A MacKenzie Clan Gathering Page 17

  Hart’s birthday, a few days after the family’s arrival, brought even more people to Kilmorgan. The doors between the huge formal drawing rooms on the ground floor had been flung open, combining several chambers into one. Family and guests swarmed them, talking and laughing, eating, drinking, while musicians filled the empty spaces with Scottish tunes.

  So many colors, Ian thought as he stood holding a half-drunk glass of Mackenzie’s finest malt. Blues and greens of Mackenzie and McBride plaids, plus the tartans of their neighbors and friends—red and black, yellow and green, red and blue. The ladies were in gowns of the plaid of their clans or popular hues of the day—bottle green, electric blue, silver gray, the palest pinks, yellows, and ivories on the youngest ladies.

  Beth wore a gown of deep blue trimmed with silver braid—the skirt hung straight from her waist in front but gathered into a soft train behind her. Gloves covered her bare arms to the elbow, and the necklace of precious stones Ian had bought her in Edinburgh rested on her bosom.

  Beth was animated as she moved among the guests, her cheeks flushed, her eyes as sparkling as the necklace. At one time, Beth had been shy but gracious—now she was a fine hostess, one of the brilliant Mackenzie women.

  Ian enjoyed watching her most of all.

  “Heard you tried to choke the Earl of Halsey to death.” Mac Mackenzie, resplendent in Mackenzie plaid, formal coat, and watered silk waistcoat, stopped in front of his brother. His glass held lemonade, not whisky. “Damn, I wish I’d seen that.”

  Ian moved slightly so Mac did not block his view of Beth. “Halsey is finished.”

  “That he is. England will be too hot to hold him. His barrister might get him off on the charges Hart’s laid against him for theft and kidnapping, but he’ll have to flee the country, regardless. No one is happy with him.” Mac grinned, his amber eyes glinting. “I think Old Malcolm would have toasted ye.”

  Mac lifted his glass and gazed up at the portrait of Malcolm and Mary Mackenzie that hung high on the wall, painted shortly after Malcolm had taken up the mantle of the dukedom. The pair looked down upon the assembled company with great dignity, but Ian swore he saw a twinkle in Malcolm’s golden eyes.

  “And, you got my bloody awful paintings back,” Mac went on. “Thank you for that.”

  Ian shrugged. “They’re not awful.”

  Mac looked pleased. “Kind of you to say so. I’ll paint you much better daubs than those, though. I’ll start tonight, in fact.”

  Mac toasted Ian with his lemonade, then turned and made his way toward the crowd around Hart. No matter how elegantly Mac dressed tonight, Ian knew he looked forward to throwing off everything but his kilt and tying a kerchief over his hair, ready to immerse himself in his art. As soon as Mac could politely escape, he’d be up in the studio in his wing of the house, busily painting away.

  Cameron was the next Mackenzie to stop beside Ian. His suit and kilt were as formal as Mac’s, but they hung negligently on his large frame. While Mac had been verbose about Halsey, Cam only pressed his big hand on Ian’s shoulder.

  “Well done, Ian.”

  Ian nodded, warming under his brother’s praise.

  Cameron stood with him a moment, the two of them studying the crowd. “Hart’s in his element, isn’t he?” Cam waved his whisky glass to where Hart stood quietly in the midst of a circle, all in that circle fixed avidly on him. Cam scoffed. “Hart hasn’t changed. He loves to orchestrate everything, as usual.”

  “No, Eleanor does.”

  Cameron gave Ian a startled look, then laughed out loud. At that moment, the Duchess of Kilmorgan, cheeks pink, smile bright, glided unerringly to Hart, ending up at his side, her arm going through his. Deftly, she edged Hart from that group and took him to another.

  As Hart glanced down at Eleanor, who was chattering, as usual, his eyes took on a light of both hunger and deep happiness. Ian realized that Hart didn’t give a damn where Eleanor was taking him, or whom she wanted him to speak to, as long as she was with him.

  Another Mackenzie, a near mirror of Cameron, but twenty years younger, came at them. “Now then, Dad,” Daniel said, giving his father a nod. “Ian, I believe that Ackerley fellow is looking for you. Although at the moment, he’s listening to my wife explain to him the tricks of a fraudulent medium’s trade. He’s lapping it up.”

