Highlander Unbound

by Julia London

  But Farnsworth did not bother to look where she pointed; he was too busy peering suspiciously at her. “What’s that smell?” he demanded.

  Liam. Oh God, like a dog on the hunt, he had smelled him. Ellen swallowed. “P-pardon?”

  “Smells, I said! Rather like greasy meat.”

  The partridge—

  “Just where would you get your hands on poor quality meat?” he pondered.

  How odd that this remark, of all those he had made to her in the last two years, should ignite such resentment, but it enraged Ellen. Her very own father held her in slightly better stead than a prisoner, fed them nothing short of swill, and then had the audacity to ask her where she might have found meat? She could feel the color bleeding hot into her face again. “If I am in the possession of such meat, sir, it has come from your very own kitchen.”

  “Don’t be smart with me!”

  “I am hardly being smart. I am merely stating a fact.”

  Farnsworth’s eyes widened at her cheek. “I’ll not abide your impertinence, Ellen!” he snapped, then made a show of strolling to the window to gaze out into the night. Ellen watched him rise up on his toes, then settle down again. Her irritation was mounting—impertinence? When he deigned to acknowledge her and Natalie at all, he treated them like lowly servants. She had endured it, had thought she was shielding Natalie from the worst, but at the moment she was hardly in the mood to humor him with her acquiescence. She was, lest he had forgotten, his daughter, for God’s sake! No matter what she had done, she deserved better from him.

  It was at that precise moment that her sense of reason and consideration flew out of her head. “Pray tell, Father, to what do I owe this extraordinary visit?” she asked, her voice barely civil.

  “Determined to earn my wrath, are you? If you had come below when I said—”

  “I obviously did not get the note, for surely I would have come to you rather than have you climb the stairs to my suite.”

  “Oh, really?” he drawled, pivoting and walking toward her again. “And why should I not come to your suite if I like? This is my house, is it not?”

  “A fact you have made abundantly clear and on more than one occasion.”

  “I can only surmise that you are perhaps trying to hide something,” he said, baiting her.

  He was successful. Years of regret and repugnance evaporated all of her patience. “Hide something?” she snapped, clearly surprising him. “What could I possibly hide, Father? I have no funds other than the paltry few crowns you’ll allow me, I have no social connections, I have nothing! I have only Natalie! Tell me, please; exactly what do you think I could possibly be hiding?”

  Farnsworth’s monocle fell from its superior perch with her outburst and he blinked rapidly. “What?” he asked in stunned breathlessness. “What did you say?”

  Ellen had done it; she folded her arms across her middle, waited for the bitter rancor she knew would come.

  “How dare you speak to me thus!” he cried, obliging her. “I have every right to disown you for what you did! And you would have the gall to complain to me?”

  “Dear God! It was ten years ago, Father! One summer, one mistake, ten years ago!”

  “Do not think to lecture me on the timing or enormity of your foolishness! Your actions brought a blight to this family and I shall not forgive it! Do you think I enjoy harboring a whore and her bastard child in my house? If I could toss you aside like so much rubbish, I would do so!”

  He might as well have slapped her. She felt as if she were nineteen all over again, feeling the seed of his hatred take root, wanting to shield her unborn child from his vitriol. It had been a futile desire—his hatred had grown inside her, poisoned Natalie. Ellen despised her father, and honestly, she could not remember a time when he had been either loving or particularly paternal. He had, she realized after long nights of introspection, hated her long before she’d met Daniel and her nightmare had begun.

  But she was not the same nineteen-year-old debutante now, and somehow she found her voice. “You’ve made it perfectly clear that you do not want us, sir,” she said, the calm tone of her voice surprising even her. “You may trust me, we both know it and feel it deeply…but that has been your wish all along, has it not? To make us feel your hatred? Rest assured, if I had the means, I would not so much as darken your door. But as I have no means, and no hope of gaining them, I have nowhere to go with my daughter. I can only conclude you rather enjoy keeping us prisoner here.”

