Five

Fiv e

L ittle Natalie became a frequent and uninvited guest to Liam's rooms from that point forward.

The only bright spot, as far as Liam could see, was that she could not enter his two rooms unless the door was unlatched. He had quickly discovered, the very morning of their improbable acquaintance, how she had managed to unlock the door—the latch was old and in need of repair, and she had been able to jiggle it out of place. Liam had corrected that problem with his dagger—she would not be jiggling anything else out of place.

What really disturbed him was exactly how he had missed such a fundamental thing as a loose lock, which caused him to wonder if perhaps his skills were eroding.

No longer able to enter his rooms on her own, Natalie began to make a habit of popping in with Follifoot when Liam's food was brought, or worse, taking the tray from Follifoot and delivering it herself, even though she was hardly able to carry the heavy wooden thing. On those occasions Liam would instantly take the tray from her lest she drop it, and Natalie would rush through the door behind him, intent on becoming his dinner companion, apparently of the understanding that the one not eating should be talking. And she would sit on the edge of his bed, her feet swinging, oblivious to the fact that he was paying her no mind, laughing when he belched his opinion of the grotesque meal. And talking.

Talking.

The girl was absolutely astonishing in her ability to talk without taking as much as a breath! From the moment she managed to gain entrance to his rooms, she never stopped, going on and on about such things as her age (nine years, four months, and on her next birthday, the two -digit number of ten, which, according to Natalie, was quite significant); her mother (in Laria, seeking treatment for some hideous disease about which Liam did not want to know the details); and less frequently, her father (whose naval career was quite stellar, and one that left Liam suitably impressed).

The girl also talked at length about the province of Laria (wherever that was—Liam could not recall it from his studies), and her friends there, who were, from what he gathered, frequent, gift-bearing visitors to London.

When she wasn't talking, Natalie filled in all the silence with her many, many questions, seemingly unconcerned whether Liam answered or not. Which he didn't, as a rule. He was, and always had been, a rather private man. But none of that stopped Natalie. She managed to drag his name from him and instantly proclaimed she would name her baby Liam. She asked him about Scotland (Miss Agatha says it is a place for heathens); about his family (Have you brothers and sisters? And what are their ages? And did you play together when you were children? And what was your favorite game? Do you know my favorite game? My favorite game is princess. Did you ever play princess? Do they have princesses in Scotland? Is your sister a princess?) ; about his plaid (How do you wear it? When do you wear it? Where do you wear it? May I wear it? May I touch it? May I look at it one more time, please?).

Liam did what he could to rid himself of the girl short of bodily picking her up and tossing her out the door, and even that thought crossed his mind more than once. As it happened each night, he would tolerate the almost insufferable chatter until he had finished his meal—on the days he could stomach the meal—then would spend a good quarter of an hour chasing her about and herding her out like a cat, wondering why the girl's governess (which she claimed not to have) never came looking for her. She was probably exhausted from all her chatter, Liam figured. And since Miss Agatha and Follifoot seemed to avoid this end of the house, he hadn't yet found a chance to inquire about the governess.

But once the door was shut on Natalie and he was certain of no other interruptions, he put together the pieces of his plan. As his first order of business, he had gone about the task of reacquainting himself with London so that when he encountered his cousin Nigel, he could put up a reasonably believable front that he had exiled himself here. Toward that end, Liam walked the entire length of Hyde Park, memorizing its various trails and gathering places. He made certain that the features of Bond Street, Piccadilly, Vauxhall, and Covent Gardens were known to him. He memorized even the various theaters, as well as their bill of plays. He studied the English habits, tried to affect the same pretentiousness in his carriage and speech. By week's end, he was quite certain he knew enough about London to carry on a rather convincing conversation with his cousin Nigel.

Having accomplished his first task, Liam had turned his attention to the second, which was to force an encounter with Nigel that would seem to his cousin to have happened by chance. It would not do to have Nigel think he had come looking for him, because then, when the beastie turned up missing, old Nigel might put two and two together. It was important for Nigel to believe he had discovered him. In order to do that Liam had to learn Nigel's habits. Then he would put phase two of his plan into motion—ingratiating himself to the English Lockharts.

On his first afternoon of scouting for Nigel, Liam grew too hungry and cold to look for him any longer, and gave up for the day, returning to his bleak little rooms. He was walking up the steps to the Farnsworth house when he happened to notice a round figure scurrying toward him on spindly little legs. He had not seen Lord Farnsworth since taking the rooms a fortnight ago, and was struck by the notion that he looked like a grotesque caricature of a dandy in his tall beaver hat as he toddled down the street.

Oblivious to Liam, Farnsworth reached the steps of the house and began hopping up, one at a time, but stopped mid-stride when he realized Liam was in front of him.

Farnsworth scowled, tipped his hat, and said brusquely, "Captain."

"I beg yer pardon, milord," Liam said as Farnsworth hopped up another step, passing him. "A word?"

