A MacKenzie Clan Gathering Page 13

  Ian opened his mouth to shout at him, but strangely, no sound emerged. This happened sometimes when Ian worked himself into a state of rage—he either bellowed or was rendered mute.

  Ackerley turned to Halsey. “This is Lord Ian Mackenzie, my lord. He’s come to help me petition for—”

  “Mackenzie?” Halsey fixed his gaze on Ian with a sparkle of delight. “Not one of the notorious Mackenzies of Kilmorgan?”

  “Indeed,” Ackerley went on. “He has come to—”

  “No, let him speak. Why has the ancient enemy of my family descended upon me? I am most intrigued.”

  Ian forced himself to unclench his fists. Beth had made him realize that when he couldn’t speak, it was because every one of his muscles had tensed, including those in his throat. His body would tighten until he made himself a wall against the world.

  Ian took a long breath, and then another. If he could ease out of the stiffness, his voice would open up, and his mouth work.

  “Ye ruined my distillery, ye bugger.”

  Halsey’s brows climbed high in his sallow face. “Such language. But so-called Scottish aristocrats are only barbarians someone once bestowed a title upon at knifepoint. Or was it claymore-point? Why on earth should I care about your distillery, Mackenzie? Sell your muddy whiskies wherever you like—I won’t drink them.”

  At that moment, though Ian had no evidence whatsoever, he knew that Halsey was responsible for the destruction at Kilmorgan. He knew. The conviction took root in Ian’s heart, filling every cell in him with certainty.

  The certainty relaxed him the rest of the way. Ian had no more need to threaten Halsey or search for the right words to accuse him. It was only a matter of time before Ian proved it, and then the Mackenzies would win and Halsey would lose.

  Ian took a step toward Halsey. Halsey edged away, putting himself behind his desk.

  Ackerley lifted his hands. “Now, my lords, we can settled this amicably, I’m certain.”

  Ian, ignoring Ackerley, moved to the desk and leaned his fists on it. “What did ye do with the paintings ye didn’t dump in the tunnels?”

  Halsey blinked at him across the solid piece of furniture. “Pardon?”

  “I saw what was in the tunnel under Kilmorgan. I know what was taken from Hart’s gallery. Not all of them were there. Where are the others?” Ian knew exactly which paintings were missing, from the robust angels in the Rubens to the odd pair illuminated by a lightning strike in the Giorgione.

  Halsey’s laugh was thin. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Mackenzie. First it’s your whisky, now it’s artwork. It’s rumored you are quite mad, and now I believe it.” He turned to Ackerley with a look of false sorrow. “I pity you, sir. Do you have the keeping of him? Perhaps I will make a donation to your charitable works, if you are trying to help poor idiots like him.”

  Ian only pinned Halsey with a stare worthy of Hart. “I know what ye’ve done,” he said quietly. “And I know why.”

  The flicker in Halsey’s eyes told Ian he was right. “You are a pathetic form of humanity,” Halsey said, his arrogance undimmed. “Your entire family is and always has been. Mr. Ackerley, will you, a sensible Englishman, please take him away?”

  Ackerley gave Halsey a thoughtful look. “Do you know, Lord Halsey, that I have traveled quite a bit of the world? I have met men from the basest savages to rulers of kingdoms holding extraordinary riches. I have seen incredible goodness and vast evil—both of which exist under the same sun. Thus, I have learned to judge a man, not from what he has or in what circumstance he was born, but from his character. Believe it or not, the native living in the crudest hut can be as gracious and full of goodness as any highborn Englishman. More so, perhaps, depending on the man.” Ackerley drew a breath. “In this room, at this moment, I know who is the better, sir, and I am proud to call him friend. Good day to you, my lord, and thank you for receiving me. Perhaps we should go, Lord Ian. A pint in a local brewery would be just the thing for driving away the taste of this bad business.”

  Ian wanted to laugh. Ackerley’s tone was as haughty as Halsey’s, and he spoke with no deference, and no fear that he was wrong.

  Halsey was nearly green with anger, his eyes glittering. Ian doubted anyone in his life had ever disagreed with him or challenged him in any way.

  Did the fool think he could get away with poking at the Mackenzies? And for such a ridiculous reason?

