A Mackenzie Clan Christmas Read online

  John Ackerley stood before them both, looking thoroughly ashamed of himself, and sorry too. He was a kind man underneath, Beth knew, as Thomas had been, though a bit naïve. Well, Thomas had been naïve as well, hadn’t he?

  “What on earth have you done, John?” Beth asked. Naivety was no excuse for bedeviling her husband.

  “I . . .” John glanced at the coin in his hand as though it were to blame. He held it up, sheepish. “Trying a bit of mesmerism. It works wonders.”

  “I have also heard of its dangers,” Beth said tightly. “Why would you try such a thing on Ian? I do not recall you mentioning you were an expert on the technique.”

  “Well, no¸” John said in a small voice. “I’ve only done it once before. But with good results—the young man remembered things he’d buried long ago.”

  Beth held out her hand. “Give me that.”

  John gave the coin another bewildered look. “This?”

  “Yes.” Beth reached out and took it from him. “No more of this nonsense.”

  She closed her fist around the coin at the same moment Hart decided to storm in.

  “What the devil is happening?” Hart was every inch the duke, forbidding, hard-faced, staring down Ackerley, who looked as though he wanted to crawl under the table.

  Ian leaned over Beth, burying his face in her neck. She felt dampness on her skin, Ian’s tears.

  “Never mind, Hart,” Beth said. “It is finished.”

  Hart ignored her. “Tell me, man,” he snapped at Ackerley.

  Ackerley buckled under Hart’s stare. “I was . . . I was . . . It is a very sound, scientific technique, being tested in Vienna. Quite well accepted.” Ackerley gave both Hart and Beth a defiant look.

  “Scientific shite.” Hart’s snarl held his deep fear for and protectiveness of Ian, which always came out in Mackenzie anger.

  Ian raised his head. Beth felt Ian’s body strengthening, the muddle he’d been sinking into easing away. “Leave him be, Hart.”

  “I heard you yelling all the way downstairs, Ian.” Hart returned his stare to Ackerley. “It’s best you take yourself elsewhere for a time.” His rumble grew louder. “Now.”

  “Oh¸ for heaven’s sake,” Beth began, when Ian gently pressed her aside.

  Ian’s eyes were red-rimmed and wet, his face mottled, his breath ragged. He clenched his large fists, the hands rough from wind and weather. “Hart, I said leave him be.”

  “Not until you tell me exactly what is going on. Who is this charlatan?”

  The brothers faced each other, so alike, yet with ten years’ difference between the two. Their hair was a few shades of red apart, but their eyes held the same golden intensity, neither giving way to the other.

  “Ian,” Hart said, impatient.

  “He’s curin’ me,” Ian said. “Leave him alone.”

  Beth drew a sharp breath. “Curing?” She looked at Ackerley, who opened his mouth to explain. Beth held up one finger, and Ackerley popped his mouth closed again.

  Hart had gone dark red. “What the hell kind of shite has he filled your head with, Ian? If he said that, he is a charlatan, a quack. Beth, I know he’s your acquaintance, but this needs to cease.”

  Ian took yet another step to Hart, forcing Hart’s attention solely to him. Ian was looking into Hart’s eyes, a natural act for most people, but one Ian had struggled to master. Hart fell silent, quelled by the gaze of the little brother who’d taken so long to learn even this simple feat.

  “He’s family,” Ian said. The rawness had left his voice, and control returned. “He is Beth’s family, which makes him my family.”

  Hart could look at nothing but Ian.

  Beth realized Hart no longer noticed Ackerley or even Beth, or the curious servants peering into the room—one of which was Curry. Beth heard Curry saying, “Let me in there, ye daft cove. I need to look after ’im.”

  Hart was caught in the moment of Ian standing straight and strong, no longer the terrified, confused youth or the quieter man who’d withdrawn inside a shell his brothers couldn’t breach.

  Ian regarded Hart with an anger as sharp as Hart’s own, speaking in a commanding tone that came as naturally as breathing.

  Hart’s eyes glistened, and something like a shudder went through him. “I don’t want him to hurt you, Ian.”

  “He’s an old man,” Ian said, jerking a thumb at Ackerley. “He can’t hurt me. I won’t let him. The past can’t hurt me. It’s gone.”

