by Julia London
Payton fell into a chair. What would he do with her? He couldn’t let her back into his heart so easily, not after she had wounded him so. Aye, but she had come crawling back to him, in a housekeeper’s gown, no less. A very difficult thing for a proud Lockhart to do.
He sighed and shook his head. “It willna work,” he said quietly.
Mared bit the inside of her mouth, but she said nothing.
“Ye might serve me all day long and it won’t change my feelings for ye,” he said, meaning it sincerely.
“Will ye no’ allow me to explain, then?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“I love ye, Payton,” she said. “More than life, I love ye.”
He did not speak. He did not dare speak. Those were exactly the words he’d longed to hear.
She glanced at her feet. “I canna rightly say why I believed I had to leave. I donna know why I couldna understand that the happiness I sought was here for the taking, if I’d only allowed myself to believe it. Diah, look what I’ve done. I’ve turned away the one man who would love me all me days—”
He gazed at her impassively.
“And I’ve lost the only man I shall ever love. I am so sorry, Payton,” she whispered plaintively. “I’m so sorry that I hurt ye. I would give ye the heavens would it convey how very sorry I am. To the depths of my soul, I am sorry—”
There was a knock at the door. Mared glanced at it, then at him. He looked away. With a sigh, she walked to the door and opened it to the footmen, returning with more pails of hot water. They trooped into the bathing room and emptied them.
“That will be all,” he said as they emerged from the bathing room. Charlie nodded, and the three of them went out, Mared shutting the door behind them.
Payton stood up, hardly sparing her a glance. “I’ll have that bath now,” he said. “If ye are determined, ye might do whatever it is ye do,” he said, gesturing to the room, and walked into the bathing room.
He divested himself of the robe, climbed into the tub and lowered himself into the hot water. And there he remained a few moments, listening to her move about his room. Making his bed, he thought. She was serious, it seemed. She meant to humble herself. Another very large step for a Lockhart.
“Mared,” he called out, absently toying with a sponge.
He heard her move to the open door behind him. “Aye?”
“Ye said ye were sorry for what ye’d done, then, aye?”
“Payton…” She suddenly appeared at his side, her eyes meeting his, beseeching him. “I am very sorry.”
He nodded, pressed the sponge to his shoulder and squeezed. Rivulets of hot water sluiced down his chest. “And are ye sorry for the neckcloths and shirts and linens ye ruined?”
That caught her off guard. “The…pardon, the neckcloths?” she asked uncertainly.
“Aye. Are ye sorry for them?”
“Ah…” She glanced heavenward, bit her lip, then muttered, “No.”
That was the Mared he loved. Unfailingly honest and too stubborn by half. “What of the tales ye told the chambermaids?” he asked. “The tales of ghosts and wicked Douglases? Are ye sorry for that?”
Mared pressed her lips firmly together and shook her head.
The crack in his resolve burst, and a chuckle escaped him. Mared instantly jerked a wide-eyed gaze to him, and Payton laughed. Before she could speak, he reached up and caught her wrist and pulled her down to the side of the tub. “Ye are no’ sorry for any of it, then?”
“No, not the poor housekeeping. How could I possibly be?”
“Then I suppose I will take what I can get,” he said and yanked her into the tub.
She landed with a shriek and a splash on his lap. He silenced any protests about her gown or propriety by putting his arms around her and kissing her with all the anger and hurt and grief and love he’d held for her these many long years. Love he’d not been able to purge from his veins, love that seemed to be hemorrhaging from his heart now.
He at last lifted his head, pulled the tie from her braid of hair and began to unravel it into long, wavy tresses of black.
“I love ye, Payton. More than life, I love ye.”
“Diah, Mared, I’ve waited an eternity to hear ye say it.”
“I know,” she said, and her smile faded as she snaked her arms around his neck. “But now that I have found me way to yer heart, it is too late! I’ll never forgive myself for being such a bloody fool!”
“Too late? It’s no’ too late, lass.”
“It is!” she insisted. “I know about Beitris!”
“Beitris Crowley?” he asked, momentarily confused.
“Aye! Ye’re to marry her!” she cried and with a moan from deep inside her, she closed her eyes, let her head drop back in agony.
“No, no, m’annsachd, no,” he said, caressing her neck. “Miss Crowley is to marry the smithy’s son. She’s to marry Mr. Abernathy.”
Mared’s head snapped up and she opened her eyes. “That handsome lad?”
“Aye,” he said, a smile returning to his face. “That handsome lad.”
“But Mr. Wallace said ye were to marry her! That ye were often in her presence! Ye took her sweetmeats, ye did!”
Payton laughed. “I brokered the offer for the lad. I took sweetmeats to present the offer to her father. They will announce it at services this Sunday.”
Mared blinked. “Then…ye donna love Miss Crowley?”
“Criosd, Mared! No, I donna love Miss Crowley! And Miss Crowley doesna love me. In spite of yer attempts, we determined long ago that we were no’ suited for marriage, and she confided in me then her love for Mr. Abernathy. I merely helped her.”