  “Ha!” he spat at her. “Don’t be absurd, Ellen! If your mother hadn’t died when she did, you’d not be in London. I would have left you in Cornwall to rot! But she did die, and I had no choice but to bring you here, did I? I will never forgive you, and I will not allow you to besmirch my name or Eva’s reputation any more than you already have! For if there is one thing in which I am entirely confident, it is once a whore, always a whore!”

  She was numb now, so numb that his brutal words had no effect on her, and she smiled thinly at his attempt to hurt her. “You have nothing to fear, Father. You have isolated us from the world so very well that there is no possible way to dishonor you. After all, it takes two.”

  Farnsworth gasped, but Ellen had already turned away, was walking blindly toward the door, wishing (God forgive her) that her father was dead. Just gone. Or someone entirely different than the bitter little man that he was.

  She reached the door, put her hand on the knob, and turned to face him. “What was it you wanted?” she asked coldly.

  His face had mottled with anger; he moved quickly toward her, seeming as anxious to be gone as she was for him to leave. “I intend to be gone a fortnight come Sunday morning. Agatha will be here in my stead to keep an eye on you,” he said coldly. “Heed me, Ellen, if you are hiding anything, I will discover it. And if you think I will not exact appropriate punishment, you would do well to think again. Do I make myself exceedingly clear?”

  “Exceedingly,” she said acidly.

  He stopped directly in front of her, stood eye to eye. He leaned forward, so that his face was inches from hers, and Ellen fought to keep from recoiling at the stench of his breath. “There is one more thing, girl. Do not cross me! And keep that bastard of yours away from my tenant! If you cannot conduct yourself appropriately and see to it that the girl does likewise, there will be hell to pay. You have my word on that.”

  Ellen turned her head, heard his grunt of disgust as he walked through the door, and closed it with a loud bang behind him. Her chest heaving, she waited until she could hear him on the stairs. Only then did relief flood her; she leaned against the door, the weight of his hatred forcing her to her knees, the familiar tears of frustration spilling onto her cheeks.

  She had to find a way out, using whatever means necessary. She had no other option.

  And as she sat there, huddled, an idea slowly came to her. It was absurd, ridiculous…but it was better than nothing, she supposed, and after several moments, she slowly pulled herself up. With a hand on her belly to push down the sudden nausea, she walked to the secretary, uncovered the letter she had written to Judith. Hardly sparing it a glance (she had read it so many times, she knew it by heart), she sat down, took a breath, and dipped her pen in ink.

  Ellen sent Natalie down to Liam the next afternoon with a mission: Bring back his wrinkled clothing. She had borrowed the clothing iron from Agatha with an excuse of having rumpled her gold silk (I’ll press it for you, milady. Just leave it be, Agatha had insisted), and after much discussion, she had returned to her rooms with the clothing iron, triumphant.

  When Natalie came upstairs with Liam’s wrinkled clothing, she heated the iron as Agatha had shown her and attempted to press a waistcoat. Unfortunately, she had heated the thing too thoroughly and burned a hole straight through the linen fabric. She could cross chambermaid off her list of potential occupations, then. A little frantic, she had gone up to the unused third floor of the mansion, to the rooms in the very northern corner that held tru
nks and boxes full of family belongings.

  In the third trunk she found the men’s clothing she had seen once before. She began to sort through the items, and in one pocket of a pair of trousers she found a calling card: Lord Richard Farnsworth. Her father’s brother had died of a fever just three years ago. Uncle Richard had been a surprisingly affable man, quite the opposite of her father both in mien and appearance. He was much larger than Farnsworth—tall, dapper, and known as one of the great London dandies of his time. Ellen continued sorting through the old clothing, and while she found only a few formal clothes, and some riding and walkabout clothes, too, she found one delicately embroidered waistcoat, the color of lichen moss.

  The color of Liam’s eyes.

  That afternoon at precisely five minutes after five o’clock, Ellen walked to the window and saw her father toddling off to his usual evening of gaming. She returned to her task, finished the last pair of Liam’s trousers (without any burns, thank you), and neatly folded them, adding them to the stack of freshly pressed clothing she had managed to complete without incident. She then repaired to her dressing room and selected a white gown adorned with tiny silk rosebuds across the bodice and down the train. Eva had expensive, albeit overly modest taste, but the gown was very nice, really. She was fastening the last of her mother’s necklaces, the one with red glass beads she could not bring herself to part with, when she heard Natalie’s voice.