  Hart went quiet again for another long stretch. Beth could almost see the thoughts in Hart’s head, his arguments, his pain.

  Finally, Hart gave Ian a nod and cupped his shoulder with a big hand. “You’re right, Ian. The past, it’s gone. Forever. Now is what’s important.”

  Ian gave Hart the look he got when he was impatient at another person’s slowness. “I know. Trust me.”

  Hart let out his breath. “All right then. I ask your pardon, Beth. And Ackerley.”

  He said the last awkwardly, as though the apology came out with the greatest reluctance. He didn’t trust Ackerley an inch, it was clear. Of course, Beth, at the moment, didn’t trust him much either.

  The awkwardness shattered when another voice, clear and feminine, came down the hall.

  “Good heavens, what is all the ruckus? Is there a circus performance?” Eleanor pushed through the servants who had stepped backward in hasty deference and also relief. The duchess was here, and all would be well.

  Eleanor took in the situation with quick, shrewd eyes as her tongue rattled on. “Hart, why is all our artwork in a jumbled pile in the hall, ready to be trodden on? It must be sorted through, cleaned, restored. Ian, so clever of you to have found it. Hart, darling, since the frame is ruined, can we send that Raphael to a museum? I know art critics like to come here and coo over the thing, but it gives me the shivers every time I look at it. Let them coo over it in a museum far from here. Now, Mr. Ackerley, we will have a lovely tea out on the terrace—such a nice afternoon. Beth, come along and help me arrange it. You know I get into sixes and sevens about everything.”

  Her stream of chatter continuing, the duchess swept out, servants hastening to obey her scattered commands. Hart, his face like thunder, moved at a quick pace in her wake.

  Beth turned to the bewildered Ackerley. “What Eleanor really means is that we should all leave you alone and cease interfering. Just be careful.” She gave Ackerley a stern look. “We love him.”

  “I only want you to love me, Beth,” Ian rumbled behind her. A hand landed on her shoulder, warm, strong, caressing. “Hart can lose himself.” Ian leaned down and pressed a kiss to Beth’s cheek.

  The kiss sent fire through her blood, which would warm her until she could be alone with him again. Beth kissed Ian’s cheek in return, then rustled away to leave Ian to do what he felt he must.

  As she closed the door, she heard Ian rumble, his timbre restored to normal, “All right, then, what do we do next?”

  * * *

  Beth had little time to speak to John alone until after tea. Eleanor could send the household scurrying in all directions when she set her mind to it. She kept Beth plenty busy, which Beth understood was Eleanor’s way of making sure Ian was left in peace.

  Beth worried, however. The past ten years had taught her that Ian had resilience, and plenty of it. And yet, small things could trouble him, like tiny sparks from a firework, seeking to burn away that resiliency.

  Ian seemed calm enough during tea—that is to say he inhaled an entire plate of cakes and downed several dainty cups of steaming Oolong as though it were cool water. Beth pretended not to notice Curry dribbling a tiny amount of whisky into Ian’s cup.

  Afterward, Ian went to the children, but Beth lingered and cornered Ackerley in an empty hall.

  “I know you mean well,” Beth began. “At least, I trust you do.”

  Ackerley regarded her with eyes so like Thomas’s. “Of course I mean well, dearest sister-in-law. Why wouldn’t I?”

&n
bsp; Beth held on to her patience. “It is just . . . Too many people have been interested in Ian. The doctors at the asylum used him as a showpiece. When we travel, everyone from learned physicians to outright confidence men want a look at him. Ian is excellent at ignoring these people, but now you are telling him you can cure him? That might be rather cruel, do you not think?”

  Ackerley’s bewilderment was true. “Gracious, I would never do anything to hurt you. Or your husband. Thomas was a saint, as you know, and I’d never attempt to harm anyone he loved. I truly believe I can help.”

  “Ian believes it.” Beth knew inside herself that John was not evil. He might act from ignorance but not malice. “Which is rather more worrying.”

  Ackerley put his hand to his heart. “I give you my word that if I think my methods are injuring Lord Ian in any way, I will cease.”

  “He might not let you cease,” Beth pointed out. “Ian can be quite persuasive.”