Farnsworth paused, sighed loudly to the heavens. "Yes, what is it?" he demanded impatiently, turning slightly and tipping his head back to glare at Liam. "You'll not come complaining to me about the state of your rooms. I was quite clear about the arrangement—"

"'Tis not the rooms, milord. 'Tis me caller."

"Caller?" The notion clearly startled Farnsworth; his hard, beady little eyes grew wide as crowns, then quickly narrowed. "What caller?"

"Miss Natalie is her name. I hoped that ye might have a word with her governess—"

"Governess!" he spat.

Liam blinked. "I assume she has a governess, what with her father away."

"What?" Farnsworth asked again, incredulous for a moment. But then something seemed to pass over his eyes, and he puffed his cheeks out so far and hard that Liam half expected him to levitate. Yet he remained firmly rooted by his girth, glaring at Liam, his face mottling as the moments ticked past. At last, he said through clenched teeth, "I will speak to my daughter immediately." He hopped up to the next step. "Now if you will excuse me, Captain, you are keeping me from my supper!"

He twirled about, and without looking back, hopped quickly up the steps until he was at the door, which he pounded with his walking stick. After a moment, the door swung open and Miss Agatha appeared. She took Farnsworth's hat and walking cane, and then pressed herself up against the door to give Farnsworth wide enough berth to pass. As she did so, she glanced at Liam, her eyes glazing with her refusal to recognize him, and she shut the door behind the rotund Farnsworth as if she hadn't seen him at all.

Yet Liam hardly noticed the slight, because he was literally reeling from Farnsworth's admission that Natalie was his daughter. His daughter! That beautiful little lass belonged to a rigid beast of a man only one step removed from ogre! There was, apparently, no accounting for nature's humor, and with a strong shake of his head, Liam continued on.

Unfortunately, Farnsworth did not speak to his daughter, because she appeared at his door a half hour later. Liam had tossed aside his hat and coat, had unbuttoned his confining waistcoat, unwrapped the stiff neckcloth he despised, and washed his face when he heard a knock on his door. Glancing at his pocket watch, Liam assumed the knock was Follifoot's, come to bring him his supper. But when he opened the door, a diminutive Miss Natalie smiled up at him.

"This is my new frock," she said, holding out the sunny yellow gown for him to see. "Do you like it very much? "

"Ah, for the love of…" Liam groaned, rolling his eyes. "'Tis bonny. Now be a good lass and go to yer father, will ye?"

Natalie blinked big blue eyes. "My father? How shall I do that? He's at sea, you know."

Wise to her now, Liam frowned. "Is he indeed? Well, then, why should Lord Farnsworth claim ye as his own, eh?"

Natalie's face clouded momentarily; but then she shrugged and inched her toe across the threshold. "He's not my father," she insisted, and suddenly looked up again, her face brightening. "Shall I sing you the song I learned in my lessons today? ‘Oh, where, oh, where is my true loooove, has he gone the way of the morning dooooove—‘"

"Will ye stop that shrieking!" Liam exclaimed, and made the mistake of turning away from the door. Natalie was instantly inside, headed for the plaid he had draped carefully across the chair.

"Now, Natalie," he warned her. "Ye're to run along and leave me be—"

"This is very pretty. Do you ever wrap it around your shoulders?" she asked, stroking the very edge of the woolen fabric.

"NO!"

"In Laria they wear things like this all the time and particularly to balls."

To balls? "I thought ye said ye left Laria more than two years ago," he said, grabbing her wrist and moving her hand away from the plaid.

"Oh, yes, but we visit all the time."

A light suddenly dawned in Liam; he folded his arms, gave her a stern look. "How many times, then?"

The girl instantly dropped her gaze to the plaid and shrugged. "I don't know, really. Dozens, I should think."

"Dozens, indeed," he drawled. "And where is yer mother, then? Flying like a bird across the sea to Laria? "

"Oh, no," Natalie quickly corrected him. "She's in her bed now. She's very sick."

"Aaaah… in her bed, is she?"

Natalie suddenly pivoted away from him and the plaid and walked to the window. "Do you think it shall rain forever?"

Ah, but Liam had not achieved the rank of captain in the Highland Regiments without having learned a thing or two about deception. "Out with it, then, lass. Is there something ye are no' telling me now?"

She shook her head.

"Perhaps something about yer mother?" he pressed, distantly aware that the approaching footsteps he heard through the open door would be Follifoot. Liam walked to stand beside Natalie at the window. "Perhaps yer mother is no' very sick after all, eh?"

"Oh, no, she's quite ill," Natalie insisted. "I mean, sometimes she opens her eyes, but only when my father comes home from the sea," she said, as the footfall grew closer. "And then, only for a moment or two, because she misses Father so very much she can hardly bear to lay eyes on him."

"What a tragic tale of love," Liam said with a snort. "Do ye think perhaps 'tis because yer mother really does no' exist but within that wee brain of yers?"

"She exists, truly! But because she's very sick, Father is taking her back to Laria."

"Is that so?" Liam said, his frown growing deeper. "And will she leave her young child here to fend for herself?"