  “You really eat a frightful lot of cabbage, you know.”

  Ellen fastened the necklace, took one last look at her hair.

  “Aye, lass, I eat cabbage, no’ hasty pudding. I shouldna like a prince to come and rescue me, would I now?”

  That made no sense whatsoever and gave Ellen pause.

  “Well, he won’t rescue you, because you’re not a princess. You’re a captain. But he’ll come for my mother if you don’t.”

  Ellen did not need to hear more. She dashed toward the main room before Natalie could say anything else to humiliate her. She stopped at the door; her gaze met Liam’s, and a flush of warmth ran through her. This Scot had truly captured her fancy, hadn’t he? She marveled at it, smiling broadly. “I’m so glad you’ve come, Liam!”

  Standing in the middle of the room, holding a large bouquet of pilfered flowers, he frowned and tried to smooth as many of the wrinkles from his trousers as he could, but having no luck with them at all, seemed to resign himself to their existence. “I donna know what to say to something so kindly put, in truth. Other than there is naugh’ that could keep me away,” he blurted.

  Her flush turned even warmer; still smiling, she walked toward him, nodded at the flowers. “Shall I presume they are for us?”

  Just like he had the first time, Liam looked curiously at the flowers, almost as if he were surprised to be holding them. “Aye, they are. I took them from yer neighbor’s garden so as not to ruffle any feathers in the park. Yer fellow countrymen seem rather tenderhearted about it.”

  “They’re beautiful. Why don’t you put them in water, Natalie?” she suggested, to which the girl happily agreed, and they watched her skip across the room and disappear into the adjoining room.

  “Ye’re all I can keep in me head, Ellie,” Liam said, drawing her attention back to him. He was looking at her strangely, as if he weren’t quite certain who he was seeing, and slowly shook his head in bewilderment. “Ach, I see that smile, and I think to meself, could she be smiling at ye, lad, with yer broken face and rustic ways? And then I see that, aye, she does indeed smile at me, and I feel me heart melt a wee bit more.”

  “Ooh, Liam…”

  “Aye, ye’re a bonny thing, Ellie Farnsworth, and I’m right glad to have known ye, I am.” He fished in the pocket of his dreadfully wrinkled trousers, withdrawing something that he held tightly in his fist. “I’ve something for ye, leannan.” He opened his fist, revealing a smooth pebble in the palm of his hand. “I know it doesna seem to be much; ’tis a stone from the stream that runs across Talla Dileas—home, that is—and I carry it with me always,” he said, tapping a fist to his heart.

  She moved closer; the stone, small in his bearlike hand, was polished smooth, variegated, with streaks of earth brown and autumn gold running through it. It was beautiful, and it conjured up the description of his home he had given her over beef stew that night.

  “It means much to me,” he said, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, and gestured for her to open her hand, then laid it in her palm. Ellen turned it over, felt the smooth sides with her forefinger, and wondered about a man who would carry a small stone. So loyal, so true. So different from Daniel…

  “Ye donna look pleased,” he said, his voice belying his disappointment. “’Tis a silly pebble, I know, but—”

  “Oh, no, Liam, you are wrong. I am very pleased—but I don’t feel deserving.” She smiled gratefully. “I think it is the most beautiful gift I have ever received, and I shall treasure it always.”

  Liam nodded, looked at his feet, and Ellen saw the giant little boy she had seen in him the first time he had called. “Bloody hell, then, I’m becoming as barmy as the English,” he said disgustedly.

  Ellen laughed, withdrew a linen from her pocket and carefully folded the stone in it, then slipped it into her pocket again. “We think alike, sir, for I have something for you, too,” she said.

  “Mother, won’t you tell him the surprise?” Natalie said, coming through the door with a vase full of flowers.

