Highlander Unbound

by Julia London

  Ellen took a seat on a bench in the clearing, turned her face up to the delicious warmth of the sun, and closed her eyes, eagerly letting her mind return to Liam, to the feel of his callused hand on her skin, the heat of his lips in her hair. He had left her a mess, her insides simmering with need, her imagination racing. The entire day had seemed all upside down somehow, and when she closed her eyes, she could only see Liam. She closed her eyes quite often, actually, so that she could gaze at that rugged face, every crevice, every scar, every speck of color in his green eyes, then wish fervidly for the sensation of his touch and the burn that went so deep inside her.

  It was in the depth of that wish that she felt the warmth leave her face; a shadow had crossed the sun, and she opened her eyes. She gasped at the shadow (Liam!), thought for a moment that it was her imagination until she lifted her hand to shield her eyes and could see him. “Wh—How did you find me?” she stammered.

  “’Tis ye that found me, Ellie,” he corrected her, moving so that the sun was not in her eyes.

  That was when Ellen noticed his attire—what was left of it, anyway. It looked as if he had rolled down a hillside—his shoulder-length, wavy hair was in wild disarray, and what looked to be a twig of some sort was protruding from one tress. He had slung his coat over his shoulder, and his cambric shirt, terribly wrinkled and muddied, was hanging loose to mid-thigh. His buckskins were stained at the knees, and on the tip of his forefinger, he held a neckcloth, sopping wet. “What…have you met with an accident?” she asked, alarmed.

  Liam laughed at that, a deep, warm laugh, and suddenly went down on his haunches before her. “In a manner of speaking, ye might say as much, aye.” He laughed again. “The accident is me cousin, Nigel. He invited me for a shoot, and we had a wee problem.”

  “Involving mud, I take it?”

  “That, and various other,” he said, his green eyes dancing with amusement. “I did a bit of laundering here.”

  “Here?” she asked, confused.

  “Aye,” he said, motioning to the pond. “Ye’ve stumbled upon me pond, Ellie.”

  She looked at the pond, then at Liam again. His pond? He had laundered his neckcloth in the pond? The very notion was so absurd and so very resourceful that she burst into laughter. “Oh, my, Captain Lockhart, why on earth did you not leave it for Follifoot?”

  “Follifoot?” Liam chuckled and shook his head. “I’m afraid yer father didna include the good services of Follifoot in the rent.”

  “Do you mean to say that you are laundering all your clothes in this pond?” she asked, appalled.

  “Ach, ’tis no’ like that,” he said, sounding a little indignant. “I use the bath for me drawers.”

  Ellen blinked.

  Liam smiled, as if it were perfectly natural to launder one’s drawers in one’s bath.

  She eyed his wrinkled shirt more closely. “I see. And by the look of it, you’ve done quite a bit of laundering recently,” she added, smiling up at him.

  Liam looked down, but whatever he might have responded was lost as they were both startled by the cry, “You’re beastly!”

  Ellen’s heart filled with panic; she jerked her gaze to where the children were playing. Natalie was standing on the edge of their circle, facing a boy and a girl, her bonnet gone. Ellen came to her feet at once, watched in horror as the girl pushed Natalie down. A mother—no, a governess—was running toward the children from the opposite direction, and Ellen realized she was running, too.

  She reached Natalie at the same time the other woman did, and grabbed Natalie by the shoulders to lift her to her feet.

  “Goodness, what are you about, Miss Lucy?” the woman exclaimed as she grabbed the other little girl.

  “She’s wretched!” the girl wailed. “She tells horrid lies and she’s cruel!”

  “Cruel!” Ellen exclaimed, looking in disbelief at Natalie.

  The woman shook the girl. “I hardly care if she’s a devil, Miss Lucy! Proper young ladies do not go about pushing other young ladies down!”

  “But Miss Potts, she said her father would kill his lordship!” the boy insisted.

  Ellen gasped, looked down at Natalie, who had yet to look up. “Did you say such a terrible thing?” she demanded.

  Natalie nodded sheepishly.

