“You know I am a much better rider,” Violet continued, though Ian sensed she’d already won the argument. “You can keep a lookout.”
Daniel heaved an aggrieved sigh and prepared to follow her out, but Ian put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “Let me ride with Violet.”
Daniel stared at him, perplexed. “Are you sure, Uncle? The cycle isn’t the most stable of vehicles.”
“I know where to look for Magill,” Ian said. “And Violet knows how to drive the cycle better than anyone.”
Violet was already fastening her goggles. “Give him your helmet, Daniel.”
Daniel thrust it at Ian, resigned. “If ye come to grief, Uncle Ian, I’m fleeing to the Continent and not breaking the news to Aunt Beth.”
Ian mounted the cycle. He managed to slide the leather helmet over his head and adjust the goggles before Daniel cranked the engine to life. Violet, already aboard, played with the throttle, the engine sputtering and coughing in the cold.
“Ready, Uncle Ian?” Violet shouted.
Ian was not at all, but he clutched Violet around the waist as the cycle leapt forward and bumped down the track toward the woods.
The cycle could not go as fast as Daniel’s best motorcar or even a running horse, but it was much more maneuverable than the motorcars, Ian could see. Violet turned it sharply and rode up a hill, snow slapping their faces. Ian was uncomfortable in the close-fitting helmet and the goggles that squeezed his head, but he saw the sense in them.
The roads through and around Kilmorgan had been flattened and in some places paved with stones, instigated by Daniel so he could run his motorcars around the estate and down to the village. The road Violet took, however, bumped and jounced, jarring Ian’s bones.
The darkness pressed them. Thick clouds blotted out all illumination from moon or stars, and soon even the lights of Kilmorgan fell behind.
Violet knew these hills, but she went slowly, peering ahead, while Ian scanned for any sign of Magill.
“Where would he go?” Violet shouted behind her.
Ian had already pondered this. Their nearest neighbor was miles away. The village was too, and it would be shut for the storm. The road south to Inverness would soon be impassible.
That left the distillery, which Magill likely didn’t know about. Even if he stumbled across it, the steward and his family who lived there would have held on to him and sent word to the main house.
The mysterious woman had seen him, had pointed the direction he’d been heading.
“The folly,” Ian yelled to Violet. Magill might have spied the young woman’s lights or watched her descend from the hill if she’d decided to look for refuge in the house.
Violet nodded and swung the cycle sharply to ride up the next hill.
Magill would freeze to death out here. Even if he hid inside the folly, out of the wind, the cold would be absolute. The cold had driven young Magdala, who had been living in the folly for some time, to the house to seek warmth.
Whoever she was, she certainly was robust if she’d survived out here in December, only sneaking into Kilmorgan for supplies. But she was a mystery to be solved once Ian put his hands on Magill and wrested the whereabouts of the necklace from him. He hoped Magill hadn’t lost the bloody thing.
No, the man would more likely hang on to the necklace after all the trouble he’d gone to obtain it. He must have brought it to Kilmorgan with him, one more reason to flee.
Ian leaned into Violet as she struggled to guide the cycle up the hill. The road was steep but passable—Daniel and Violet had come this way only a few days before.
Neither Ian nor Violet saw the snowbank until it was too late. Ian reasoned with detachment that the wall of snow must have come down from the cliff above, loosened by the weight of the storm and pushed by the wind.
Violet swerved. The wheels skidded out from under them, and the cycle threw off its riders, who went tumbling and falling, straight into the frozen bank of snow.
* * *
Beth and the other Mackenzie wives prevented Magdala from bolting once the men had started the search. The young woman had tried to slip away, but Beth saw her and called out, then ran after her as Magdala charged down the ground-floor gallery, heading for the door to the garden.
Magdala put on a burst of speed, but Eleanor stepped from a side hall in front of her, and Magdala stumbled to an abrupt halt.
