by Julia London
Life was idyllic, but she couldn’t help noticing the signs of deterioration. Even in the spacious, ornate room they had put her in, where the furnishings were of the finest quality, she noticed cracks in the walls and shutters that weren’t properly mended. A brazier was used in that room as opposed to the fireplace, because, the laird explained, they hadn’t had the chimney properly cleaned in some time.
The food was rather nondescript, and she noticed that potatoes were often the focal point of the evening meal. More than once, Ellen thought to give them the five hundred pounds and confess what she had done. But inevitably, she would wonder how she and Natalie would fare when they tossed her out on her ear for it. It was best to wait for Liam, she convinced herself. At least if he were to toss her out, he’d think twice before doing so to Natalie.
And as to that, where was Liam? Ellen often lay in bed at night wondering if he was still looking for her or had decided to go on to his regiment. The Lockharts openly looked for a letter from him every day, and Mared often walked across the hills to the neighboring estate to see if the post had come. If he didn’t come soon, she’d have to think of something, for she couldn’t impose on the Lockharts more than she already had. And in fact, she thought Griffin was beginning to wonder if she was telling them the truth—she even heard him say to his father one day that they really had no proof that she’d ever met Liam.
Which was why, then, that Ellen began to sing for her supper, so to speak, by regaling them with tales of Liam in London each night at supper. Of Liam in Hyde Park. Liam dancing. Of how he and Natalie met (Natalie helping with that one). Liam and the mouse, Liam and the partridges. Liam’s unusual method of laundering his clothes (Griffin seemed particularly perturbed by that story). The tales of Liam were all true, and they made the Lockharts laugh. Above all else, those tales allowed Ellen and Natalie to remain in good graces at Talla Dileas.
She just hoped that she would not use them all up before he returned.
Where was he?
He was, as it happened, in Aberfoyle.
He’d had a bit of luck in getting from Edinburgh to Stirling, but from there he had walked, camping for a few hours when he thought he couldn’t take another step, living off berries (far too many for good digestion), a fish or a grouse here and there, and at long last, he had reached Aberfoyle. That was quite a milestone, he thought, having been quite dejected by the latest turn of events. In reaching Aberfoyle he determined that he might still make a decent soldier. With considerable remediation, of course.
It was late; most of the shopkeepers had closed their doors, but he saw, much to his great relief, Payton Douglas’s wagon just outside the confectioner’s. When Payton emerged, Liam was so glad to see him that he almost kissed the man.
Payton reared back as Liam threw his arms around his shoulders, laughing hysterically. He put out his hand, both to protect himself from Liam’s strange elation and to welcome him home. “Lockhart! And I thought ye’d no’ come back, I did,” he said grinning. “Did they kick ye out of England, then? What happened to ye, lad?” Payton asked, wrinkling his nose at the foul odor as he looked at the yellow and green skin around Liam’s eye, the scratches on his hands and face, and the buckskins that could, were he to remove them, stand alone.
Liam laughed. “Ach, the English! Barmy, the lot of them! I’ll be happy to tell ye all over a pint one day, but at the moment I’m rather anxious to be home, I am, if ye’d do me that favor.”
“Aye, certainly,” Payton said, clapping him on the back. “At the very least, yer mother would want to see that ugly face, I’d wager. Climb on, then.”
They shared a sweetmeat, which, for some strange reason, reminded Payton to complain mightily of Mared. “She’s no’ right, that one,” he said, munching the last confection. “A more willful or stubborn lass ye’ll never know, I’d swear by it. She penned me sheep!” he complained loudly, then frowned at Liam’s burst of laughter. While he might have undergone an enormous change while he was gone, it was comforting to know that at least in Scotland, some things remained the same. He was, he realized, rather relieved to know it.
“And Grif? He’s no’ run off to Edinburra to seek his fortune, has he, then?”
Payton shrugged as he drew the team to a halt in front of the long path up to the Lockhart estate. “In truth, I’ve no’ seen yer family for more than a week now.” He grinned sheepishly. “I had a wee encounter with one of yer bulls, and yer sister, well…she’s bloody angry just now, so I thought it best to stay away for a time.”
