A Rogue Meets a Scandalous Lady: Mackenzies, Book 11

by Ashley Jennifer

  “Yes.” Sophie looked straight at him, and he saw her heart in her eyes—her loving, true, honest heart. “I will marry you, Mr. Fleming.”

  “Thank God for that,” David breathed out, and he kissed her.

  And kissed her. The spring wind tried to push them from the hill, but the old ruined wall, which had stood for centuries through strife and English weather, held them steady. David pulled Sophie against him, the curve of her body fitting his, her firm hands on his back keeping him from falling.

  He tasted her goodness, her fire, her laughter. He loved this woman with all his strength, and she’d just said she loved him back. The world was an incredible place.

  From far away came an excited cry in Pierson’s unmistakable shout. “Eureka!”

  David and Sophie broke apart, eyes wide, then they dissolved into laughter.

  They caught each other’s hands and ran down the hill toward the vicar who was dancing up and down in the joy of another find.

  Their laughter drifted back to the old abbey, the wind carrying it to sigh around its benevolent stones.

  Epilogue

  Sophie’s ceremony for her second wedding was worlds away from her first.

  Absent was the tension, the fear as she was dressed by her attendants—worry she’d be too awkward under the stares of the highest in society, and most especially, Laurie’s rigid aunts, sneering uncles, and derisive cousins. Fear she’d trip on her gown, stammer as she repeated the vows, or do something else that disgraced her in the eyes of the aristocrats who’d come to watch the Earl of Devonport take a bride.

  Today, she was surrounded by laughter and light. She and David had decided together to marry at his home in Hertfordshire, Moreland Park’s garden in June bursting with flowers. They’d collaborated on the guest lists, inviting only their close family and dearest friends. For Sophie’s first wedding, Laurie and his aunt had dictated that it would be held in St. George’s, Hanover Square, and decided upon the guests without consulting her.

  Sophie’s ladies for her second wedding were her oldest girlhood friends as well as the Mackenzie wives. Eleanor chattered away while she took photographs, and Isabella had lent her expertise in designing the gown, which hung from Sophie in elegant swaths of ivory silk.

  Beth and Violet helped with the flowers—pink roses in a cascading bouquet for Sophie, buds and baby’s breath for the ladies—and Ainsley had been in charge of the cake.

  The Mackenzie children played their parts—Lord Alec, the duke’s heir, proud in his role of ring bearer. If his brother, Mal, let him appear without being muddy, bloody, and his suit torn, all would be well. The younger Mackenzie girls would scatter flower petals for Sophie while the older girls and the lads made sure the guests were looked after.

  “You are beautiful,” Eleanor declared as she clicked her camera, this a small affair that held the newfangled celluloid film. “David will swoon when he sees you. I cannot wait.”

  The ladies laughed hard at the idea of the suave David doing anything so inelegant as swooning, but Sophie barely smiled. She longed to be near him, to take his hand and be his wife, and she chafed for the ceremony to begin.

  Isabella peered at her knowingly. “No wilting bride here. I believe she’ll be glad when we clear off and let her be alone with the dashing Mr. Fleming.”

  Sophie’s face heated, and the ladies went off in another peal of laughter.

  During the wedding preparations, she and David had vowed they’d wait to touch each other again until after the marriage ceremony. They’d begin their wedding trip tomorrow with a visit to Uncle Lucas in Shropshire, and then a sojourn to the Continent to look at ruins in Rome and Pompei. They’d also planned plenty of time in lavish hotels along the way, where they could explore each other to their heart’s content as man and wife. No reason to rush.

  That lofty sentiment had lasted until Sophie encountered David in the corridor late last night, she returning from seeing that her guests were comfortable.

  They’d met in the shadows, and David had blown out the candle Sophie had carried. His bedchamber had been nearby, and after a time of hot kisses in the corridor, she’d willingly let him lead her inside.

  Fortescue had betrayed no surprise when he entered in the morning to find Sophie curled up against David, only inquired what she’d like to have brought for breakfast. David had snarled at him, but then ordered a large breakfast for himself, as long as Forty was offering.