“Enough of that, young woman,” Eleanor said. “It is far too cold for you to run off, and we do not need to be hunting for yet another person tonight.”
Magdala gazed at Eleanor in stubborn fury. She drew a sharp breath as though ready to argue, but then she wilted. “Yes, ma’am,” she said in a subdued voice.
Beth remained suspicious of her sudden capitulation, but Magdala allowed the ladies to guide her into a ground-floor sitting room warmed by a blazing fire. Curry trotted in with a tray of coffee and plenty of cakes, the man knowing exactly how to comfort worried members of the Mackenzie family.
Ainsley plunged into the questioning while Eleanor and the others were still sorting out the coffee and tucking into the cake. Ainsley had taken a very large slice for herself, one slathered in custard.
“You’d better explain yourself,” Ainsley said to Magdala. “Gavina is quite frustrated with her male relatives who believe you’re a ghost. Tell us why you are haunting Kilmorgan.”
Isabella studied Magdala sharply, as did Eleanor, Eleanor with unblinking blue intensity.
“I believe I know why,” Isabella ventured.
“You wanted to find out what we’d be like,” Eleanor finished for her. “Before you decided whether to announce yourself.”
“You ought to let her speak,” Beth said. “What is your name, child? Besides Magdala, I mean?”
All four Mackenzie wives turned to Magdala, who clutched her coffee and returned a look of defiance.
“Mackenzie,” she said, lifting her chin. “My name is Magdala Mackenzie. Or it ought to be.”
Chapter 11
Magdala found herself pinned by four gazes—two blue, one green, and one gray. The ladies were not as astounded as Magdala assumed they’d be, nor were they angry. They only looked at her.
“Yes, I thought so,” the duchess said. The duchess worried Magdala most. She could seem vague and babble about nothing but her shrewdness was unnerving.
“Who are your parents?” Beth, the one married to Lord Ian, asked gently.
“My father is dead.” Magdala swallowed, that sorrow never far away, though he’d been gone since she was eight years old. “My mother is descended from Lord Will Mackenzie, the brother of Lord Malcolm who became Duke of Kilmorgan in 1747.”
All four looked thoughtful. “Lord Will and Josette,” Beth said. “Ian would know about his descendants. He has been researching the family,” she told Magdala.
“So your mother is the link?” the duchess asked with interest. She poured more coffee into Magdala’s cup, though Magdala had taken only the barest sip.
“She is.” Magdala spoke with confidence, though even she admitted the story sounded far-fetched. But Mum had told her for years that they were descended from dukes, though their branch put them a long way from inheriting anything. No male heirs were left on their side anyway.
“Where is your mother now?” Isabella asked. She was a fiery redhead and looked Scottish, though Magdala knew she was wholly English, the daughter of an earl of very old lineage. Magdala had found out everything she could about the Mackenzie family.
She tried to keep her voice neutral. “In St. John’s. I was raised there. My mother recently married a man.”
A pious, pompous wretch who didn’t approve of Magdala or her reprobate father. Magdala was of age and should be married, so this man thought. Out of the way, Magdala knew he wanted to say.
“Not someone to your taste?” the duchess asked
with astuteness.
Magdala shook her head. “I hope she comes to her senses. But as I was at a loose end, I decided to find out where my mother’s people had come from.”
“You traveled alone?” Beth asked, eyes widening. “Across the ocean?”
Magdala’s lips twitched. “There are liners now that make the crossing in a remarkably short time. I saved money, but still didn’t have enough for a ticket, so I took a job on a liner and then chucked it when we reached Southampton. I journeyed from there by train.”
“Very resourceful.” The one called Ainsley, Lord Cameron’s wife, nodded with approval. “And here you are.”
“I was a maid,” Magdala said defiantly. “Where I come from, it isn’t shameful to work for a living.”
“Of course it isn’t, dear,” the duchess said. “Nor is hiding out in the folly and stealing food and drink while you spied on us. Only foolish. You could easily have written a letter from wherever this St. John’s place is. We would have invited you for a visit, and probably paid for your transport so you wouldn’t have had to labor for it.”