Liam grinned, grabbed his knapsack, and leapt to the ground. “Ye might as well admit it, Douglas. Ye love her, ye do,” he said, and laughed at Payton’s animated claims to the contrary. They parted with a wave and a promise to have that ale soon; Payton drove on and Liam turned, looked up the winding path, and drew a long breath.
He couldn’t avoid it any longer. He just prayed, when he told them how he’d lost the damn beastie, that they’d show him a wee bit of mercy, for he was so grateful to be at home at last.
As he walked up the steep, curving path, the sun sank behind Din Footh, and the air grew still. It smelled of pine, fresh and clean, not full of soot and animals like London had smelled. It brought a lump to Liam’s throat, for he couldn’t imagine home being anywhere but here, and he realized they’d have to fight to keep it. When he turned the bend and saw the house, both repugnant and stately all at once, he wondered what would become of the Lockharts without Talla Dileas as the foundation beneath them, without centuries from which to build their lives.
He paused and looked at the structure he called home. It was dark on one side—to save costs, he gathered—but there was light in the dining room. They’d be gathering just about now, he thought, and walked on, through the huge stone gates. But instead of going inside, he walked around the edge of the lawn until he reached the dining room, and stood back, looking up so he might see them all.
Ah, there they were, coming in now. Mother and Father—he was glad to see them looking well. Grif, who’d kill him for what he’d done to his clothing. Mared, sweet Mared, and—
Liam’s heart stopped; for a moment he thought he was seeing a ghost. How could Nattie be there? Nattie! No, no, it was impossible. His fatigue—he closed his eyes, shook his head, and opened them again, but there she was, a little blond head following Mared. How? How could—
Diah! There she was—the single, burning ache in his heart, that vision that kept him awake at night and dogged his every waking step. The heavy knapsack slid from his shoulder and fell to the ground beside him. Unable to comprehend, to believe, he stood gaping, pounding his thigh with his fist to make certain he wasn’t dreaming, that he hadn’t at last lost his mind. But it was her, his angel, the one woman he had ever, would ever love, and Liam, in a spasm of relief or hope or fear, fell to his knees and looked heavenward. After all he’d been through, all he’d learned, after the two accursed tears he had shed one night aboard ship, he was to be given this dream?
“Thank ye,” he whispered hoarsely. “Thank ye. I’ll no’ let ye down.” And he thought, looking up at the half-moon over Talla Dileas, that he’d cherish this moment and this woman forever, that God had given him this second chance at love, something he had never realized how deeply he needed…until the flash of a fallen star streaked the sky, startling him, jolting him back to the reality of an angel flying low.
Thirty-one
The wine they had at supper had left Ellen feeling drowsy, for which she was grateful, for she had not, in the ten days or so she had been at Talla Dileas, recovered fully from her fever. The heat had left her, but the burn in her heart was ever present, burning the hole in her heart from missing him so.
She saw Natalie to bed, deflecting the questions that were coming with more regularity: Might we stay here forever? Mared is not a real princess, but she’ll be a lady someday, which is really almost the same. Do you think the laird likes us very much? I think he does, and I think he should like us to stay
forever. Will Captain Lockhart ever come home? Perhaps Griffin will go and look for him, because he doesn’t seem very happy here. He said it was far away from the rest of the world. If Griffin goes to look for him, may we stay here in his place?
When she was at last certain that Natalie had fallen into a deep slumber, Ellen walked through the door adjoining their rooms and quietly closed it behind her, so she could pace in peace. That had become her ritual, pacing in front of the cold hearth, her hands clasped behind her back, thinking, thinking, trying to come up with a new strategy, a reasonable course for her and Natalie. The only problem was, she couldn’t seem to come up with a bloody thing. It was almost as if reaching Talla Dileas had taken everything from her. But she had to think what to do if Liam did not come home straightaway—she’d been here more than a week since his last letter had come, and still there was nothing. She could not continue to exist off the kindness of the Lockharts any longer, and in truth, she and Natalie had already overstayed their welcome—it was clear the Lockharts were struggling, too.
