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  The train straightened out and picked up speed, the acceleration pushing Bertie at Sinclair, and Sinclair at Bertie. He went deeper still, his smile vanishing. A fine ache rubbed her where they joined, his ministrations having made her swollen and hot, and now pleasured by the whole of him.

  Sinclair thrust a little, his hips coming off the bunk. The rush of the train, and its unsteady speed moved Sinclair inside her, as though the train itself coaxed this coupling. They hit another bend, Sinclair holding Bertie firmly against the sway.

  He got to his feet, Sinclair lifting her with him, her legs still around his hips. He turned around once with her in the tight compartment until the train bent the other way again. Sinclair gave up fighting the roll and ended up with Bertie’s back against the window.

  The curtains bowed into the glass with her, the window cool through the fabric. Sinclair thrust hard, again and again, while Bertie held on to him, her head rocking against the window.

  She heard her own cries, drowned by the hard clack-clack of the wheels and the whistle blowing its warning. Sinclair’s head went back, and he clenched his teeth against his own shout. “Bloody hell,” he said in a grating voice. He made a harsh ahh sound as his eyes closed, and he lost his seed into her.

  The train swayed the other way, the compartment following its momentum. Sinclair lost his footing and ended up on the bunk, Bertie still around him. She kissed his face, which was wet with sweat, their bodies snug together. Sinclair kissed her back, tumbling her hair, breathing hard, Bertie laughing.

  “Damn, bloody trains,” Sinclair growled, then he buried his face in her neck and held her close.

  In the morning, they disembarked at Edinburgh, which was a bustling city under misty skies. Bertie couldn’t see much of it while trundling from one train platform to the next, cold rain filming her coat and new hat. In the next train, Sinclair, Bertie, and the children sat together in another first-class compartment, Macaulay and Aoife joining them, as they rolled out of Edinburgh north into the Highlands.

  The rain eased back as the city dropped behind, the sun came out, and sweeping hills came into view, marching across the horizon, rising into the sky. Valleys dropped away as the train chugged over bridges. Bertie couldn’t drag herself from the windows as she watched the splendor unfold.

  The train stopped at a tiny station marked Kilmorgan to let off Sinclair and family, the only ones to disembark. Macaulay and Aoife oversaw the luggage being unloaded while Bertie looked around her with interest.

  The village wasn’t much, that she could see—a high street that ran from a small square to the train station. Houses and shops lined the street, with a smattering of cottages beyond, and after that . . . emptiness. Green hills rolled to the gray horizon, the higher hills dusted with snow. The stationmaster, who greeted Sinclair by name, said that snow had been thin this year so far, but they’d likely get more soon.

  “Hooray!” Andrew said. “You’ll love to play in the snow here, Bertie. It’s glorious. We’ll build a fort and have a battle.”

  “Not until you’re better,” Sinclair broke in sternly. “And you’ll be better when I say you are. Up you go.”

  He lifted his son into his arms and followed the stationmaster through the tiny waiting room to the front of the station. The lane outside was empty, not a vehicle in sight.

  “Do people live here?” Bertie asked. There was no sign of anyone, no movement on the road. All the silence made her nervous.

  “They do.” Sinclair sounded amused. “The village near my own house is even smaller, Miss Frasier of the city.”

  Bertie suppressed a shiver. “Well, I never,” was all she could think of to say.

  Sinclair frowned at the empty street. “I hope they remembered we were coming today. I don’t want to have to tramp all the way to the castle.”

  Bertie looked about for a castle perched on a hill. She expected to see a tall stone edifice with battlements poking up from the rocks—like the pictures in the books she’d been reading—but she didn’t see anything resembling that. She couldn’t see much at all beyond this tiny village with no one in it.

  Bertie heard the sound of hooves quickly clopping and turned to see a conveyance come around the corner into the square. It was a landau, closed against the cold, pulled by two smart horses trotting at high speed. On the box, holding the reins, was a tall man in a kilt standing up next to the red-coated coachman.