  Ian lifted himself from the desk. He had nothing more to say to Halsey, so he kept silent, turned his back on the man, and strolled from the room.

  Ian remembered the way out, now that he’d found the route once, and he descended through the house without hesitation. Ackerley followed swiftly, neither man speaking.

  Curry was nearly dancing with worry outside the front door, kept from charging inside by the harassed footman. “You’ll send me to an early grave, ye will,” Curry said. “What th’ devil did ye mean by it?”

  “No harm done,” Ackerley said, when Ian said nothing. “I think we should go, and quickly.”

  Once the carriage rolled out through the gates, leaving the high-walled courtyard that cut off the world, Ian felt a weight lifting from him. His quest was over. He’d done what he’d set out to do, and now he could go home and leave the burden behind.

  He cast his eye over Ackerley on the opposite seat. Ackerley was mopping his face with a handkerchief, red and sweating, though the September air was cool.

  “Did ye convert many?” Ian asked him after a time. “In your missions?”

  “Beg pardon?” Ackerley said, folding his damp handkerchief. “Of course not, not everyone. But we were quite successful. Though I ceased believing after a time that a man was damned for following his own beliefs. God has a place for everyone.”

  “Mm.” Ian’s spirits rose as they left the avenue of trees for brighter sunshine. “Ye mentioned a pint.”

  Ackerley laughed. “I did indeed, Lord Ian. Shall we ask our coachman to take us to the nearest pub? One friendly to strangers, that is.”

  * * *

  An ordinary wife would have been furious at her husband for abruptly departing the house, absconding with a visitor, going who-knew-where, and returning the next day in a hungover state.

  But Beth, Ian reflected when he and Ackerley, followed by Curry, dragged themselves from the coach and into the house at Kilmorgan the next morning, was not an ordinary wife at all.

  She stood poised on the bottom step of the staircase, obviously having rushed from wherever she’d been when alerted to their arrival.

  Curry spoke first. “I did me best, my lady. They missed the train out of Edinburgh last night because they lingered at every pub between Halsey’s estate and Lincoln. By the time we finally reached Edinburgh, the last train north had gone. A pair of reprobates, they are.”

  Ackerley, his eyes red, his movements slow because of the headache he’d complained of all morning, gave Beth a feeble smile. “My fault, I’m afraid. I suggested we enjoy the local brew, and Lord Ian took me at my word.”

  Ian, with his iron constitution, had only a slight headache, but he wanted a nap. One with Beth.

  Ignoring the others, he started up the stairs. The children would be having lessons at this hour, and he’d learned not to disturb them. For now, he turned his steps to his porcelain collection. Beth would know to look for him there once she’d seen Ackerley settled.

  The bowls were in place, each one nestled against its velvet cloth, shining softly in the sunlight.

  Ian got lost in the perfection of the first bowl he’d ever purchased, years ago, when he’d finally emerged from Kilmorgan after his time in the asylum. He’d found it in a shop in Paris that Isabella had taken him to, and had become mesmerized by its beauty, the stark blue on white, the patterns of the chrysanthemums and dragons.

  Ian reached into the shelf and lifted the bowl out.

  He knew Beth stood behind him, even though he’d been concentrating on the bowls. Beth remained quiet, waiting
for him to notice her. She wouldn’t risk startling him with a loud noise or a sharp word, lest he drop a precious bowl.

  Indeed, she was no ordinary wife.

  Ian set the bowl into its place and turned to her.

  Beth did not look angry. Ian had learned to read the signs of that. Her mouth was turned up at the corners, and her blue eyes shone with interest.

  “Well?” she asked. “Did you see Lord Halsey? What was he like?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ian did not answer at once, but this didn’t worry Beth. Ian was like that.

  He’d remain silent while he considered the question and its many possible answers. He’d also be deciding whether the question needed a response at all, and then, out of all the answers he could give, which was the most important.

  “He had a portrait of the old Lord Halsey in his library,” Ian said after a time. “The one Lady Mary was betrothed to. He was strong. This Lord Halsey is not. Too much inbreeding has weakened the strain.”