  “I was on the verge of admitting that there has been something of an accident,” Ellen said, exchanging a giggle with Natalie, and at Liam’s curious look said, “I’m afraid, sir, that your waistcoat met with a terrible demise.”

  Liam winced unabashedly. “Ach, now, do no’ tell me such a thing! Grif will have me very head, he will!”

  “Can I fetch the surprise, Mother, please?”

  “Yes,” she said, laughing as Natalie skipped to the other side of the room, picked up a package wrapped in brown paper and raced back to hold it proudly before Liam.

  “Go on. Take it,” Ellen urged Liam.

  He frowned. “I’ll warn ye now, I’m a soldier. I donna like surprises by nature.”

  Natalie giggled.

  Liam grunted his disapproval, but took the package from her and tore at the string that bound it. “Mary Queen of Scots,” he breathed harshly as he withdrew the waistcoat.

  “Don’t you like it very much?” Natalie asked excitedly.

  “Like it?” He turned it over. “Ahem… of course I like it!” he said, as if that were a ridiculous question. “But ’tis far too extravagant for the likes of me,” he said, and held it out to Ellen between two fingers. “Ye shouldna waste yer good coin.”

  “Oh no, we didn’t purchase it,” Ellen said happily. “We found it. It belonged to my late uncle. I think it should fit you perfectly. Hold it up, will you?”

  “I’m certain it will do—”

  “Liam. Hold it up, please.”

  With another grimace, he did as she asked. “Perfect!” she exclaimed as Natalie clapped cheerfully, and they laughed again at Liam’s look of pure chagrin.

  The clothing decided, whether he liked it or not, Liam stayed for the remainder of the evening, long after Ellen had put Natalie to bed. They talked like two old friends, each reliving stories from childhood, talking about their lives until now. Each carefully skirting the darker things that they would keep to themselves for the time being.

  Ellen asked more about the beastie. It was supposedly made of solid gold, he said, with ruby eyes, a ruby mouth and tail. Stood perhaps as much as a foot high. He told her the story of its many trips between England and Scotland, the legends surrounding it, and he admitted more fully the animosity that ran between the two branches of the Lockharts because of it. Together they speculated where the Lockharts might have put something so old, with Ellen theorizing it would be the main drawing room, where they would want to display their treasures to impress callers. But Liam shook his head. “’Tis no’ a pretty thin
g,” he said. “Most would find it hideous, if the descriptions of it are accurate.”

  “What do you think it is worth?” she asked.

  Liam shrugged. “Solid gold, rubies…We believe it is worth several thousand pounds.”

  Several thousand pounds…

  He seemed reluctant to say more, and their talk turned to tea, with Ellen explaining the protocol. On her fourth try, Liam exclaimed with great exasperation, “What a lot of bother for something as tasteless as tea!”

  She could hardly disagree.

  As the evening faded to night, Liam gathered Ellen in his arms and kissed her deeply, his desire unapologetically evident. He was not alone—Ellen felt her body come alive with his touch, as if he had breathed life into a dying thing. She wanted to feel him, feel his body on her, his body inside of her. That very thought brought a rash of heat to her face; she felt ashamed, as if desiring the touch of another human being was wrong somehow. She didn’t want to think of it at all, really, because in the circle of his arms, Ellen felt herself falling all over again, only harder than she had ever fallen before, and she thought the world was finally crumbling beneath her feet.

  It was a magnificent fall from grace.

  Fifteen

  On Sunday, Liam arrived at the Lockhart mansion at precisely four o’clock, wearing the foppish, repulsively embroidered waistcoat Ellie had given him, and was shown to a very large salon by a very stiff butler who asked him to kindly wait for Nigel. Not surprisingly, Nigel was a little late in rising from his afternoon nap.

  That was all well and good, really, because Liam was taken aback by the opulence of the drawing room and needed a few moments to regain his composure. The Scottish Lockharts were losing ground every day, but the English Lockharts were apparently living quite high on the hog. From the rich mahogany floor-to-ceiling wood mantel to the leather wing-backed chairs and overstuffed divan, thick Aubusson carpet, and heavy brocade drapes, there was nothing that did not seem steeped in money. Mountains of it.