Twenty-six

I t was no more than a pinprick of sound that woke Ellen that morning; a small and insignificant noise that wended its way down into her consciousness, penetrating her hated dreams. Whatever it was, her body remembered all at once that she was supposed to be awake, and she bolted upright, her heart pounding.

Everything looked the same.

Beside her, Natalie moaned in her sleep and rolled onto her side.

Ellen sat perfectly still, straining to hear whatever it was that had awakened her.

Nothing.

Complete silence—except for the cacophony of her tortured thoughts screaming in her head, of course, as they had done all night. Slowly, she put one leg over the side of the bed, then the other, and stood cautiously. Still nothing. Was it her imagination, nothing more? Another unfounded panic? She glanced at the clock on the mantel; it was four o'clock, and the embers still glowed warm in the hearth. She hadn't slept long then—an hour, maybe two.

Nevertheless, it was time to go. Everything was packed. The house was dead to the world and it wouldn't be long before the servants were stirring. With a little luck, she and Natalie would be on the six o'clock coach to Cambridge before anyone would notice them missing. Richard had asked her one interminable evening about her journey from London, then had explained the intricacies of the public coach system in King's Lynn. There were three in all, coming from and headed to three separate directions, all leaving promptly at six o'clock each morning, and returning at promptly six o'clock that very evening.

At the very least, she had come to the conclusion that with three coaches leaving at the same time and going in opposite directions from one another, it might add some necessary confusion to their flight. It was conceivable that no one would remember a woman with her young daughter at all, and if anyone did, perhaps would not remember with any clarity which coach they had boarded. That should at least give them time to reach Cambridge, where she thought she had the best chance of selling the damn beastie, before taking another public coach to the sea and sailing to France.

Her plan, hastily concocted, was undoubtedly full of holes, but was no longer open to internal debate, for if she and Natalie didn't start soon, there would be no hope of it.

Ellen collected herself and hurried to her dressing room to gather her things and wash before they fled. But as she entered the dressing room, she immediately noticed that an empty portmanteau had been moved slightly, if only a fraction of an inch. But there was no doubt in her mind— it had been moved. Her body reacted before her mind, flying to the case and shoving it aside, then the hatboxes—

It was gone .

Astounded, Ellen sat back on her heels, her mind racing as she gaped at the empty space where she had left the false beastie. Her mind raced along with her heart, unable to fathom how he had managed it, how he could have possibly come into this room, undetected, and taken the bundle she had left for him. Was that the sound that had awakened her? Was it possible he was still here? Had he discovered what she had done?

Panicking now, she jumped up, ran to her bedroom, and fell down on her knees before the bed, reaching under it. It wasn't there! She felt about wildly for it, grimacing at the dust balls, tears building in her eyes, thinking he had found them both, had left her here with no way to escape, no option but to return to her father—

There it was! Her hand closed around the foot of it; she dragged it out, the real beastie wrapped in part of his kilt. She tore the thing open to make sure he hadn't discovered her ruse and felt the tears stream down her face when she realized she had, by some miracle, managed to dupe him a second time.

Quickly, she wrapped the beastie again and held it close to her chest as she woke Natalie and whispered for her to get dressed.

Liam slept badly, tossing and turning on a horrid mattress, his dreams broken into images of Ellie and the beastie. He woke as the sun was turning the morning sky pink, his head still throbbing.

He rose, shoved into his buckskins, then yanked the frayed bellpull. When the chambermaid appeared, he ordered a bath, then wandered to the small little portal window of his room, braced his arms on either side of it, and stared out into the dirty courtyard. He wondered if she had awakened yet, if she had discovered that he had come while she was sleeping. What would she do now? Return to London and that bastard Farnsworth? Then what? And what of Natalie?

Natalie. His guilt was ripe on that one; for he had promised that child he would rescue her. Of course he had thought not a whit about her silly little game of princesses trapped in towers, at least not until he had found her sobbing in her sleep. And then, of course, he had seen the look of desperation in her blue eyes, had realized that for all her talk of Laria, it was not a game to Natalie. Her despair and her desire to be rescued were very real.

Mo creach, he could scarcely think of it without feeling ill. But he simply could not be her prince.

A knock on the door, and the chambermaid appeared carrying two pails of water, followed by a lad carrying three. They set the pails down and together dragged in a heavy hip bath. When they had departed, Liam shucked the buckskins, and grimacing, stepped into the ice-cold water. With the lye soap, he bathed quickly.

Now he was freezing, and he looked about for something suitable to cover him. His kilt! He immediately walked to the knapsack, which he had dropped the moment he entered the room this morning, and reached in, withdrawing the beastie. He noticed, as he untied the plaid that wrapped it, that the corner seemed frayed. That brought a frown to his face—she might have at least cared for it. He yanked at the plaid, saw the jagged corner was really a jagged edge, and clenched his jaw. What, was it not enough that she had to dupe him? She thought it necessary to go and ruin his kilt, too?

But then something else caught his eye and made him forget the kilt—the glint of ruby didn't seem quite as bright as it had last night, and he instantly knew, instantly felt the sick thud of his heart falling into the pit of his stomach. He feverishly unwrapped it, and his heart plunged even deeper, making it difficult to breathe. There was no shiny gold of the beastie; there was the dull gray of… what?

A rock. A bloody fucking rock!

His nakedness forgotten, his body warmed by the rage boiling inside him, Liam angrily threw the plaid aside and stared at the large gray stone. This was impossible, inconceivable! She couldn't possibly have done it again, but bloody rotten hell, there it was, a big gray rock with a red glass bauble of some sort pasted to it…a bauble from the only necklace he had ever seen her wear. Her mother's necklace—she had told him so.

Liam let the thing crash to the floor; the red trinket went flying across the room. He stood, hands on hips, staring down at the rock, hopelessly incapable of understanding how this could have happened, how he could have been made such a monumental fool a second time. The rage burned through him, and he took several steps backward, recoiling from the rock and his carelessness, felt the frustration building in him, threatening to explode—

Into laughter?

By God, he'd lost his mind after all, but he was laughing, laughing like a madman as he stumbled toward the bed, shaking his head in bemusement as he donned his buckskin trousers.

Touché, leannan. Aye, but if she thought this war was won, she was sorely mistaken. She might have won the battle, but he had only begun to fight.