  “Mary Queen of Scots,” Liam muttered next to her.

  “She’s beastly!” Lucy wailed again.

  “But you wouldn’t allow me to play!” Natalie objected suddenly and strongly.

  “That’s because you said you were a princess, and your father was a king—”

  “I only wanted to play!” she tearfully insisted.

  “Still, you shouldn’t walk about telling lies,” the boy said haughtily. “God will smite you for it.”

  “She really shouldn’t,” Miss Potts said to Ellen. “She’s upset the children.”

  “I believe your children have upset my daughter,” Ellen shot back.

  “I don’t want to play with you!” Lucy said petulantly, crossing her arms over her chest. “You wear horrid frocks and tell horrid stories!”

  “Ach, what a vile tongue ye have there, lassie! Do ye know what we do with naughty children at Loch Chon?” Liam demanded.

  That certainly silenced everyone; the two children and their Miss Potts gaped up at Liam, dumbfounded.

  “We eat them and put their eyes in our pudding.”

  Miss Potts gasped in horror; little Lucy backed up into her skirts and the boy darted behind her, staring fearfully at Liam.

  “How dare you, sir!” Miss Potts hissed.

  “Yer children are unruly,” he responded calmly, and Ellen wanted to kiss him, then and there.

  From the look of it, Miss Potts wanted to kill him. She glared at Ellen, then at Liam as she gathered her two charges close to her. “I’ll be certain his lordship hears of this!” she said sternly.

  “And ye’d do well to loosen that corset a wee bit, lass,” Liam offered helpfully, to which Miss Potts gasped again, pulling her charges away and up the hill.

  Ellen waited until they were out of earshot, then stared down at Natalie so harshly that the girl openly cringed. “Laria, is it? You’ve decided to let everyone in on your little kingdom, have you?” she demanded angrily.

  Natalie shrugged, looked at her dress. “There’s nothing wrong with my frock!” she said petulantly.

  Ellen looked heavenward for a moment, trying to regain her composure. Of course there was nothing wrong with Natalie’s frock, other than it was permanently stained along the hem and it was old, passed down from Eva. That was, however, beside the point, and she grabbed Natalie’s hand. “It’s time we returned home,” she added, and abashed, glanced at Liam. “I am terribly sorry, Liam. We are not generally so…so—”

  “Quite all right. I’d see ye home, I would, but I’ve something I must do,” he said, looking terribly unsettled by the whole thing.

  Ellen could hardly blame him—she was mortified that Natalie had behaved so badly in front of him, even more mortified that she couldn’t seem to befriend other children. She bade him a hasty good day and pulled Natalie along with her to escape his gaze as quickly as she could.

  Neither she nor Natalie spoke as they made the long trek across Hyde Park, and there was no point in it as far as Ellen could see. She could hardly begin to count the times she had talked to her daughter, had warned her, had begged her not to slip from reality, to stay grounded in London. But Natalie was getting older, and Ellen could feel her slipping from her grasp, and she felt especially desperate now that her daughter was wrapping her strange little world like a cloak around her, taking it with her wherever she went.

  At home again, Ellen sent Natalie to her room as punishment for her little brawl, and watched the girl walk, head down, to that space that was her own private prison. Honestly, sometimes when Ellen looked at her daughter she saw a real princess. A mother, a wife, a lady of stature. But lately she looked at Natalie and saw only a little girl lost, with no hope o
f a future, no hope of ever escaping these dank, confining walls.

  Oh, her father ensured that all their most basic needs were met—they had food and clothing (not exactly haute couture, but clothing nonetheless). They had a roof over their heads, Agatha and Follifoot to tend to them. What Farnsworth had taken from them was, of course, their spirits, which had been exactly his intent—all for her ancient sin of having fallen in love. Ellen couldn’t care less if he took the spirit from her, if he beat her down and trampled what was left of her pride. But she couldn’t bear to see him take it from Natalie. Natalie was innocent.

  Lord God, she had to do something, had to think of an escape, a plan, before Natalie was lost forever.