That was all well and good, but she had managed to get herself here without any hope of leaving. Without any income whatsoever, she had no hope of getting past Aberfoyle. Aberfoyle! If she could only think of a way to return to Glasgow without incurring the outrageous cost of ten pounds for the privilege. But if she reached Glasgow, perhaps she could find employment….
“Of course you won’t find employment, you ninny!” she angrily chided herself. Who would want you? And for what? Do you think you might pass yourself off as a governess? You have no references! A housekeeper, then? As if you know the first thing about managing a large household!
Which left her, of course, with absolutely nowhere to go. Her only option—and it was scarcely an option—was to write her father. Or Eva. Or Judith.
Oh God.
Ellen paused in her pacing to laugh derisively at the ceiling. Oh, yes, her father would send for her, wouldn’t he? Never, not in her lifetime, not in a million years. And Eva? Eva might send her a few pounds, but she’d never defy their father by taking her in. Then there was Judith, dear Judith, the only true friend she had ever had. But needless to say, she had irreparably harmed that friendship. She was certain neither Judith nor Richard would be terribly eager to aid her now.
Her pacing ended as it always did—with no solutions, no answers, nothing but more anxiety to strangle her sleep. And as she lay in the massive four-poster bed, those troubling thoughts chased about her mind. The last thing she remembered before drifting off completely was Liam. It was always Liam.
She dreamed of him again, the same dream, Liam running from her, putting distance between them as she called out to him and begged him to come back. But he disappeared into blackness, and Ellen was once again in her father’s house, in her old room, in an old, lumpy bed. Then the bed changed into the large four-poster bed at Talla Dileas, and Liam was standing at the foot of it, his arms folded across his chest, calmly observing her at her toilette. In her dream Ellen was brushing her hair, one long stroke after the other, slowly, languidly, as Liam watched her. Then he moved toward her, silently and cautiously, reaching for the brush. With a smile, Ellen handed it to him, and he began to brush her hair, but then the brush disappeared, and his hand was on her neck, his fingers resting lightly on her pulse. He leaned down, touched her ear with his lip, and then, and then…
His hand drifted across her mouth, and he pressed down, silencing her. Silencing her.
A shudder of fear awakened her; Ellen screamed against his hand, but Liam smiled down at her as he grabbed her flailing arm, twisted it behind her back, and forced her onto her side by pressing his weight against her, holding her down so that she could not move. His mouth drifted across her ear, breathing into her, its warmth frightening. “Ah, Ellie,” he whispered. “What a wicked lass ye are.”
Shivering with fright, Ellen could only nod her complete agreement.
“Ach,” he breathed, the tip of his tongue dipping furtively into her ear. “Then ye’ll admit ye are a wicked one.”
Ellen nodded again; she could smell him, could smell the road he’d traveled, the hell he had gone through to come here.
“I donna know what to do with ye, Ellie, on me word. Shall I kill ye? Bind ye and punish ye, slowly and surely? Or leave ye unbound and begging for me mercy?”
Kill me. Punish me. Let me beg for mercy. All of it. Ellen closed her eyes and felt a tear slide from the corner onto the goose-down pillow. She was frightened of him, frightened of his anger. Yet at the same time she relished the familiar feel of his callused hand against her lips, her face.
The sound of his quiet laugh was ominous, though, and sent another raw shiver down her spine. His mouth grazed her temple, her ear, her jaw. “No, I donna think I would kill ye, no’ yet,” he murmured as he kissed her cheek, then the corner of her eye. “What will it be, then? Unbound?” He kissed her neck, then abruptly shoved her onto her back, straddling her. She could barely see him by the glow of the brazier, but she could see his eyes, dark green and ablaze with fury, roaming her face. His hair was wildly mussed, his shirt stained dark from perspiration. He looked as if he had just crawled out of the woods. And he was grinning, a wild, mad grin that sharpened her fear. “Unbound? No. I rather like this, I do.”
