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 not 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.
“You have no such promise from me, sir,” she said, laughing, and taking his hand firmly in hers, dragged him to the middle of the old rug. She pivoted about, determined there was enough room, and faced him. Holding her skirt, she curtsied deeply before him. “Will you do me the honor, sir?”
“Aye. I said I would.”
Still bent in a deep curtsy, she peeked up at him through her lashes. “Yes, I realize that you did. But now you should offer your hand to help me up.”
He immediately stuck out his paw of a hand and pulled her, a little roughly, to her feet. And stood there, woodenly holding her hand, staring into her eyes.
“If you’d like, you might kiss the back of a lady’s hand,” she said softly.
His gaze unwavering, he brought her hand to his mouth and touched his lips to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. Arush of heat swept over her; she felt strangely unsteady in her skin.
Liam slowly lifted his head. “Now supposing that the lady has agreed to dance with the likes of me,” he murmured, still holding her hand, “which dance has she chosen?”
“The waltz,” Ellen said, a little breathlessly. “Do you remember?”
“Oh, aye, I do.”
His gaze steady on hers, he slowly pulled her to him until she was standing close enough that he could put his hand on her waist, his palm covering almost all of her rib cage. Liam was staring at her, his gaze boring right through her, seeping down into her very depths, and Ellen felt strangely exposed, as if he could actually see who she had been, who she had become, what the future held for her.
Her skin flushed dark and hot; she looked away, unable to endure the intensity of his gaze, in spite of wanting to feel the burn of it.
“What is it then, lass? Have ye forgotten the waltz?” he asked softly.
“Ah…no, I just—”