  “Not something Mackenzies need to worry about.” Beth felt a smile come. Mackenzies down the ages had married whomever they pleased, no matter what the lady’s pedigree.

  “Aye, ye breed a horse too close to its line, and it can be weak and sickly,” Ian said. “The same goes for people.”

  “That’s all very well.” Beth knew Ian could take up a topic and pursue it while the original question went unanswered. “Do you think he did it, Ian? Did Lord Halsey steal the paintings?”

  “Aye.”

  The one word, and then silence.

  “Aye, you think so?” Beth asked. “Or aye, he actually did it?”

  “I’m certain he did.” Ian stopped again, then seemed to realize Beth wanted more. “Halsey has kept some of the art for himself. I saw it in his eyes when I accused him of it. He thought we wouldn’t notice the absence in the jumble the thieves left in the tunnels. But I saw that they were gone when we found the stash.”

  “Good heavens, Ian, why didn’t you say so at the time?” Beth exclaimed. “Fellows and Hart realized only yesterday that the paintings were gone.”

  Ian shrugged. “Everyone saw what I saw.”

  “I agree,” Beth said in exasperation. “They should have been brilliant and concluded immediately that not all the paintings were there. Now Hart is being accused of fraud, and unless you can prove that Lord Halsey has the artwork then . . . Ian?” Beth stuttered to a halt as Ian removed a square velvet box from the pocket of his coat. “What is that?”

  Ian touched the box’s soft lid. “We had to sleep in Edinburgh.”

  “I know,” Beth said. “I received John’s telegram.”

  Ian held out the box, waiting for her to take it.

  Beth knew that, for Ian, simply stating he’d stayed the night in Edinburgh passed for a clear explanation. She could read him enough by now to follow what had happened—Ian had decided he needed to bring her a gift to placate her for not telling her where he’d gone the day before, and for staying away all night.

  Beth could assure him that an apology gift was not needed, but Ian’s presents were always . . . interesting. She took the box and carefully opened it.

  And stood, dumbfounded. “Ian, this is . . .”

  Breathtaking. A strand of diamonds lay on white velvet, not a simple string, but a complex mesh like a spider’s web, glittering with multicolored stones. The necklace dipped to a point in the middle, from which dangled a large round diamond, sparkling in the soft light.

  “Oh . . . Ian.” Beth looked up at him, her heart squeezing. “Why?”

  Ian’s brows drew down, the gold in his eyes glinting. “Because I thought you would like it. If you don’t, I’ll have Curry take it back to the jewelers.”

  He reached for the box, perfectly serious. Not offended, Beth knew—Ian would reason that if Beth did not like this gift, he’d simply exchange it for another until he found one she did like.

  Beth gripped the box and took a few swift steps backward. “No, no, no, it is not going anywhere. This is lovely, Ian. Exquisite. Perfect.”

  Ian relaxed. “Then you do like it.”

  “Of course I do.” Beth hugged the box to her chest, then gave him a puzzled look. “But it must have been far too late when you arrived in Edinburgh for shops to be open, and far too early in the morning before you left it.”

  “Our jeweler’s shop was shut, yes. I knocked on the door this morning until he opened it.”

  “I see.” Beth envisioned Ian pounding on the door with his fists, unrelenting, while the jeweler stumbled down the stairs in his nightcap. “Poor man. But Ian,” Beth said, tears in her voice. “Thank you.”

  Ian came to her and took the box from her hands, laid it gently aside, and closed his arms around her. His eyes darkened. “I should have taken you wi’ me.”

  “Indeed, you ought to have.” Beth slid her hands around his waist, finding the soft wool of his kilt over his firm backside. “I would have liked to see this scion of the house of Halsey and helped you accuse him.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have had t’ sleep alone.” Ian leaned to kiss her neck. “I don’t like sleeping alone. Not anymore.”

  Beth smiled, her impishness rising. “You could have put a cot in your bedroom for John.”

  Ian lifted his head. “He’s a large, hairy, snoring man. He snored all the way from Edinburgh t’ Aberdeen then from Aberdeen t’ Kilmorgan Halt. Why would I want him near my bedroom?”

  “I’m teasing you, Ian. You seem to have become good friends.”

  Ian shrugged. “He’ll do.” He tilted Beth’s face to his. “He talks too much.”