  Tonight, Sophie would share David’s bed as his wife.

  When she’d realized at her first wedding that her husband’s bed awaited, she’d trembled and felt sick. Today, she longed to race through the proceedings so she could take David into her arms and lose herself in him.

  I love him. That was the difference, she realized. She loved David deeply, with all her being. When he’d suggested living in sin instead of the respectability of marriage, Sophie had been ready to agree in a heartbeat.

  This wedding ceremony would allow the solicitors and the church to mark the union down as legal and acceptable. The love and togetherness after that was for David and Sophie alone.

  When Isabella’s daughter Aimee announced it was time, Sophie nearly ran from the room. The Mackenzie ladies followed her with much merriment.

  As the weather held fair, they’d marry in the garden. Sophie walked out to sunshine, a cool breeze, and a riot of roses, geraniums, snapdragons, zinnias, and others in myriad colors.

  The guests were mostly in their places, though many still milled about, friends talking, joking, laughing—no stiff concern or formality. Elliot McBride chased his son and youngest daughter across the green, both children somehow outrunning his long legs, their screams of mirth cutting the air. His older daughter raced after them, black curls dancing, she laughing as she helped Elliot catch her brother and sister.

  Daniel lifted his own daughter when she tried to join the hunt, planting her on his shoulders as he and Violet took their seats.

  Sophie saw most of this in a blur, her focus all for the man who waited next to the vicar under the flower-strewn arbor.

  Uncle Lucas had persuaded the local vicar to let him perform the actual ceremony. The vicar, happy to put up his feet and sip sherry instead, nodded contentedly in the sunshine in the first row, while Uncle Lucas stood proudly in his vestments, ready to marry Sophie to David.

  Hart Mackenzie, his expression a mixture of relief and gladness, stood beside David as his groomsman. Eleanor had told Sophie in private that Hart was very pleased with this marriage. Not only was he happy for his friend, but Hart could cease feeling contrite that he’d found happiness in marriage while David had wandered alone.

  “Hart loves David,” Eleanor had confided. “Only never tell him I said so. He’d deny it with every breath. David, too. When anyone mentions how close the pair of them are, they both contrive to look surprised.”

  The two now stood rather stiffly together, it amused Sophie to see. The best of friends, each holding up the other through pain, heartache, and loss. Well, she’d let their love for each other be her and El’s secret.

  David was the only person in the crowd at the moment who was clear and sharp to Sophie. His smile touched her, that pleased smile with a hint of self-deprecation that meant he was so very happy inside.

  Her father, who’d been introduced to the pleasure of Mackenzie malt last night, was a bit red about the eyes this morning, but led Sophie down the aisle for the second time in her life. At Laurie’s wedding, her father had been worried, hugging her and reluctant to let her go. This time, he was smiling, having found friends in David, Hart, and the other Mackenzies. When Sophie had peeped into the dining room last evening after the ladies had left it, she’d seen her father deep in conversation with Hart and David, laughing at Mac’s drawling interjections, and listening with interest at anything Ian had to add.

  Ian Mackenzie stood in the second row. He slanted Sophie a glance as she passed and gave her a nod, as though thanking her. Sophie smiled back
at him, and was rewarded with a sudden and pleased grin.

  David’s expression softened as she stepped next to him. “How beautiful you are,” he whispered. He leaned closer. “I want to eat you up.”

  Sophie blushed hard, and Hart nudged David. “Contain yourself, Fleming. We have a long ceremony to get through.”

  David sent him an innocent look, and Sophie laughed. Uncle Lucas, not as naive as he sometimes appeared, narrowed his eyes.

  “Be seemly, Fleming,” Pierson said. “I know fisticuffs, if you recall.”

  David touched the side of his face. “I remember.”

  “You were eighteen,” Hart rumbled.

  “Yes. It was a blow that lasted me ages.” David winked at Sophie. “I well deserved it.”

  “I allowed you to defend yourself,” Uncle Lucas said in a pained voice. “You simply didn’t pay attention to your lessons. Now then, We are gathered together here in the sight of God, to join together this man and this woman ….”

