hold back. Ellen lifted her hips so that he could better reach the very core of her, heard his encouragement, heard his shallow breathing as he came close to his own climax.