“Then…then I’m no’ too late,” she uttered, and something sparked in her green eyes.
He looked into those forest green eyes, so full of life, the ruby lips, the dimples in her cheeks that deepened with her pleasure. There was nothing that could keep him from loving this stubborn, impetuous, vibrant woman. “On my honor,” he said with a sigh, “ye could never be too late.” He enveloped her in his arms and kissed her deeply, like a man who had thirsted for love and who would never let her go, not again, not ever.
Her hands slipped to his body, her warmth radiating through the water into his skin, and he felt himself rise up, his cock hard and eager to make love to her, to the woman he thought he’d lost.
“Love me, Payton,” she murmured, reading his thoughts. “Please show me ye still love me, aye? And please donna make me ask thrice.”
He grinned, but he was already unfastening that awful housekeeper’s gown and helping her to pull it over her head. Mared smiled, her cheeks dimpling as she lifted her chemise over her head, too, then splashing carelessly about to straddle him.
With a sigh of contentment, Payton lay back in the tub and let his hands glide over her wet skin—her arms, her ribs into her waist, and the flare of her hips above the black thatch of hair. Mared’s eyes darkened; her gaze dipped to his body. And then she closed her eyes and sighed with what he thought was relief.
He sat up, his arms around her, his face pressed against the swell of her bosom, tasting her flesh.
She wrapped her arms around his neck as his lips grazed the curve of her throat. His hands had started a slow ascent up her rib cage, and he drew her breast into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the nipple.
Her body shivered at his touch, making his desire burn. He slid his hands down to her bottom, kneading it, holding her tightly against his rigid shaft while his tongue dueled wildly with hers. His mind, his eyes, his every fiber was filled with the scent and the feel of Mared, returned to him at last.
There was no need for words between them; he was dangerously aroused and desperate for her body, and he moved from her lips to her breast, taking her fully into his mouth, hungry for the taste of her. Mared whimpered with pleasure as he devoured her like a madman, without care of anything but the need to feel her, to touch her, to be deep inside her.
“Take
me,” she said, her voice rough with passion. “I belong to ye now. Freely. With all my heart, I belong to ye.”
Something primal and deep stirred in Payton’s groin; blood was raging through him like a swollen river. He had never desired anyone or anything so completely in his life. He pressed his mouth against hers, thrust his tongue inside as he grabbed her hips, lifting her up, lifting her onto him. Her chest was heaving; she looked down at him with a wickedly lustful look in her eye, and he smiled.
He slowly lowered her, anchoring her to his lap with one arm, slipping his free hand between them. Mared sighed when his fingers slipped deeper, and let her head fall back, moving her hips in such a way that sent the blood pounding through Payton, engorging him.
Mared’s response to his touch was explosive; she was moving harder against him, gasping for breath, the little cries of pleasure coming quicker and quicker in anticipation of release. He was quick to oblige her and began to move harder inside her—she was hot and wet and so bloody tight. Her body wrapped firmly around him, she met his rhythm, moving in time with him to help find her release. He helped her, too, rubbing and stroking as she rode him, higher and higher.
They were both panting; Mared had fallen over, bracing herself against his chest, her eyes closed, her brow furrowed as he stroked her to the same oblivion he felt weighing down on him. When he thought he could not deny himself another moment, Mared sobbed; her body contracted tightly around him and he felt the shudder of her release.
He was right behind her, his own release coming in quick, hot spurts at the end of savage thrusts.
She collapsed onto him, her wet hair covering them. As he drew deep breaths, Payton gently leaned back against the tub, taking her with him, stroking her back, and kissing her neck.
Neither of them spoke.
He was, in that moment of the purest love, unable to take his eyes from her, unable to believe that she had come back to him. She lay with her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted, her hair a mass of wet and riotous waves, her breasts lifting with each ragged breath. Mared Lockhart made love like a woman who had been cursed for a thousand years.
And he had never been so completely, so wholly satisfied as he was at that very moment.
She opened her eyes and smiled at him. Then she put her hand on his heart, pressing lightly against it, then took his hand and pressed it against her heart. “Listen,” she whispered. “Our hearts, they are beating as one.”
Epilogue
L iam and Ellie Lockhart had no more children after the birth of Duncan, but Anna Lockhart was delivered of a baby girl on February 2, 1819. The following year, she and Grif had another girl, and Talla Dileas was thriving with children and wealth again.
In 1820, having completed their grand tour of Europe and America while Grif looked after Eilean Ros, Mared Douglas gave birth to twin boys. Her husband could not have been more delighted. In 1822, she bore Payton a stillborn daughter, but in 1824, she bore him a healthy boy. In 1825 and 1826, respectively, she bore him two more children, another son and a daughter, who became the apple of her father’s eye.
Eilean Ros, the big rambling Georgian mansion on the banks of Loch Ard, was, at long last, filled with laughter and love and the sound of many children.
In 1828, the Douglas and Lockhart lands were at last united, and the region surrounding Loch Ard and Loch Chon did indeed became renowned for its sheep and its Highland cattle. In 1830, the first batch of Eilean Ros Whiskey, aged ten years, was distributed to America and Europe with great success. That was the same year that Natalie Lockhart returned to London and made her successful debut there. She became a renowned artist, her work desperately sought after among the highest echelons of London society.