  The horses pulled to a halt, with the door of the landau exactly in front of Sinclair and family. The tall man was only a lad, Bertie saw, maybe eighteen or nineteen. He dropped straight down from the box as the landau halted, landing gracefully on his feet with a flutter of kilt.

  “Danny!” Andrew yelled from Sinclair’s arms. “That was bully driving.”

  Danny had rawboned strength and the looks of the Mackenzies Bertie had already met—broad-shouldered, dark hair with red highlights, his eyes a bit darker than Hart’s, Ian’s, and Cameron’s. Andrew had told Bertie all about Daniel Mackenzie, son of Lord Cameron, now at university in Edinburgh, the young man full of pranks and larks. Plus he knew all about engines and how to make them go.

  “Glad you liked it, Andrew.” Daniel reached for Andrew, and Sinclair relinquished him. “How are you, Miss Caitriona? More and more a beautiful young lady every time I see you.”

  Daniel’s Scottish accent was the most pronounced of the Mackenzies Bertie had heard, and he used it easily, unself-consciously. Cat took the compliment with her usual calm, but she sounded a little more animated when she answered. “Thank you, Master Daniel.”

  Daniel burst out laughing, a warm sound. “Little minx. The beaus will be breaking their hearts over you in a few years’ time. And this is the new governess, is it?” His frank stare landed on Bertie.

  “This is Bertie,” Andrew announced with his usual volume. “She’s going to stay with us forever!”

  “No she won’t.” Cat’s soft answer was lost in the coachman’s whoa, as the horses moved, impatient, but Bertie heard her.

  “I see.” Daniel’s look turned shrewd, and Sinclair moved closer to Bertie.

  “You don’t,” Sinclair said in his barrister’s voice. “Are we going to the castle or will we stand at the station freezing all morning?”

  Daniel grinned and opened the carriage door. “In ye go. Miss . . . ?” He held out one hand to Bertie, his other arm still firmly around Andrew.

  “Frasier,” Bertie said in her best ladylike voice. “Thank you, Mr. Mackenzie.”

  “My pleasure.” The laughter and intelligence in his eyes unnerved her.

  Daniel said nothing more, only lifted in Andrew then Caitriona, and stood back so Sinclair could enter. Instead of joining them inside, Daniel closed the door and climbed back to the box. He was going to drive them to the castle.

  Drive he did. The landau rocketed out of the village and straight up a hill, the carriage listing alarmingly.

  Sinclair gave Bertie’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Hart Mackenzie’s coachman would never let Daniel take the traces if it weren’t safe.”

  Bertie didn’t much agree, though if this coachman was anything like the duke’s coachman in London, the man would at least be strong enough to stop the horses running away. She could hope so, anyway.

  The ride didn’t take long—not the way Daniel drove—and soon they were speeding over a bridge and along a curved drive. A house came into view, a colossus of one. Bertie rubbed mist from the landau’s window and stared hard at it.

  The house spread itself across a wide sweep of land, one long horizontal wing in front, with hints of more wings flowing out behind it. Glittering windows, dozens and dozens of them, marched across every floor, up to small dormer windows in the attics.

  Daniel leapt to the ground as soon as they stopped, and two footmen in dark suits came forward to open the landau’s doors. They handed Aoife down from the
back with as much courtesy as they did Sinclair and family from inside. Five dogs swarmed out of the house, outflanking the footmen to greet the guests with barks and waving tails.

  “This ain’t a castle,” Bertie said to Sinclair as she stared up at the house. “It’s a blooming palace.”

  “The original Castle Kilmorgan is a ruin,” Sinclair said calmly. “This house was built about a hundred or so years ago. The ruins are up there.” He pointed east, to a high hill with black rocks tumbled along the top.

  “It’s a bully climb,” Andrew said. His new word was bully, Bertie surmised. He must have heard someone in the train or stations using it. “I’ll take you, Bertie.”

  “When you’re better,” Sinclair said in a hard voice.

  Andrew paid no attention. He reached out from his father’s arm to tug a footman’s sleeve. “I got shot!” he said at the top of his voice. “Want to see?”