  Violet Mackenzie, her dark hair shining, was speaking to Ackerley, her expression amused. Ackerley looked poleaxed.

  “Vi has that effect on men,” Daniel said with pride. “Though I believe I’ll go steer him away. He’s a widower—he might get ideas. I don’t care if he’s a man of the cloth.”

  Daniel winked at them and moved purposefully toward Ackerley and Violet. Cameron boomed another laugh. “A man married to a beautiful woman can never relax his vigilance. Danny learned that soon enough.” He rumbled in his throat. “Although if any man looks twice at my daughter-in-law, they’ll not have only Danny to face.”

  Ainsley, Cameron’s wife, her light blond hair dressed in a wonderfully complicated knot of ringlets, came to rest at Cameron’s side. Cameron went from growling bear to human being in the space of an instant, his arm stealing around Ainsley’s waist.

  Ian started to move away from them, wanting to speak to Ackerley, then remembered the lessons in politeness he’d painstakingly learned from Beth. “Excuse me,” he said to Ainsley. “I need . . .” He gestured with his glass to Ackerley.

  Ainsley flashed her warm smile, looking pleased. “Of course, Ian.”

  Ian gave her and Cameron a nod, made brief eye contact with them both, then strode away. He fleetingly wondered if he’d performed the social niceties correctly, then forgot all about it as he reached Ackerley, Violet, and Daniel.

  “Come and talk to me,” he said to Ackerley.

  Ackerley looked surprised, but Violet, who’d ceased her conversation the moment Ian arrived, gave Ackerley a soothing look. “Ian would not ask if it weren’t important,” she said. “We will speak later, Mr. Ackerley.”

  “Indeed,” Ackerley said, somewhat breathlessly. “I look forward to it.”

  Ian again made himself remember to utter a polite leave-taking to Violet and Daniel, then led Ackerley out of the drawing rooms.

  Guests roamed freely about the house, most congregating in the gallery, which had become a source of fascination now that it had been the scene of a crime. All the stolen art had been restored. Fellows had found the remaining paintings and bronzes in Halsey’s cellars, shoved between racks of wine. Mac and several art historians had worked swiftly to repair the damaged artworks and return them to their places in the gallery.

  Ian led Ackerley up the stairs to a sitting room in his wing of the house. He shut the door behind them, and the noise of the crowd below dimmed.

  “Well?” Ackerley asked, sounding eager. “Are you ready to resume our sessions?”

  “No.” Ian set his whisky glass on a table. He hadn’t spoken to Ackerley much since the night of Jamie’s abduction, needing time to think things through. Ian had mulled and pondered the question in many different ways, always arriving at the same conclusion.

  “I have decided,” Ian said. “I no longer wish you to cure me.”

  Ackerley’s face fell. “No? But we were making such progress. I planned to write up my notes and send them to the philosophers of science in Vienna—”

  Ian held up his hand. “I don’t wish to be cured.”

  Ackerley heaved a sigh, but he gave a resigned shrug. “I cannot force you, of course. That would be remiss. But may I ask why?”

  Ian waited, then realized that Ackerley was, in fact, asking why.

  “I am mad,” Ian answered. “I always will be. But if I hadn’t been mad, I wouldn’t have found Jamie.” And that would have been unthinkable. “I work. So, I want to stay mad.”

  “Ah.” Ackerley gave Ian a thoughtful look. “That is true. I would say that you do, er . . . work.”

  They both fell silent. Ackerley chewed his lower lip over his n
eat beard while Ian stood motionless.

  “One thing,” Ackerley said after a time. “Do you mind if I continue asking you questions about your madness? To satisfy my curiosity. My besetting sin.”

  Ian shrugged, already finished with the topic and moving on to other matters in his head. With Halsey and danger out of the way, Ian could resume the fishing appointments with Jamie. The fish would be biting tomorrow; he was sure of it.

  Ackerley was still talking. “Also—do you mind if I continue reading Lady Mary’s journals you found in your attics? Perhaps with a thought to publishing them? Lady Mary’s account of her elopement with Lord Malcolm makes an intriguing love story.”

