"No need," Ian said. "It's ruined."
Curry lowered his hands, his brows drawing down, that look on his face that meant Ian had disappointed him somehow. "You know, working for you can be bloody painful, my lord."
Ian straightened his collar. So Curry had said before. Ian never had any idea how to respond to that.
"This took us a long time, guv. And some of the bits had been broken to powder, so of course it can't be all there again."
He sounded exasperated. But then, Curry often did. Curry had done so much for Ian, however, one constant in Ian's swirling madness. Curry had cared for Ian when no one else had, when the man could have walked away and let Ian drown in his own confusion.
"Curry," Ian said. "Thank you."
"Oh, praise from me master. Do you want the bowl, or not?"
Ian glanced at it again, but the bowl no longer sang, no longer eased his jangled world. "You keep it."
Curry's eyes widened. "You'd give me a priceless Ming bowl?"
"Not priceless anymore. Or throw it away, as you like. I'll buy you a better present."
Curry looked down at it, an unreadable expression on his face. "I'll keep it if ye don't mind. A souvenir. It reminds me of you, this thing does."
Ian had no idea why that should be, but he nodded, glad the discussion was over.
He pulled on his riding boots and took up his hat, forgetting about Curry and bowls, broken or otherwise, as his thoughts moved forward to spending a delightful hour with his children.
*** *** ***
As Christmas neared, the house filled. Beth was kept so busy she didn't have much time to worry about Ian, but the thoughts were there, niggling at her. Hart had assured her he'd have a new bowl for her to give to Ian by Christmas, and Beth was warmly grateful to him and Eleanor for their efforts.
Ainsley's four brothers, the McBrides, arrived en masse, Ainsley crying out like a girl as she flew down the stairs to fling herself first at one, then the next. Steven McBride, the youngest brother, came in his regimentals, able to obtain only a few weeks' leave. He was twenty-nine, handsome, tanned from foreign suns, and instantly the center of the female guests' attentions.
Next came Sinclair, the tallest of them with a booming, deep voice--the barrister, who lived mostly in London. The Scots Machine, Ainsley had said his fellow barristers called him, for his tenacious grilling of witnesses at the Old Bailey. He rarely failed to get his conviction.
He might be a machine in court, but Sinclair was also a harassed father with two children--Andrew and Catriona--who immediately turned the nursery into a circus, complete with tents and tightrope walking. Nanny Westlock's face had been tight since their arrival.
Elliot McBride, a former soldier who had been kept nearly a year in a terrible prison in India, arrived with his new wife, Juliana. Elliot had scars on his face and kept his hair shorn, but he'd softened somewhat from the last time Beth had seen him. Married life looked well on him.
Patrick was the eldest, fifteen or so years older than the other McBrides. He'd been father to them when they'd lost their parents, raising the three boys and Ainsley the best he could. Ainsley clung to him for a long time, and then to Patrick's wife, Rona.
Isabella and Beth, by tacit consent, took over a few of Ainsley's tasks to allow Ainsley to spend time with her beloved family. Still more tasks when Eleanor's father, Earl Ramsay, arrived, so that Eleanor could fuss over him.
Ian, despite his avoidance of crowds, seemed to take the filling house in stride. When he wasn't taking his children out for walks or riding with Cameron and Gavina, he spent it closeted in the sitting room with Daniel. He'd occasionally pass a late evening in the billiards room with the McBride brothers. Beth would look in and see Ian and Elliot smoking in silence while Sinclair and Steven did most of the playing and talking. Ian also quietly won much money from the other three.
Daniel was the Mackenzie who gave Beth the most concern. He'd become as obsessed as Ian over whatever they were doing in the sitting room, bolting down the stairs whenever mysterious packages arrived at the door. In fact, while Ian would emerge from the room from time to time, Daniel remained behind. There was no question of unlocking the door and taking a peek on the rare occasion both left the room, because Daniel had sent for parts for a new lock and installed it himself--and he kept the only key.
Three days before Christmas, Beth came upon Daniel and Bellamy facing each other in a dim back corridor. Bellamy and Daniel both had fists raised, and Daniel sported a large and multicolored bruise from his forehead to his jaw.