  “Yes, I see that.” Ackerley’s expression softened. “He persuaded you to marry him when you had no intention of marrying again after your broken engagement, or so you claimed in your letters. You love Lord Ian very much, don’t you?”

  “I do.” Beth felt a swell of affection. “Ian is . . . unlike any other man in the world. This is not to detract from Thomas at all—please understand. What I had with Thomas was special. Ian is different, but Thomas wasn’t lesser.”

  “No, he wasn’t.” Ackerley’s sorrow showed in his eyes. “I still miss him, dash it all.”

  Beth put her hand on his arm. “I know. Let us make a pact—after the chaos of Hart’s birthday ends, we will sit down and talk all about Thomas. Remember him properly, his good deeds, and when he made us laugh at him.”

  “Excellent.” Ackerley gave her a nod. “You are a fine woman, dear Beth.”

  “Thank you.” Beth patted him, then stepped away. “Just be careful with Ian. And make sure he is careful with you. If you need to break through that stubborn Mackenzie façade, you come to me. Promise?”

  “I do, indeed,” Ackerley said.

  Beth let him go then, and Ackerley turned away, looking vastly relieved the interview was over.

  * * *

  Beth was going to scold him. Ian knew that as they met in the nursery that evening to put the children to bed.

  Jamie, along with Hart’s son and heir, Alec, had received permission to share a bedroom two doors down, older boys together—no girls. Ian said good night to Jamie and sent him and Alec off with Eleanor, then he and Beth turned to tucking in their daughters, and Hart’s very young son, Malcolm.

  “Papa,” Belle said to Ian as Beth settled Megan. “Aunt Eleanor says you’ve asked Uncle John to cure you of your madness. But you’re not mad, Papa.” Her expressive face furrowed. “’Centric, certainly. Not mad. I’ve been reading about madness in my books. You don’t appear to have any of the symptoms the physicians write about. You don’t talk to people who aren’t there, or wear clothes wrong, or forget who you are and how to find your way home.”

  Ian became aware that Beth, at Megan’s bed, had stilled to listen.

  “’Tis not that sort of madness, love,” Ian said to Belle.

  “There isn’t another sort,” Belle answered with conviction. “I’m going to be a doctor, you know. I’ve been studying.”

  Ian had no idea how to reply. Beth always did, but Beth now seemed incapable of speech.

  Ian had spent all afternoon with Ackerley, while Ackerley asked Ian more and more questions about his earliest memories. Ackerley had wanted to know about Ian’s need to run when faced with unpleasant situations, and delved into Ian’s hatred of his father, which had begun long before the awful day of his mother’s death. Ian had found himself pouring out the details of his life. It had been almost a relief to share the memories, even as they hurt.

  Daughter Belle reached out and touched Ian’s hand. “You see? You are not mad, Papa. You may cease worrying about it.”

  Ian studied her for a long time, Belle with her quick thoughts and love of books. She was smart and resourceful, and a quick learner, like Ian was. His pride in her ran deep.

  He wasn’t certain how to answer Belle, so Ian pressed a kiss to her forehead. Belle, satisfied she’d solved all the problems, smiled and closed her eyes.

  Ian went to Megan’s bed, stooping to kiss her as well. Megan said sleepily, “Love you, Papa,” and snuggled down with her velvet stuffed giraffe.

  Beth took Ian’s hand and led him from the room, not letting go until they entered their own chamber downstairs.

  Yes, Beth was going to scold. Ian watched her firm her shoulders, draw a breath, and harden her expression. Only one thing to do.

  He reached to Beth’s bodice and started undoing her buttons. A row of them, black and shining, marched to her waistband, the placket parting to show Ian the silk and lace she wore underneath.

  Beth’s undergarments were sleek and smooth—she did not like the excessive frills, ribbons, laces, and bows that other women did. Ian preferred Beth’s style, which allowed him to run his hand over silk and feel the warm woman beneath.

  Styles of dress had changed in the ten years Ian and Beth had been married, and so had undergarments. Beth didn’t favor the full corset that covered her hips—hers stopped at her waist, its low décolletage cupping softness.

  Beth’s body was a song to him. Music rippled through Ian when he touched her, growing fuller and more melodious the more his hands found. Her waistband opened under his fingers, and as her skirts and petticoats fell away, he slid his touch to the swell of her hips, the fullness of her buttocks.