  Ellen glanced at her writing desk. There, tucked beneath a book, was a letter she had started to her dear friend Judith many weeks ago. A letter in which she asked if she and Natalie might call for a fortnight. She had the funds for the public coach; they could reach Judith tomorrow if she so desired. Yet she had never sent the letter because one question continued to trouble her: Where would they go after the fortnight? How would they live? What would they do?

  Ellen fell onto the couch of her sitting room, stared at the cold hearth, her mind swirling around every conceivable idea toward that end.

  Downstairs, Liam had returned from Hyde Park, having cleaned his gun and dressed the two partridges he had convinced Nigel to let him keep. Those he carried in a leather satchel he had purchased with his dwindling funds. The satchel was, however, something he considered a necessity, as it was apparent to him he would be forced to find his own food if he wanted to eat.

  And now, standing there, staring at the clothing strewn carelessly about the room, he noticed with a wince (since Ellie had noticed) that Griffin’s clothing was indeed quite mussed, even if he had done his level best to clean it. His mind was instantly decided—he walked across the room, put the partridges aside, and yanked on the bellpull.

  When Follifoot appeared a quarter hour later, Liam smiled. “Ah, Follifoot, yer looking well indeed,” he said with enthusiasm. “Ye look like a man who’d feel up to fetching a few buckets of hot water, eh?”

  Follifoot’s expression crumbled; he glanced at the clothing strewn everywhere.

  “I know what ye’d be thinking,” Liam said. “And ye’d be right. I did indeed launder the clothing. But I didna clean meself,” he said, and chuckled cheerfully when Follifoot’s shoulders sagged with his moan.

  Two hours later, Ellen had bathed and changed into a gown of gold crepe that fell in soft folds over a long chemise of cream. It was one of her favorite gowns, one she had reserved for months for a special occasion…but hope was springing less and less eternal.

  She sighed, looked at the passable lamb stew Follifoot had carried up. Natalie had left it untouched, had cried herself to sleep after Ellen had scolded her for what had happened in the park. She was still asleep, her arms curled tightly around a lumpy pillow, a frown on her soft, pretty face. Ellen quietly pulled the door to her room to and returned to the sitting room, feeling terribly restless. The house was quiet and empty now; she was alone with her dreams of escape.

  She glanced at the window, noticed in the late evening sky that clouds had formed, hanging ripe overhead, and felt in her bones the rain returning.

  The knock at the door startled her. She had not thought he’d come after what had happened and came quickly to her feet, rushed to the oval mirror above the settee to check her reflection. She smoothed her hair, pinched her pale cheeks, and shook the fabric of her gown to make it fall correctly over the chemise. And as she muttered to her heart to stop beating so painfully in her chest, she opened the door.

  She saw only the ruggedly handsome man with leaf-green eyes and that prideful look—all that she had yearned for today. He was here, come to her door…to her arms, she hoped. Except…except… She couldn’t help noticing, that her proud Highland soldier was wearing…was wearing…(What exactly was it?)…a frock.

  At least it looked like a frock of some sort, except not a frock, exactly. A skirt of some type. A plaid, woolen thing, belted at his waist, topped with a small leather bag, above which he wore a pristine white shirt and a dark coat. Even more alarming was the shoes he wore, laced up over stockings, all the way up to his knees. His bare knees. His startlingly appealing bare knees.

  “Féileadh beag. A kilt,” he said, by way of explanation. “The Highland regiments wear them.”

  Ellen blinked and looked at his legs again.

  Liam looked at her curiously. “Ye see the medal on me chest, do ye no’?”

  She dragged her gaze from his legs to the medal on his chest. Medals, actually. Four, to be exact. “Ah! Military medals. I-—I…I’ve never seen a kilt. Quite…fetching,” she said uncertainly.

  “Ach, yer blushing now,” he said, smiling. “Have ye no’ seen a man’s legs, Miss Farnsworth?”

  Her blush seated deeper. “I, ah…ahem—”

  “Have I come at a bad time, then?”

  “N-no! No!”

  “Because I brought ye a fine supper, I did. I thought perhaps ye could use it.”