  His voice rose, and the crowd quieted, the children ceased their shrieking and running, friends converging to watch David and Sophie marry.

  Sophie studied David as her uncle’s soothing voice went on. She recalled how David had lifted his head at the breakfast table the morning she’d met him, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary, his hair a mess, face unshaven. And yet, she’d felt the heat of him, the spark that woke her from her stupor. She’d looked into his eyes and lost a part of herself.

  A part he’d never hurt. Sophie understood as he gazed at her now that she too held a part of him. They’d shared themselves, not only bodies but hearts, souls, secrets.

  A true marriage, she thought as she squeezed his arm, strength enclosed by soft cashmere. A joining of thoughts and respect, love and wanting.

  A forever bond, and one just for them.

  David leaned to her again. “I love you.”

  The whispered words warmed her to her toes. Sophie’s heart swelled, the freedom he’d given her to love and trust sweeping aside the last dust of her sorrows.

  “I love you,” she said into his ear, against the rise and fall of Uncle Lucas’s voice. “My dearest darling, thank you.”

  “It was my pleasure.” David grinned at her. “How else could I repay the woman who saved my life?”

  Sophie broke all precedence for wedding ceremonies by rising on her tiptoes and kissing David on the lips.

  The crowd behind them cheered. Applause, laughter, whoops, and shouts made Uncle Lucas look up from his open book. Hart laughed, the rumble deep and vibrating.

  David slid his arms around Sophie and let the kiss deepen, never mind the escalating noise around them.

  “Bless you,” he whispered as they drew apart once more. His fingers were warm as he brushed her hair back from her face. “You are the best woman in the world.”

  “I knew that,” Uncle Lucas broke in. “Took you long enough to realize, Fleming.” He loudly cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Wilt though have this woman to be thy wedded wife?”

  David’s shout—“I will!”—rang through the summer air, mingling with the laughter.

  Sophie took his hands and said, “I will,” just as readily, something loosening in her heart as she joined with him in true and lasting love.

  Author’s Note

  The Mackenzie clan returns in A Mackenzie Yuletide. Ian determines to find Beth the best Christmas gift of all time, with help from his daughters and son. Return to Scotland for another Mackenzie adventure!

  (A Mackenzie Yuletide is available as a standalone e-book, or in e-book and print in the anthology A Mackenzie Clan Christmas.)

  Excerpt: A Mackenzie Yuletide

  December 1898

  Mac Mackenzie paused, his paintbrush dripping, at the soft sound from the end of the corridor.

  The skylights in his room at the top of Kilmorgan Castle, the vast Mackenzie manor house, were dark. Mac didn’t remember night falling, but when he became deeply immersed in painting, time passed swiftly.

  It was also cold, his fire having died to a glow of coals. Lamps glowed softly, which meant his valet, Bellamy, must have entered and lit them.

  Mac pulled himself out of the painting of a Scottish landscape and restored himself to the here and now. It was mid-December, at two in the morning, and his wife and children were snugly asleep in the floors below. Mac’s brothers and their families slept in their wings of the vast house, all awaiting the celebrations at Christmas and Hogmanay.

  No one should be up near the studio at this hour, but that did not mean his son, Robert, hadn’t climbed restlessly out of bed to roam the halls. Or that Robert and his cousins Jamie and Alec hadn’t gathered for a stolen smoke or nip of whisky they didn’t think their fathers knew about.

  Mac wiped his brush and dropped it into his jar of oil of turpentine. He mopped at his hands, which never stayed clean, but didn’t bother trying to scrub off his face. Nor did he remove the kerchief that kept his hair more or less free of paint. Once he found the source of the noise, he’d return and finish the shadowing that was challenging him.

  He shrugged on his shirt, now noticing the cold. Painting with fervor heated his body, so he usually ended up in only his kilt and shoes.

  Mac stepped into the cold, silent hall. It ran narrowly before him, ending in a T—one direction led to Ian’s wing, the other to Cameron’s. He saw a flutter of white in the shadows, heard again the quiet rustle that had cut through his painting haze.