  Ian kissed Beth’s neck while he caressed her then drew his hands up her back to open the corset cover and pull loose the laces of her stays.

  Beth hummed in her throat as she flowed to him. He heard her take another breath, steeling herself to continue her lecture, and Ian bit her now-bare shoulder.

  “Ian.” The whisper floated around him. Ian closed his mouth on her skin and suckled.

  Heat ran through him as he remembered the joy of teaching her about love bites, the remarkable day she’d approached him and asked him whether he would mind if they became lovers.

  Ian still had not recovered from the stunning blow of that question. The beautiful woman who’d fallen into his life and left him dizzy had asked him to be her lover.

  Ian, not being a fool, had immediately acquiesced.

  “Ian, we must talk.” The words held no conviction, Beth’s resolve failing her as Ian tasted her warmth.

  Ian finished the love bite and licked the reddening patch on her shoulder. He also kissed the darker red of the bite he’d left last night.

  The corset came away, the laces fluttering as it fell to the carpet. Beneath was another thin garment, combinations that hugged Beth’s body from shoulders to knees.

  She never believed Ian when he told her how beautiful she was in her combinations. The fabric outlined her breasts, waist, hips, legs, enhancing the plump softness of Beth’s body. Now that she’d borne three children, Beth thought herself too sagging, but Ian saw nothing wrong. She was his Beth, her body as enticing and beautiful as when he’d unwrapped her for the first time.

  Ian kissed his way down her body, landing on his knees, which were cushioned by his kilt. He skimmed his hand over the abdomen that had cradled his children, the miracles that were Jamie, Belle, and Megan.

  She’d given him life many times over.

  “There’s no honey in the house,” Ian said, pressing a kiss to her stomach through the fabric.

  “No? Oh.” Beth moved on restless feet. “That is a pity.”

  “Only yours.” Ian reached up to peel the combinations down her body, taking her stockings as he went. The garments fell away, opening her to him like a gift.

  Nothing was better than Beth’s own honey, welcoming his mouth. Ian drank her in dark enjoyment, while Beth’s bare toes curled on the carpet. Her fingers closed on his hair, the sounds coming from her throat making
his already tight hardness tighter still.

  Ian collapsed onto his back and lay full length on the floor. Beth remained above him, staring down at him. Ian enjoyed the view of her full breasts, curve of hip, curls of dark hair now damp where he’d licked her.

  He looked his fill for a few moments, then Ian reached up, locked strong hands on her waist, and pulled his wife down to him. Beth came willingly, her smile widening. Ian fumbled his plaid aside and brought her to him, Beth’s body pliant and warm.

  Soon Ian’s beautiful Beth was surrounding him as he eased her to straddle him, and he slid deep inside her. Her eyes half closed as she rocked on him, her soft breasts swaying as Ian began to thrust.

  No matter how mad Ian might be, this was never maddening. Sweet Beth made love to him without shyness, without shame. Her truest feelings showed on her face, sounded in her voice.

  “Love you, my Beth,” Ian said as he came into her, faster, harder. Beth’s head went back as she gave herself to pure joy. “Love you, love you, love you.”

  Ever since the day he’d learned to say it, Ian had formed those words in his mouth, savored them, understood them. Beth had given him this.

  Beth’s cries rang out as she found her deepest pleasure. “I love you, Ian Mackenzie—I do love you so much.”

  Yes, my Beth. This is love—and madness has no place here.

  Beth collapsed on top of Ian, spent and breathless, at the same time his white-hot release flooded him, and he sent his seed hard into her. “Beth, m’Beth, love you.”

  Ian fell back, gathering the woman he loved more than his own life into his arms, and everything went impossibly still.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fellows returned from London by the overnight train, bringing with him his efficient former sergeant, Pierce, now an inspector in his own right.

  Pierce had met the Mackenzie family before, but he’d never been to Kilmorgan. As the coach moved over the bridge and the enormous house spread before them, Pierce let out a whistle.

  “Blimey, that’s a pile. Why don’t you quit policing and move in here, sir?” He looked around in wonderment. “His Grace the duke’s always eager to share with you, so you tell me. I say take him up on it.”