  Chapter 20

  The house was packed. The Christmas celebration preparations were in full whirl, and the ladies of the house caught Bertie up in them. The Mackenzie women were all there—Eleanor, Ainsley, Isabella, Beth, and their children, Louisa plump with her pregnancy. The McBride ladies, Juliana and Rose, were also present with more young ones.

  The women ran about like sergeant majors in full command. Dogs burst apart every time the ladies rushed by, then closed in to follow them. The Mackenzie men and Sinclair’s brothers seized Sinclair immediately and disappeared with him to some male sanctuary.

  Bertie assumed she’d be confined to the nursery to help the nannies with the McBride and Mackenzie children, but it seemed the ladies needed all hands on deck. Bertie barely had Cat and Andrew settled in before she was pulled away by Ainsley—literally pulled by the hand—back to the ground-floor drawing room, which had become tactical headquarters.

  Many ladies and gents from the upper echelon of British society had arrived to celebrate Christmas as the honored guests of Hart Mackenzie. The family would remain after Christmas for a private celebration at New Year’s, but beforehand, the varied guests expected entertainment.

  Bertie was drawn into helping fold paper mums that would shower down during the Christmas ball. Bertie saw that the Mackenzie and McBride wives, as lofty as they were, didn’t shove the work onto the servants while they took their ease. They rolled up their sleeves and got on with it.

  Lady Isabella, whom Bertie had not met before, had glorious red hair, like her sister Louisa, as well as a lovely figure and keen green eyes. Isabella sat down opposite Bertie to help make the flowers, and treated Bertie to her assessing gaze.

  “Your gown suits you,” Lady Isabella said. “I see Mrs. Hill’s hand in it. Sedate but not dowdy. I’d prefer to see you in something blue, though. It will bring out your eyes.”

  “Leave her be, Izzy,” Louisa said, pausing from wherever she was rushing to, an open notebook at her ample abdomen. “My apologies, Miss Frasier. My sister can’t meet a woman without re-dressing her.”

  “Because I have exceptional taste,” Isabella said without false modesty. “My sisters-in-law were in sad shape before I took them in hand. Do let me take you in hand, Miss Frasier. I enjoy it.”

  Her determination was a bit alarming, but charming at the same time. “I’m a governess,” Bertie said, her voice faint.

  “Nonsense. When you’re teaching the children, yes, you’re their governess. On your days out, you’re a young lady who deserves a treat.”

  “But I’m not exactly . . .”

  Isabella waved her quiet. “We know all about you. Eleanor told us.”

  “She did, did she?” Bertie asked, worried.

  “It’s settled then. You’ll come to my room before the ball, and I’ll dress you. Everyone is invited to the Christmas ball, and you’ll need something besides governess gray.” Isabella rose, taking her finished flowers and giving Bertie a warm smile. “Don’t worry; I’ll fix you up.”

  She flowed away. Bertie swallowed and kept folding flowers with fingers that had chilled.

  “You’ll grow used to Isabella,” Ian’s wife, Beth, said, sliding in to take Isabella’s place. “She loves to direct us all, but she has a kind heart. She provided a way for Ian and I to find each other, and I’m very grateful to her.”

  “Good on her,” Bertie said. But Isabella was a lady, an earl’s daughter, and Beth was a lady as well. They all were. Bertie was . . . Bertie.

  She liked them, though, she decided. The wives talked openly, inviting everyone into the conversation—maids and Bertie, guests and footmen—all were included. A big, loving family, they were, the kind Bertie had always longed for. If nothing else came from her time with Sinclair, she was going to enjoy this Christmas, and treasure it forever.

  She knew things couldn’t go on as they were, not for always. Even Cat knew that. At the moment, Bertie existed in a bubble of happiness, where her love for Sinclair and his little ones were the only things that mattered. The rest of the world and its sordidness was outside the bubble. Bertie knew it would come crashing in soon—sharing a bed with Sinclair would have all kinds of consequences, and she wasn’t stupid about what they could be—but for now, she determined to let herself enjoy the moments of sweetness.

  “I’d like you to let someone else look at the letters,” Inspector Fellows said.