  Ian could fish with Jamie, then later Ian would clean up with a bath, asking Beth in to wash his back. “As you like.”

  “Or, perhaps I should ask His Grace? It is his house, after all . . .”

  “No.” Ian’s attention snapped to Ackerley. “The journals are mine. You take them and do as you wish.”

  Ackerley opened his mouth to continue speaking, but was interrupted by Beth’s gentle voice. “Ah. I’d wondered what had become of you two.”

  The hum of the party below came to them, reality intruding into Ian’s quiet sanctuary.

  The next moment, Ian didn’t care. His wife was here, with her blue eyes, her warm voice, her half smile. The noise beyond, the nervous throat-clearing of Ackerley—all faded before the joy that was Beth.

  “Beg pardon, Beth. I didn’t mean to be rude.” Ackerley glanced at Ian, then he flushed. “Well, I’d best be getting back downstairs. Thank you, Beth, for allowing me the privilege of attending your gathering. Quite a regal crowd.”

  Beth shook her head. “Family and friends only. Hart insisted.”

  “Even so, I am quite the nobody, but I am enjoying myself immensely. Lord Ian, thank you for indulging me.”

  Ackerley was in front of Ian again, holding out his hand. He so enjoyed handshakes.

  Ian stared at Ackerley’s open palm. Ackerley, as the silence stretched, began to withdraw, but Ian shot his own hand forward and clasped Ackerley’s in a firm grip. For the first time in Ian’s life he wanted to shake another’s hand, understood why it meant respect.

  “Thank you,” Ian said sincerely, “for all you’ve done.”

  “Oh, well, I . . .” Ackerley looked pleased. “I haven’t done anything, really. I . . .” He cleared his throat as Ian released him. “I’ll just go back downstairs now.”

  Ackerley gave Beth a bow and a wide smile, then he left the two alone, whistling a little tune as he went.

  * * *

  Beth watched Ian as he remained in the middle of the room, gazing down at his bare hand. To this day, Beth had not learned exactly what went through Ian’s mind when he stood, unmoving, and went away. At the moment, she had no idea whether Ian pondered the nature of the universe or was simply fascinated by the lines on his own palm.

  She’d concluded that the only way to find out was to ask him.

  “Ian,” she said. “Do you want to go back downstairs? We will soon all trudge to the ballroom for waltzing.”

  Ian continued to study his hand, making no acknowledgment that he heard her. He did this sometimes, became so fascinated with the world inside his head that an hour could pass before he’d return.

  “If you prefer to remain here, it is your choice,” Beth continued. “I will make your excuses. Or perhaps I will not say anything—it is no one’s business what you do.”

  When Ian didn’t respond, Beth gathered her skirts and turned away. She’d go downstairs, continue helping Eleanor and her sisters-in-law hostess, and return to Ian later.

  “Stay.”

  The one word brought Beth swiftly back. “Ian?”

  Ian didn’t answer. Beth halted beside him, the necklace he’d bought her cool and heavy on her chest.

  Ian glanced at Beth from the corner of his eyes. “Love you, m’ Beth.”

  Beth’s heart swelled, overflowing with what she felt for this man. “I love you too, Ian.” She slid her hand onto his large one, which had so captured his attention. “All of you, my darling. Just as you are.”

  Ian studied her satin glove, her fingers small against his, then lifted his gaze to fully meet Beth’s. “Then that’s what I’ll be.”

  Beth tightened her hand around his. “It’s all you ever need to be.”

  Ian’s answering smile lit every fire inside her, banishing every fear, every trouble of the last terrible days. Her Ian had come back to her, stronger than ever.

  And devastatingly handsome. The wicked look he turned on Beth burned her.

  “My Beth.” Ian traced the pattern of the necklace, then he leaned down and pressed a fiery kiss right over her heart.

  “My Ian,” Beth whispered.

  His arms went around her, and Beth’s hard, handsome Highlander scooped her against him for a long kiss.

  The kiss opened her, heated her. Ian drew her close, folds of his kilt melding with those of her skirts. His hands skimmed up her back, and Beth felt her bodice loosening, cool air touching her skin.

  “I don’t want to go down to the ballroom,” Ian said quietly. “I want t’ stay here. With you.”