* * * * *
Chapter Ten
"Daniel! What on earth?"
Bellamy lowered his fists and stepped away from Daniel, his stoic expression in place.
"Oh, hello, Auntie," Daniel said with his usual brisk cheerfulness. "Bellamy's giving me a few lessons in boxing. I need them, as you can see."
"I do see. Bellamy didn't give you that, did he?"
Bellamy looked faintly alarmed, but Daniel laughed. "Nae, not Bellamy. Lad down the pub. The barmaid's been me mate for years, but her new intended didn't see it that way."
Barmaid. Beth's maid Katie had related the gossip about what had happened in the village since their last visit. "Ah, yes. She's marrying the blacksmith's boy."
"Aye, biggest lad in town. We went a round or two before he knocked me down. Best boxer I ever faced. I came home and asked Bellamy to show me what I did wrong."
"And what did he do wrong?" Beth asked Bellamy.
"Didn't guard right." Bellamy stepped forward, the servant disappearing, the fighter emerging. He held up his fists, arms slightly bent, knuckles loose. "In fighting like that, if your hands are too close to your face, your opponent can shove your fist right back into your own eye, and then get under your reach while you're trying to decide what happened."
He demonstrated by slowly thrusting his beefy fist at Daniel's upraised one, pushing Daniel's back at him. Then Bellamy followed with his other fist, underneath to Daniel's face, right where the bruise was.
Daniel sighed in resignation. "Fair point. Thank you, Bellamy. Hello, Dad."
Cameron came down the hall like an angry bear, the picture softened somewhat by his daughter riding on his shoulders. Gavina saw Daniel, squealed in delight, and held out her arms.
Daniel caught her as she tried to dive off the taller Cameron, then Daniel swung her around, making her squeal all the more.
"Brawling in the pub?" Cameron felt himself torn between exasperation and worry, and also the pang of realization that his son had grown up. Cameron had been brawling in pubs at sixteen, chasing barmaids, fighting for their favors. Danny had gone from babe in arms to tall university lad so quickly. Gavina would grow as quickly, gone before he knew it.
"Not in the pub," Daniel was saying. "In the yard behind. No one was hurt--only the pride of Daniel Mackenzie."
"I heard," Cameron said, retaining his fatherly growl. "Blacksmith was worried I'd fetch a constable to arrest his son for pounding you. I told him it was no more than you deserved. You leave the local barmaid alone, Danny. Trouble only comes of that. Ye don't piss in your own nest. Beg pardon, Beth."
Beth, used to Mackenzie men forgetting to mitigate their words around the ladies of the family, only nodded.
Daniel swung Gavina up on his shoulder. "I'm mates with Kirsten, that's all. We've known each other from babyhood. I'll go shake hands and make peace, all right?"
Cameron had no doubt that Daniel could restore everyone into admiring him again. He had the knack for making people like him--his mother had had that charm, though hers had hidden a foul nature. Daniel's nature was sunny, thank God. "Leave them alone for a bit. You can be a whirlwind."
Daniel shrugged, not offended. "Fair enough. After Christmas then."
"And learn to fight better," Cameron said. Daniel made friends, yes, but he also tended to defend those who couldn't defend themselves and sometimes got beaten for his troubles. "Here, look."
He faced B
ellamy, fists raised. Boxing within the rules was all very well, but street fighting was another matter. At Daniel's age, Cameron had been a formidable bare-fist fighter.
Bellamy, always the professional, raised his hands and defended. "You keep your fists up, not down," Cameron said. "That way when you punch, your arm twists with the forward thrust, giving it that much more momentum."
He brought his fist forward in slow motion, straight at Bellamy's jaw. Bellamy blocked with his arm, swinging his own fist straight upward, under Cameron's reach.
"And that," Cameron said, dancing back out of the way, "is why defensive moves are sometimes better than offensive. You watch what your opponent does, find his weakness, and then strike."
Cameron spun away from Bellamy's hit, came back, and jabbed his fist behind Bellamy's ear. Bellamy, the experienced fighter, blocked that too, but only just.
Daniel watched, a grin on his face. "I'll think on that, and have Bellamy give me more lessons. But I've had a spectacular idea just now."