  He and Sinclair were alone at the windows of the long upstairs hall, while Cam and Mac Mackenzie and Steven and Elliot McBride talked and smoked heavily scented cigars in the sitting area at the other end. Sinclair had never taken to cigars, and Fellows, while he would partake, had little enthusiasm for them, and the two had moved off together.

  Sinclair was happy to see Elliot out and enjoying conversation, listening to the others and laughing. He knew Elliot still had episodes from his ordeal in prison—who wouldn’t?—but the darkness that had surrounded him every day had dissipated.

  Sinclair had lightened too, and he knew exactly why.

  “At the moment, I don’t care about the be-damned letters,” Sinclair said.

  “I know, but my copper’s mind never shuts down.” Fellows gave him the ghost of a smile. “I looked through the list of men and women you’ve prosecuted over the years, and it’s a good long one. Any of them could be hounding you. So I’d like to narrow that down by looking at the letters themselves.”

  Sinclair’s fingers went stiff around his glass of whiskey. “Why? You’ve already looked at them. The paper and envelopes are ordinary, sold at any shop, we concluded.”

  “Ordinary to you and me, yes,” Fellows said. “The letters printed so we can’t recognize handwriting. But the man following you hasn’t figured on one weapon in our arsenal—Ian Mackenzie.”

  Sinclair’s unease was erased by surprise. “I know Ian has an extraordinary mind—I’ve seen what he can do with mathematics, his memory, music. But these papers are blanks, mass-produced. The only significant thing about them are the vile messages.”

  “Let’s let him have a look, though, shall we?” Fellows asked. “You never know, with Ian.”

  Sinclair shrugged and took a sip of whiskey. “I’m willing. Where is Ian now?”

  “In secret negotiation with Daniel, preparing something for the younger generation for tomorrow,” Fellows said. He gave Sinclair a dark look. “Yes, we should be worried about that. We can try to run Ian to ground tonight, once the festivities start.”

  Sinclair gave a dry laugh. “You’re optimistic. If we are not present and correct at the supper ball, the ladies will track us down with more ruthlessness than any hardened criminal.”

  Fellows shared his smile. “That, my friend, is true.”

  Sinclair took another sip of whiskey, studying Fellows over the glass. “You love it,” he said. “You’re a part of them now, and you’re lapping it up.”

  Fellows gave him a conceding nod. “The Mackenzie brothers are as loud, foul-mouth
ed, and arrogant as they ever were.” He glanced at the gathering behind Sinclair, and a roar of male laughter punctuated his statement. “But I find them easier to take these days. I find everything easier to take.”

  “Marriage does that to a man,” Sinclair said. “I well remember.”

  Fellows’s look softened slightly—as much as Fellows ever softened—first into fondness for his wife, and then into something like sympathy for Sinclair.

  Last year when Sinclair had been here, he’d been morose indeed. This year was different. Bertie had already made it different.

  He knew Bertie was in the process of ripping the scars from his wounds and letting the blood flow, but it was a healing flow. Sinclair didn’t want to look at what was happening to him too closely, because danger always came when he examined something too minutely. It was enough, for now, to simply bask.

  “Christmas morning then,” Fellows said. “After whatever Daniel and Ian are putting together to impress the children.”

  “Give me a signal,” Sinclair said. He lifted his empty glass in toast to Fellows, then retreated down the hall to his brothers and brothers-in-law, their laughter, and more whiskey.

  “I can’t wear this.” Bertie stared into the mirror in shock.

  Beth, next to her, resplendent in Mackenzie plaid, laughed at her. “Why not? You look a picture.”

  But that was just it. It was a picture.

  The young woman who looked out of the large gilt-framed mirror at Bertie was a complete stranger. Ringlets of sleek brown hair brushed bare shoulders, which were hugged by a bodice of light blue silk. The bodice’s short sleeves ended above her elbows in a cascade of ivory lace. The underskirt was a panel of the same light blue with an appliqué of vines in darker blue across it. An overskirt of striped dark and light blue taffeta was gathered back over a small bustle, the excess fabric left to cascade in soft folds to a hint of a train.