  “Really?” she asked, ridiculously pleased.

  “Aye, really. Would ye like it?”

  “Yes! Yes of course!” she said, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come in.

  Liam strode purposefully across the threshold, his plaid swinging carelessly around his knees. “Do ye like partridge, then?” he asked, taking a small leather satchel from his shoulder.

  “Partridge?”

  “Partridge. A fat little bird,” he said, reaching into the satchel. He withdrew a handful of raw meat, held it up for Ellen’s inspection. “Caught just today.”

  She gaped at the bird flesh. “It’s been dressed,” she said aloud.

  “Of course it has, lass! The pond is good for more than laundering!” He smiled. Ellen had a sudden and vivid image of him cleaning the fowl along the banks of that pond. First his neckcloth, then the bird—

  “Ellie,” he said, clucking his tongue. “Ye look as if ye expect to eat it thus,” he said. “Of course I’ll cook it for ye.”

  “Cook it? And how exactly will you do that?” she asked, confused.

  “Ye’ve a fire, do ye no’?”

  Ellen looked at the fire, then at Liam. “Do you mean to suggest that you are going to cook that bird over that fire?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Aye, of course.”

  “But…but with what, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  He winked, leaned over, and withdrew a long dagger from his stocking, pierced the meat he was holding. “If ye donna mind me saying, Ellie, ye could stand to be a wee bit more ingenious, like yer Natalie.”

  Ingenious like Natalie? And as if she hadn’t been astounded enough, he walked over to the fire, went down on his haunches, thrust the bird into the fire, all the while whistling a cheerful little tune.

  Thirteen

  The smell of roasted partridge was enough for Ellie to overcome any misgivings she had, apparently—and Liam was pleased that the partridge did indeed smell divine. After a moment of looking rather shocked, Ellie pulled an ottoman over to where he was crouched in front of the fire, sat on the edge of it, leaving enough room for him (or rather, that was how he eagerly interpreted the move). They sat, side by side on the ottoman, his knee tantalizingly close to hers, taking turns roasting the fat little bird.

  “You’ve apparently done this before,” she said, as she attempted to turn the partridge and drip the fat away from the fire as he had shown her.

  “I canna count the times. One learns to feed oneself in war, I suppose.”

  “I can scarcely imagine it,” she said thoughtfully. “The public accounts of the war were quite subdued, really. I believe they must have omitted the offensive details.”

  Because the details were simply too horrid to write about, he’d wager. “’Tis just as well ye never know, Ellie,” he said. “A lady has no reason to hear such ugly things as goes on
in war.” And he sincerely meant that, hoped she’d never hear the truth.

  “Really?”

  “Still haunts me dreams.” That, and trolls, the nasty buggers.

  Ellie seemed to consider that for a moment, then blurted. “But don’t you ever want to talk about it? Sometimes I feel positively full to bursting with…with things about life, and I’m quite desperate to just say it and have it out. Don’t you ever feel the same?”

  That surprised him. As far as he knew, ladies weren’t supposed to be bursting with troubles. Liam glanced at her from the corner of his eye and wondered if it were possible that life could be so hard and complicated for her as it was for him. “I canna say so,” he said when she looked to him for an answer. “Most of it I’d rather no’ hear meself, much less trouble anyone else with it. I do just as well to forget.”

  “Truly?” she asked him earnestly. “I mean, can you truly forget?”

  “Truly,” he lied, and lifted the partridge off the fire to have a look. “Just a wee bit more.”

  She seemed to accept his answer—or at least his inability to talk about what had happened in the war—and stared wistfully into the fire.

  They sat in companionable silence for a time, watching the bird roast. But there were so many thoughts going round in Liam’s head, so many things he wanted to know about the woman sitting next to him, what the thing was filling her to the point of bursting that she wanted out of her. Whatever it was, he was acutely aware that he wanted to remove it, replace it, fill the void completely with himself. He leaned forward to better position the partridge, smiled at Ellie, and silently acknowledged that he was quietly going mad. Mad with desire, with thoughts completely new and foreign to him.