  “But what are you going to—?”

  Ian nipped her lower lip. “Shh.”

  Beth rose on tiptoe and met him in a heartfelt kiss. Ian parted her lips to kiss her in return, his tongue sweeping in to heat her. He gathered her close, his strong hands bringing her hard against him.

  “I remember when ye first undressed for me,” he said, his voice going soft. “In Mac’s studio, in Paris, when ye brought me a present.”

  Beth remembered perfectly. She’d given him a gift—a gold pin to wear on his lapel—to apologize when she thought she’d stirred up trouble for him and his family. Ian had accepted the pin without understanding exactly why she’d given it to him, then told her he wanted her to undress for him, to show him her body. Beth, after a few heart-pounding moments, had.

  “You asked me to explain love to you that day,” Beth said. Her arms were around his tall body, and she felt the thickness of his arousal against her abdomen. “I was confounded, and did not know what to say.”

  “Ye said well enough.” Ian’s low rumble made her shiver. “And now, ye no longer have to explain.”

  “Good.” Beth swallowed. “I remember being very bad at it.”

  “Ye’ve made me know it instead.” His voice became a dark whisper. “Love you, m’ Beth.” Beth’s eyes moistened. “I love you, Ian Mackenzie.”

  Ian’s arms were solid around her, and at the same time, Beth felt herself falling. But the carpet on the floor of the Ming room was soft and giving, and Beth landed safely, cradled by Ian.

  He undressed her, as he had last night, as he had that afternoon in Paris, and so many days and nights in between. Beth’s clothes came away a piece a time, to lie strewn about the floor. Beth undressed Ian in turn, his coat, waistcoat, shirt. Finally Beth unpinned his kilt, the folds of it falling away to bare her husband to her.

  Ian took time to look at Beth, laid out before him on the plaid he’d slid beneath her. His golden eyes took in everything, heating as he slid his gaze down her body.

  He rose abruptly to his feet, sunlight through the windows playing on his nakedness, shadows sculpting muscles. Before Beth could ask where he was going, he returned with the box containing the necklace. Stretching himself next to her, Ian opened the box, drew out the necklace, and spread it across her breasts.

  “There,” he whispered. “They’re more beautiful when they�
�re on you.”

  Beth glanced down at the diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies that reposed on the swell of her breasts. Clusters of diamonds glittered on her nipples. “Um . . .” Beth began, “I do not think the necklace is meant to go quite in that spot.”

  Ian slanted her one of his rare smiles, this one full of wickedness that went with the sin in his eyes. “It does now, m’ Beth.”

  Beth’s heart beat faster. The stones and slim chains were cool on her skin, but Ian against her was as hot as fire.

  Ian cupped his hand under her breast, not disturbing the necklace as he kissed her, the kiss deep. She touched the line of his jaw, loving the burn of his whiskers against her fingertips.

  The jewels did not move as Ian lowered himself on top of her, kissing her, touching, his hands strong and gentle at the same time.

  Ian slid inside her, the intense pleasure of him opening her and stealing her breath.

  “I love ye, my Beth,” he whispered. “M’ wife. M’ everything . . .”

  * * *

  The house was in chaos that afternoon. The remainder of the family was due to arrive soon, and Beth had to return to assisting Eleanor. Ian decided that the next time he visited their jewelers he’d have them make matching pieces to the necklace to adorn Beth in other places.

  Ian regretted having to relinquish Beth. He’d prefer to lie with her on the floor in the Ming room, languidly touching her, trying to decide where the necklace looked best on her. He’d kiss her when he wanted to, or come together with her for more lovemaking.

  Beth’s kiss good-bye before she hurried off to Eleanor held promise, but Ian would rather have her now than the impatience of waiting for later. Everyday life, in all its details, ground on too long, in his opinion.

  Ian unfortunately had plenty of details to attend to. He conferred with Fellows about what had happened with Halsey, then returned to the distillery to give orders about how to clean up the mess there. Once Ian finished with that, he looked for Beth, but she was still rushing about with Eleanor, the maids, and the housekeeper. Ian knew she’d be some time, so he hunted up Ackerley and told him he wanted to continue the cure.