“How could I know that?” Magdala demanded. “I’m a stranger, a nobody. Why should you believe me?”
“Well, we would have learned all about you first,” Eleanor said in a reasonable tone. “We still will, but it is Christmas, this storm is fierce, and we are Scots—if Isabella and Beth aren’t by birth, they are at heart. We will extend all our hospitality. Besides, you helped us by telling us about the fleeing archaeologist.”
Magdala frowned. “He looked so odd. Up to no good, I’m certain, but he’ll die out there. And now you are all being kind.” She didn’t know how to respond to such kindness. Breaking down and weeping came to mind, but Magdala didn’t want to look as weak as she felt.
Beth took her hand. “That is what we do, my dear. You are welcome here, Magdala, whoever you happen to be.”
She squeezed Magdala’s hand and gave her a heartwarming smile, which tore through Magdala’s defenses all the more.
Tears trickled from her eyes, and the moment they did, Magdala found herself in Beth’s embrace, learning how easy it was to let the sobs come on her soft shoulder.
* * *
Hours went by. One by one, the men and boys returned, in need of warmth and rest.
None had found Mr. Magill. And, to Beth’s consternation, none of those returning were Ian and Violet.
Daniel arrived with Cameron and two of the many dogs, and when Beth told Daniel she’d heard nothing of Violet and Ian, Daniel’s tiredness turned to alarm.
“Where the devil are they?” he demanded of the searchers.
But none had seen Ian or Violet, nor any sign of the cycle, nor had they heard its unmistakable roar in a long while.
“Newfoundland.”
Ian sat up, frozen to the bone, pushing snow from his body.
“Wha—?” A body stirred next to him, one buried in almost as much snow.
“Her accent,” Ian said. “From Newfoundland. A large island off the coast of Canada.”
“Whose accent?” Violet croaked.
Ian didn’t bother to answer. Magdala, who looked enough like a Mackenzie to be one, spoke with a lilt he now recognized. He knew a collector of Ming pottery who was originally from St. John’s, and though the man had lived in England some time, he retained the unmistakable accent of a Newfoundlander.
Ian reflected in nearly the same moment that the snow had saved their lives. Not only had they landed in its softness, but it had buried them, keeping out the deathly chill of the wind.
He climbed stiffly to his feet, chunks of snow cascading from him. The motorized cycle lay a few yards from them, mangled and silent.
Ian helped Violet to stand. Snow fell thickly, and the wind was fierce.
Violet took in the cycle with dismay, lifting her goggles to stare at it. “Oh dear, Daniel will not be happy.”
“Up,” was Ian’s answer as he pointed to the top of the hill.
The folly was much closer than the house and would provide some shelter. When daylight came, they could pick their way down the trail and back home.
Violet nodded. She slid her goggles back on, as did Ian—they were difficult to see through but would keep the ice from their eyes.
Ian led the way, moving snow with his boots or breaking icy patches so Violet wouldn’t slip. She sensibly stayed close behind him, holding on to his coat when they climbed a particularly treacherous stretch.
After about twenty minutes of struggle, they reached the outcropping of rock that held the folly. Ian made for the dim outline of the building, knowing to stick to the cliff wall on his left to avoid going over the edge. Even so, he tripped on the first step of the porch, falling again into snow.
Violet tugged him up. Ian gained his feet and climbed the steps, finding the folly’s door by touch.
It was not locked, to his relief. Ian had been prepared to break the door open, but he was just as glad he did not have to.
He tripped once more as he entered the folly, this time over something that wasn’t snow. Ian landed on hands and knees, his face an inch from a human body.
Light flared. Violet had struck a match, which she now touched to a candle in a lantern. She bent down, flashing the light over the body lying prone under Ian’s bulk.
“Your archaeologist, I presume?” she asked.