Daniel's spectacular ideas sometimes left them all breathless, or furniture broken. "What?" Beth asked, sounding worried. Wise woman.
"A boxing match," Daniel said. "Between Dad and Bellamy. You know, for Boxing Day."
Beth laughed. "Danny, it's not called Boxing Day because of boxing."
"I know that. But it would be a good pun. How about it, Bellamy? Everyone would be allowed to watch--guests, servants, guests of servants. You and Dad could show how a match is really done."
Color stained Bellamy's cheeks, but he didn't answer. He wanted to, Cameron could see that. Bellamy had once been celebrated throughout Britain then chucked out by his trainer when the trainer saw no more use for him. In his last fight, Bellamy was supposed to have taken a fall, thus gaining his trainer and cronies much money, but Bellamy had wanted to go out winning. He had won the bout, to the joy of Bellamy's followers.
The trainer, on the other hand, furious and in debt to dangerous men, had Bellamy followed home and beaten. They'd have beaten him to death had not Mac and Cameron, who'd been at the match, come upon the fight.
They had sent off the thugs, then Mac had taken Bellamy home and sent for a surgeon to patch him up. Because Bellamy had nowhere to go, and no job any longer, Mac hired him. Bellamy had paid Mac back for that kindness with his loyalty ever since.
Ainsley would like it if Cameron let Bellamy, a reserved and somewhat shy man, shine in front of the others. Ainsley rewarded kindness with a smile, a delighted kiss, a nibble on the ear . . .
"Aye, it might be a treat for all," Cameron said. Cameron could win still more praise from Ainsley if he let Bellamy triumph. Bellamy had become smitten, Curry had said, with the maid called Esme, who'd come to the door looking for charity, and had been hired on by Mrs. Desmond and Isabella to help with the frantic preparations for Christmas. Bellamy would welcome a chance to show off in front of her, and Ainsley would enjoy the fact that Cameron had played matchmaker.
And perhaps Ainsley would retreat from her terrible worry about Gavina, who was, at the moment, tugging Daniel's hair and laughing. Daniel, in spite of his tendency toward trouble, had turned out rather well. Between the three of them, Gavina should be all right.
"Your Uncle Hart might not approve, you know," Beth was saying. "It is his house after all, Danny."
"Oh, that's no trouble." Daniel grinned and waved away his formidable Uncle Hart. "He's busy looking after Aunt Eleanor, and I wasn't going to bother mentioning it to him."
*** *** ***
"You'd love it here, Maggie," Sinclair McBride said under his breath. He gazed out of the vast, empty library to the vast, empty garden, dusted now with snow, glittering like diamonds under a brief visit from the sun. "Such beauty. And quiet."
Maggie, whom he'd called Daisy in intimate moments, had been gone from him five years now. And still the pain was as sharp as on the day she'd died.
Outwardly, the Scots Machine rolled on--Basher McBride--the criminals called him. Cool, sticking to facts, proving beyond a doubt that the man or woman in the dock had committed the abominable murder, rape, or battering and deserved to be punished. Juries warmed to him, the family man who wanted to protect his children and theirs from harm.
Not that Sinclair couldn't be kind. A first-time young thief who'd stolen an apple to feed his mother would win the Basher's compassion, and he'd argue for leniency. The juries liked that too, even if the judges did not.
Inwardly, Sinclair ached. His heart had stopped beating when Maggie's had, and he wasn't certain it had ever started again.
She'd have loved the gigantic Mackenzie house, with its horde of splendid rooms and spread of grounds, all made beautiful for Christmas. Maggie had loved Christmas. These days, the only interest in the holiday Sinclair could muster was to slip a chunk of money to his valet and instruct the man to buy all the toys Andrew and Catriona could want.
"Begging your pardon, Mr. McBride."
Sinclair turned reluctantly from the window at Nanny Westlock's interruption. He saw the look on her face and held up his hand to forestall her words. "What have they done now?"
"Started a fire. On a bed. They might have taken down the entire nursery."
Sinclair smothered a sigh. Andrew, no doubt. Catriona would have watched the mayhem with her usual quiet detachment. Andrew wouldn't have meant to start the fire. He wasn't an evil lad, just mischievous, reckless, and too curious for his own good.