Natalie's smile was thin. "Well…she must. Because even when she's not very sick, she's…she's crippled," she whispered.

"NATALIE ELIZABETH HORTENSE FARNSWORTH!" a woman exclaimed from somewhere behind them, causing both Liam and Natalie to jump a good foot in the air and whirl about to face the door. Liam almost stumbled; Natalie shrank up against him, silent for the first time since he had had the misfortune of meeting her. As was Liam, stone-cold silent, rattled straight out of his wits. He was simply too stunned to speak. He found himself in a catatonic state of staring at perhaps the loveliest woman he had ever clapped eyes on, the angel he had seen before, that day in Belgrave Square with her parasol.

She was standing just inside the door, having come, apparently, from out-of-doors, for she was carrying a coat of sorts draped over her arm and dangling a wet bonnet from long, tapered fingers. Her hair, the color and sheen of corn silk, was bound up in the current fashion on the back of her head, but a long strand of it had worked its way loose and was drifting across her eye. Wearing a gown of white with an overskirt heavily embroidered in tiny roses, cinched high beneath her bosom, she looked exactly how he pictured the angels to be, and he swallowed hard, trying not to gape.

Not that she seemed to notice, so intent was she on removing Natalie from his rooms. "Natalie Elizabeth Hortense, come away from there straightaway! Why in heaven's name are you bothering this poor man? And however did you manage to escape poor Agatha?"

Natalie reluctantly left Liam's side and shuffled forward until she was within her mother's reach. The woman snatched her hand, yanked Natalie to her side, then looked at Liam with Natalie's wide, pale blue eyes, framed in long golden lashes.

And remarkably, those eyes looked at him without seeming to notice his battered face. Again. A shy smile slowly spread across her luscious lips as she took a step backward, dragging Natalie with her. "Oh!" she exclaimed, a light dawning. "You're…my good sir, I must ask your indulgence once more and beg you pl ease forgive my daughter. She's a horrid little thing for running off and I assure you it will not happen again. I am so sorry if she has been a bother."

"No. Ah, no" was all Liam could manage to spit out, so entranced, astonished, and dammit, so very discombobulated was he. A million things raced through his mind, not the least of which was that this was Natalie's mother, the same mother that he was quite certain did not exist. Not only did she exist, but she existed in a way that made his mouth go bone dry and his blood race.

"You , my dear girl, are in quite a spot of trouble," the woman continued with an affectionate ruffle of Natalie's head. "Please offer your apologies to the gentleman for being such a pest."

"Oh, but he doesn't mind, Mother, truly," Natalie tried.

And incredibly, Liam heard himself say, "Oh, no, I donna mind. She's a bonny lass, she is."

The woman suddenly looked surprised. "Ooh, I hadn't realized you're a Scot! How terribly romantic!"

He was slipping—he could literally feel himself slipping, melting right there, seeping through the floor-boards. "Aye," he managed roughly. "A Scot. From Aberfoyle."

"Aberfoyle. I shall have to find it in the atlas. I beg your forgiveness, Mr….?"

"Captain," he answered stupidly.

"Captain," she said, her smile widening a bit. "Navy?"

"The Royal Highland Regiments," he quickly corrected her.

"Ah," she said appreciatively. "I've read a bit about them. Brave men, they say."

Liam straightened, clasped his hands behind his back and gave her a stiff nod.

She smiled. "Well then, Captain, if you'll excuse us, we'll leave you be. Good evening," she said, and with Natalie firmly in hand, turned and glided out of his room.

"Captain Lockhart," Liam thought to add, but she had already gone.

He stood there for several moments staring at the door, trying to collect himself, his thoughts still jumbled up by her sudden appearance—no, existence. Aye, her existence startled him, but it was his mind and body's fierce reaction to her that was far more startling. Not only was it ridiculously lacking in self-control, but it was frightful for a man who prided himself for his calm bearing. He was no novice when it came to women—he'd had his share of them, to be sure, from one end of the Continent to the other. But in truth, those had been base women of no distinction. Not like her. Not a lady. It was a rare event for him to ever be in the company of ladies, save his mother and sister, and each time he found himself in such company, he felt awkward and self-conscious. Ladies, real ladies seemed so…so fragile. And perfect. The exact opposite of him.

Yet he had certainly seen ladies, especially here in London, walking along in their bonnets, each one indistinguishable from the next. But this one—this one was different from the women of quality he had seen on the streets. He'd thought so the moment he had seen her that blustery afternoon, battling her parasol. There was something about her—perhaps her eyes, eyes that looked at him directly without grimacing. Or her perfect smile. A smile that reminded him of the Scottish sun when it rose each morning, all golden and warm and slowly spreading through him.

Whatever it was, it had taken him completely off-guard, had knocked him clean off his bearings, had made mush of his brain and a damned fool of his mouth. Worse, he thought as he moved to shut the door behind her, far worse, devastatingly worse, was the fact that if the exquisite creature who had graced his door was indeed Natalie's mother, then she must also be Farnsworth's wife.

That thought made him shudder with revulsion.