  “Iz?” Mac called softly.

  He started down the corridor. If Isabella, his darling wife, had come up to entice him to bed, he’d play along. The studio had a wide, comfortable sofa, and he could build up the fire to keep them warm while they bared more skin . . .

  Another flutter, then silence.

  Mac began to grin. Isabella had a teasing streak, and when she turned playful, life became splendid. Mac’s blood warmed, and he forgot all about painting.

  “Izzy, love.” He started after her, anticipation building. What game would she play this time? And how would Mac turn the tables, as he loved to do?

  He reached the split in the corridor. Stairs led down from here to the floors below, or he could turn to one of his brothers’ wings. Years ago, the sons and daughters of the Mackenzies had slept in nurseries on these top floors, but they had long since moved to larger bedchambers below.

  That fact was in one way sad, but then again, the older children would be marrying in a few short years, and nurseries would fill again. Mac’s adopted daughter, Aimee, was nineteen now, and so beautiful.

  Which was very worrying. Mac found himself snarling like a bear at gentlemen she danced with at the balls Isabella had carefully selected since Aimee’s debut.

  An icy draft poured over him as he tried to decide which way to turn. The wind cut, making him shiver. Who had left a blasted window open?

  He thought the chill came from Cam’s wing, and he quietly moved that direction. The short hall beyond was empty and dark.

  “What the devil are you doing, love?” he said, a bit louder. “It’s freezing. Let’s go to the studio and make it cozy.”

  Another rustle. Mac followed the noise around the corner to the longer corridor. At its end was a flash of white, then nothing.

  Mac gave up stealth and sprinted down the corridor. He’d catch Isabella and she’d laugh, then he’d carry her to where they could tear off what little clothing Mac wore and enjoy themselves.

  A window lay at the end of the hall—open, Mac saw as he reached it. As he’d suspected. Mac slammed it closed.

  He heard a whisper of sound and spun around. Behind him, where he’d just come from, stood a lady in white. A chance moonbeam caught on her red hair.

  In that instant, Mac knew this wasn’t Isabella. Different stance, different height, and Isabella was . . . alive.

  Why he thought this woman wasn’t, Mac didn’t know. Maybe because the moonlight made her skin deathly pale, or because the white dress floated, though the draf
t had gone. Mac couldn’t see every detail of her, but she seemed to have no hands or feet.

  Mac’s heart beat faster, but he felt no fear. Kilmorgan was an old place—this could be any lady, from any era.

  “Good evening,” he said softly. “I’m Mac. But you probably know that. What’s your name, lass? Which one are you?”

  The apparition was utterly silent. Mac took a step forward, wondering what would happen when he reached her. Could he walk straight through her? And would that be impolite?

  He was halfway down the hall to the hovering lady when she vanished, abruptly and utterly.

  Clouds slid over the moon. Mac was left in the freezing cold and dark, alone, disappointed, and suddenly tired.

  He moved quickly back to his own wing, doused the lights in the studio, and fled downstairs to his bedchamber, which was warm and inviting. His wife was fast asleep in their bed, and never moved when Mac climbed in with her, spooning close to her in their heated nest.

  * * *

  “I saw a ghost last night,” Mac announced at the breakfast table.

  Ian Mackenzie took a moment to decide whether this declaration was interesting enough for him to look up from the letter and photographs that had arrived in the morning’s post. Mac liked to spin yarns, and Ian had learned to ignore most of them.

  He glanced at Mac, who slid into a place at the long table, his plate loaded with eggs, sausages, ham, and scones dripping with butter. A few rivulets of butter trickled over the edge of the plate to make perfect round pools on the tablecloth.

  Their nephew Daniel laughed. “Did you, Uncle Mac?”

  “I did,” Mac answered without worry. “Vanished before my eyes.”

  Violet, Daniel’s wife, made sure their seven-year-old daughter, Fleur, wasn’t giving too many bits of toast to the dogs, and leaned forward eagerly. “Interesting. Where did you see it?”