"My apologies, Miss Westlock. I'll speak to Andrew."
"I have already dealt with the matter, sir." By the pinching of her lips, Andrew must have fought long and hard against being dealt with. "But I must recommend that these children be taken in hand."
Well, of course. And if Sinclair had been capable of taking them in hand, he already would have. "Again, I apologize for Andrew's behavior," Sinclair said. "My wife took care of these things, you see."
Maggie, with her laughter, the Irish lilt to her voice--every "T" a precise stop with her lovely tongue behind her teeth, had been able to do anything with her children. She'd been so beautiful, black Irish, she was called, with dark hair and dark lashes framing deep blue eyes. Catriona had her coloring, while Andrew was pure blond Scots, like his father.
"A good nanny can do wonders, sir. I gather your children have no nanny at all?"
"Not at present," Sinclair answered. "Each one I hire never lasts more than a day. Perhaps you could recommend someone, as capable as your good self?"
Miss Westlock's lips thinned. "I will send you a list, sir. I will also suggest that they are growing old enough to need a competent governess, especially your daughter."
Sinclair acknowledged this with a nod. Andrew would be sent off to school in due time, but Catriona . . . Sinclair wanted her home.
"Thank you, Miss Westlock."
Miss Westlock, with the air of a woman having done her duty, closed the door and withdrew.
Sinclair turned to the window. "Maggie, love," he said softly. "You always told me to have faith, but I'm lost."
Silence met him. The coal fire on the hearth made little noise, and wind blew outside, bringing back the clouds, but the thick panes kept out the sound.
Sinclair sighed, one of his black moods descending and bringing a headache with it. "Talking to you does make me feel better, Daisy. But I wish for once, you'd answer me."
*** *** ***
"Louisa!" came a delighted cry.
Lady Louisa Scranton looked up the stairs, a smile spreading across her face as her exuberant sister Isabella ran down to her. In a moment, Isabella was folding Louisa into her arms. Louisa returned the embrace, soaking up the warmth and fragrance of her sister. Her happy sister.
"So good to see you, Izzy."
"Mama." Isabella left Louisa to gather up the woman in black bombazine, who'd come in behind Louisa. "How are you?" Isabella kissed the dowager countess' cheek. "How was the journey?"
"If you must know, darling, long and somewhat tedious." Their mother returned the kis
s. "But all the better for seeing you."
Isabella relinquished her to the care of several servants--the dowager countess loved to be looked after by servants--then Isabella linked arms with Louisa to walk her upstairs to the bedchamber prepared for her.
Isabella chattered breezily about the house, the holiday preparations, about what a wonderful time they would all have. Louisa made the requisite responses, wishing she could let Isabella's joy raise her spirits. But Louisa recently had assessed her life, her mother's life, and their future, and had made her decision.
As Isabella went on in exuberance, Louisa glanced about at the hanging decorations that went all the way up the marvelous staircase, the greenery and streamers warming the cold marble and paneling. She looked down over the railings to admire the giant vase of yellow mums placed on the table on the ground floor.
A man in black strode into the open hall below. A Mackenzie, Louisa thought, then her chest constricted, and her mouth went dry.
He was a Mackenzie, and he wasn't. Lloyd Fellows, the detective inspector, was very like Hart Mackenzie when viewed from afar, with the same commanding air, tall body, and dark hair brushed with red when the light was right. He also had hazel eyes that missed nothing, a sharp face, and a biting wit.
The last time Louisa had seen Mr. Fellows had been at Hart and Eleanor's wedding, when she'd brazenly kissed him.
Louisa remembered the firmness of his lips, the scent of cigar that clung to his clothes, the taste of whiskey and spice in his mouth. A strong man, capable, unafraid of work and hardship, but his hand had shaken a little as he'd brushed back Louisa's hair.
As though he felt Louisa's gaze on him, Fellows looked up, through the greenery and the railings, and their gazes locked.
Louisa's face flooded with heat, but she would not let herself look away. Yes, she had kissed him. She'd been filled with the joy of the wedding, even with its complications, and a sadness that she'd likely never have such a wedding herself. She'd found this handsome man, as sad and alone as she was, and she'd wanted his warmth.
Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift Page 8