On Christmas Eve 1831, the green salon of Eilean Ros was decorated with mistletoe and a dozen stockings hung by children awaiting Father Christmas. On the sideboard, a large, half-eaten platter of plum pudding was next to an even larger—and emptier—bowl of wassail. The sound of children laughing and shrieking with pleasure echoed up and down the long corridors of Eilean Ros.
All the Lockharts and Douglases were in attendance; even Natalie had come home. Anna was at the pianoforte, leading a rousing chorus of all their favorite Christmas hymns. Mared sat on the divan with their daughter, Lilias, who, having foregone the benefit of a nap earlier, was becoming quite cross and weary at the long day’s end.
Payton stood at the mantel, watching the raucous family gathering, his heart filled to the brim with happiness. This was precisely what he’d always wanted for Eilean Ros—laughter, warmth, and love. So much love. He was a fortunate man. He had four healthy, robust sons, a beautiful daughter, and the most beautiful wife God ever divined.
He looked at Mared, singing to her daughter. She was a little rounder now, and there was a bit of gray in her long black hair, but nevertheless, in his eyes, she was perfect. It seemed to him that her beauty deepened with age, gave it a rich character. And it was precisely that beauty that he’d endeavored to capture for all eternity. Which was why he held up his hand and called for Anna to stop playing the pianoforte, so that he might share his gift to Mared with her entire clan.
“If I might have a moment, I have something I would show ye,” he said and motioning for Natalie to join him, walked to the corner of the room, where his gift was draped. The children scampered after him, anxious to see the gift.
“Really, Payton,” Mared said laughingly, “ye’ve made quite a production of hiding whatever the thing is. Would ye end it all now?”
“Hush, now, woman, and come here,” he said with a grin, holding his hand out to her. Mared rolled her eyes, but nevertheless handed Lilias to her grandmamma, and joined Payton as she exchanged looks and bits of laughter with her brothers.
When she reached him, she slipped her arm around his waist and kissed his cheek. “All right, then, sir, here I am. Whatever do ye have behind there?”
“Do ye recall the day I made ye sit for a pocket portrait?” he asked her, touching her nose with his knuckle.
“Aye.”
“And do ye recall that I insisted I meet Natalie in Glasgow when she returned from London?”
“Of course!” Mared said, and winked at a beaming Natalie.
Payton grabbed the drape and yanked it. Mared and her family gasped as the drape fell away, for behind it was a six-foot portrait of Mared, intended for the family gallery.
“It’s Mummy!” one of their twins exclaimed. “And us, too!”
Mared looked up at Payton, wonder in her eyes.
He grinned. “Our Natalie is a gifted artist,” he said, as Liam, practically blubbering with pride, grabbed his daughter up and hugged her tightly.
It was, Payton thought, a most regal picture. He’d been very pleased with the result; Natalie had done a remarkable job.
In the portrait, Mared was sitting on a lawn, surrounded by her children and her dogs. She wore the dress she’d been married in more than ten years ago. The emerald her family had given her was around her neck, and the luckenbooth he’d had made for a betrothal gift pinned her arisaidh to her breast. Her black hair was braided and falling over her shoulder. Her expression was beautiful and serene and with just a hint of a smile on her lips, one lone dimple in her cheek.
But there was no mistaking the glint in those green eyes. Mischievous, through and through. Natalie had indeed captured Mared’s essence.
“Definitely an improvement to the Douglas line,” Grif said, nodding approvingly.
Mared leaned forward to read the gold engraved label. “‘The Tenth Lady Douglas,’” she read aloud…and then paused, moved closer and squinted. “And beneath that, it says, ‘a Douglas in name, but a Lockhart at heart.’” She straightened and beamed at Payton. “Ye remembered, mo ghraidh!”
“M’annsachd, have ye let me forget it as much as a day?” Payton asked with a laugh, and indeed, she had not. Since they had married that Christmas so long ago, not a day had passed that he had n
ot laughed and loved and been thoroughly exasperated at one point or another.
“It’s breathtaking,” Mared said, and looked at Natalie. “I canna imagine how ye did it, Nattie, what with nothing more than the little pocket portrait.”
Natalie shrugged shyly. “It was easy.”
“It’s absolutely gorgeous,” Mared continued. “It’s the most beautiful gift I might have hoped to receive. It’s…” Her voice trailed off, and she suddenly squinted, then moved forward, through her four sons, peering hard at the portrait. “I beg yer pardon, but are those sheep in my meadow?”
Payton laughed and grabbed her up before she could protest, for in the portrait, his lovely wife was indeed surrounded by sheep.
Some things never changed.
Enjoy the following excerpt from the first novel in Julia London’s captivating Lockhart family trilogy, HIGHLANDER UNBOUND, featuring Captain Liam Lockhart and London socialite Ellen Farnsworth.
Ellen put the candelabra aside on an old console, and together she and Liam 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.