  “Yes.” Beth’s answer was breathless. “I think that situation will be perfect.”

  Ian Mackenzie turned in place with her as the music of a waltz began below. Her gown loosened more as they moved in their own dance, fabric sliding from her body, though the necklace remained.

  Ian spun slowly around with Beth, supporting her in his strong arms, his golden eyes entirely on hers. Then they were falling to the carpet, Ian catching her, the lights and colors of the room whirling like the green and crimson glory of the auroras.

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  THE STOLEN MACKENZIE BRIDE

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  Edinburgh, 1745

  “Mm, what sweet morsel is that?”

  Mal Mackenzie, youngest of five brothers, called at various times in his life Young Malcolm, the Devil Mackenzie, and would ye get out of it, ye pain in my arse—the last mostly by his father and oldest brother—voiced the words as the tedious gathering suddenly grew more interesting.

  The morsel was a young woman. What else would it be, with Mal?

  “Oh, aye,” his brother Alec muttered as he leaned against the wall, in a foul temper. “Of course ye’d notice the prettiest lass in the room. The most untouchable as well.”

  The lady in question glided through the drawing room on the arm of a man who must be her father. She wore a gown of rich material much like those of other young women here, but she stood out among them like a fiery bloom among weeds.

  They were paraded, these ladies, laced into bodices and tight stomachers that showed a soft enticement of bosom, skirts swaying as they moved. They walked with eyes downcast to indicate what demure creatures they were—suitable wives for the bachelors, young and old, who’d come to view them.

  Malcolm’s lady, in contrast, had her head up, smiling at all, though the smile was somewhat strained. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

  She had red-gold hair that caught the candlelight as she passed beneath the chandeliers. Mal couldn’t see the color of her eyes from where he stood, but he was certain they’d be clearest blue. Or green. Or gray.

  She noted Malcolm staring at her and paused for the briefest moment, the smile fading. Mal, who’d been leaning next to Alec, pushed from the cold stone wall to stand up straight, fires weaving through his nerves.

  The young woman took him in—a tall, rawboned Scotsman in a fine coat, dressed like an Englishman except for the plaid that covered his legs to his knees. Malcolm prided himself in not looking entirely like these English whelps—he’d pulled his thick brown-red hair into a queue instead of stuffing it under a powdered cocoon-like wig, and had tied his neckcloth in a loose knot.

  The young woman’s gaze met his, and the answering sparkle in her eyes woke eve
ry sense in Mal’s body.

  Then she turned her head, looking past him as she scanned the crowd for someone else.

  The moment, as fleeting as it had been, reached out and wrapped itself around him. The tendrils of something inevitable entangled the being that was Malcolm Mackenzie, changing everything.

  Malcolm all but shoved an elbow into Alec, who was pretending to be interested in the interaction of the English and Scottish elite. “Who is she?” Mal demanded.

  Alec moodily studied the crowd. “The blond lass, you mean?”

  “Her hair’s not blond.” Mal tilted his head as though that could help him look under her modest lace cap. “’Tis the color of sunshine, tinged with the fire of sunset.”

  “If you say so.” Alec, two years older and one of a pair of twins, gave Mal a warning look. “She’s not for you, runt.”

  Runt was another name for Malcolm, who’d begun life very small, but now topped most of his brothers and his father by at least an inch.

  The words not for you never deterred Mal. “Why shouldn’t she be?”

  “Shall I run a list for ye?” Alec asked in irritation. “She is Lady Mary Lennox, daughter of the Earl of Wilfort. Wilfort has an estate as big as this city, more money than God, and power and influence in the cabinet. The family is one of the oldest in England—I think his ancestor fought alongside Henry the Fifth, or some such. All of which makes his daughter out of reach of the youngest son of a Scotsman with what the English claim is a trumped-up title. Not only that, she’s engaged to another English lordship, so keep your large paws to yourself.”

  “Huh,” Malcolm said, not worried in the least. “Poor little morsel.”

  Mal followed Lady Mary’s progress through the room, noting the polite way she greeted her father’s friends and the mothers of the other daughters. Correct, well trained—like a pedigreed horse brought in to demonstrate what a sweet-tempered creature it could be.