Ian turned the man over. He was indeed Magill with his white hair and side whiskers, now unconscious and very cold. Ian rose, grasped Magill under the arms, and dragged him to the fireplace.
“Is he alive?” Violet had shut the door, and now unwound the long scarf from her neck.
Ian found Magill’s heartbeat and heard his wheezing breath. “He is.”
The fireplace had never been lit in Ian’s memory, and they had no wood here in any case. Violet looked about in futility—there was nothing but a few old sticks of furniture along with the supplies Magdala had left. She lit a second lantern and unfolded the blankets she’d found.
Ian had no compunction about breaking the furniture and stuffing the pieces into the fireplace. The chairs had been brought here by his father long ago, and were brittle, rotted from the wet Scottish air.
With Violet’s matches—she’d found a whole cache Magdala had hoarded—Ian had the broken sticks of furniture lit like kindling, the pile of it slowly catching.
“Will nae last,” he announced.
“I hadn’t planned to settle in for the winter.” Violet held her hands out to the meager fire. “This is better than some places I’ve stayed in my life, I am sorry to say.”
From the stories Violet had told him, Ian believed her.
He hauled Magill closer to the fire. The man didn’t wake, only grunted and broke into a snore.
Ian patted down Magill’s coat, and then reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief-wrapped bulge.
Inside the folds of the cloth lay an intricate gold necklace glinting with lapis lazuli and emeralds, the piece as whole and beautiful as the day it was made.
Found.
* * *
The night grew colder. Magill slept on, remarkably relaxed. Ian and Violet sat on either side of him, the three of them close enough to share heat, while the feeble fire burned to embers.
“You are good to take care of him,” Violet remarked.
Ian shrugged. “I wanted the necklace. When we return home, I’ll give him to Fellows.”
“I know, but you could have left him to rot in the storm and taken the necklace off his frozen body in the morning.”
Ian had considered this. He knew a man like Pemberton would have let Magill freeze to death, no matter how cruel such an act might be. But Ian recognized that although he was as mad a collector as Pemberton, he would never be such a monster.
“Hart could have left me to die,” Ian reflected.
“In the asylum when I was a boy. When Hart became duke, he did not have to bother with me. But he came for me. Took me home.”
“Uncle Hart is a good man,” Violet agreed. “No matter how much he tries to hide it.”
“Aye. I was grateful, even if I couldn’t speak to tell him so.”
Ian felt Violet studying him as they sat in brief silence. “I could have been left to die too,” she said. “But Daniel didn’t let that happen.” She went quiet, and finally, Ian had to turn his head to look at her. Violet’s eyes were filled with love. “Daniel brought me home with him, gave me a family of my own.”
Hart had done that for Ian years ago. Ian hadn’t been able to do much more at first than eat, sleep, and wonder at this turn of fate, but he knew now that his gratitude to Hart, Mac, and Cam had run deep. Not to mention to Curry, always at his side.
“Beth gave me even more family,” he said out loud. “The best family.”
Violet’s smile held warmth. “Your wee ones are turning out well. Jamie is amazing, Belle smarter than anyone I know, and Megan so gentle and sweet. But she’s not feeble. I think Megan will rule the roost wherever she goes.”
Megan did have a large heart and a quiet strength. Others would underestimate her . . . to their peril.
“My bairns are the best in the world.”
Ian stated it as a fact. There were no more perfect people in existence than his three children, except of course for Beth, their mother.
Violet surprised Ian with laughter. “The pride in you is astonishing, Uncle Ian. Or perhaps not so astonishing. Do your brothers know you hold your children above theirs? The rest of them are remarkable as well. Particularly our Fleur.” Her eyes went soft as she spoke her daughter’s name. “And I think Gavina will become an astounding woman.”
“My brothers know,” Ian said. “And understand.”
Violet’s laughter continued, though Ian wasn’t certain what was amusing.
A Mackenzie Clan Christmas Page 9