Ellie tried to speak, tried to tell him that he could do whatever he pleased to her and it still would not be enough, but he just chuckled and shook his head. “Hush… be still and let me have a look at ye, then. Ah, what a beauty ye are, Ellie. ’Tis the only thing that remains constant about ye, eh?” Her sight was blurring with the tears of her fright and regret; Liam leaned over, whispered in her ear, “When I remove me hand from yer mouth, ye willna cry out, and ye willna speak, will ye now?”
She shook her head.
“Do ye think I might trust yer promise at least on this?” he asked, smiling menacingly at his own jest. Slowly, Ellen nodded. His hand slid from her mouth, and still straddling her, he leaned back, his powerful thighs pinning her still beneath him. Ellen opened her mouth to speak, to explain, but he quickly shook his head, and frowning darkly, pressed a finger to her lips. “No!”
She obeyed him.
He smiled that dark, unnatural smile again, and reached for her hand. He held it in his own, caressed her fingers, threaded them through his, then lowered her hand and pushed it between his thigh and her body so that she could not move it. Then he took the other arm, caressed her wrist, kissed the soft inside of her elbow, and slowly raised her arm up and away from her body. With the other hand, he reached behind his back, took something from his belt, and before she realized what was happening, he began to tie her to the bedpost.
“Liam—”
“Ach, but I told ye no’ to speak, did I no’?” he asked patiently, as if chastising a child. From his pocket, he withdrew what looked like a kerchief. “Lift yer head, then,” he said amicably as he wound a dirty kerchief into a long strip. When Ellen did not move to do so, he lifted it for her, forced the kerchief between her teeth, and tied it loosely at the back of her head, enough to keep her from speaking. Carefully, he lowered her head, reached around his back, and took another strip of cloth or rope, and taking the hand he held captive, raised it, too.
Ellen attempted to pull free, but he was much stronger, and moreover, she had lost the will to fight. Let him do to her what he would—she deserved it and more. He bound her other arm by the wrist to the opposite bedpost so that she was stretched across the bed, unable to move, gagged so that she could not speak.
Liam smiled as his gaze wandered over her body. “Have ye any idea how long I’ve wanted ye like this? Trussed up so that ye couldna move and at me complete mercy?”
Oh, yes, she knew. She knew almost to the moment, and locking her gaze with his, nodded solemnly.
Liam cocked a brow. “Do ye, indeed? Then ye must also know all the things I thought to do to ye, eh?” he asked, his brows dipping into a vee.
Do anything. Hurt me. Make the guilt
go away.
“Aye,” he said, as if responding to her thoughts, “I’ve dreamed of it all. Every wee thing a man could do to a woman, I’ve thought of it. But those dreams, they always come back to the same place.”
Ellen cringed, not wanting to hear that place voiced aloud. But Liam laughed low, and with his finger, traced a line from the top of her forehead, between her eyes, and down to the tip of her nose. “I want ye to know the frustration, Ellie. I want to push ye headlong into that state of being unfulfilled, to know what it means to have life breathed into ye, golden and fresh, then have it knocked clean from yer lungs with one blow.”
Ah, God, dear God, how he must despise her! She loved him—loved him so completely that she finally understood what endless love meant. It did not mean pining, did not mean aching, it meant no beginning and no end, and in her heart, there was only Liam. Liam. The man she had betrayed. Another tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and she expected the worst for her crime, tried to prepare herself for it, but Liam just sat there, straddled across her, looking down at her, half in awe, half in triumph. And then he hooked one finger in the tie of her sleeping gown and pulled it free.
She felt the garment slide open; Liam casually pushed the rest of it aside, baring her shoulder. He touched it. Gingerly, reverently. Then a caress, his rough hand moving like silk over her skin, the inconsonant sensation of it bringing a rush of tortured memories to her. She whimpered with regret and longing against the gag, but Liam ignored her, just gathered the hem of her sleeping gown and pushed it up, exposing her. There was a rush of cold air on her skin; her nipples tautening. Liam came off her then and stood by the side of the bed, gazing down at her naked torso. The look in his eye was mad, she thought, but he suddenly turned away, walked across the darkened room, rummaged about her dressing table. After a moment, he turned, holding one of her stockings. “I want ye to feel what ye did to me, every moment of it,” he said, and leaned over her, draping the stocking across her eye.