“I’ll always come home to you,” Ian said. “My Beth. Ye are my home.”
“And you know how to melt my heart.” Beth brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re a scoundrel.”
Ian’s answer was to draw her up to him for a deeper kiss. He’d said all he would say on the matter, she knew.
Ian kissed Beth until she was breathless, then he shoved aside his kilt and her skirts, moving her to straddle him. Beth cupped his face in her hands, loving to watch his eyes as he slid inside her. Ian made no noise at all as they came together, but his gaze sharpened, holding hers. He always looked at her now when they made love.
Beth held on to Ian as he thrust up into her, taking her in desperate longing and raw joy.
* * *
When dawn came, Ian charged out the front door just as Fellows started to climb into the carriage that waited to take him to the railway station. Fellows paused, startled, but Ian shoved him on into the coach with a hand on his back.
“What the devil?” Fellows growled as Ian swung himself up behind him.
“Go!” Ian called to the coachman. He thumped down on the seat opposite Fellows, who settled in, giving his greatcoat an irritated wrench. “I’m coming with ye,” Ian said.
“I see that. Do you even know where I’m going?”
“You’re off to see Halsey, and I’m coming with ye.”
By now Fellows had learned he could not argue with Ian at his most stubborn. “Does Beth know you’re accompanying me?” he asked in a mild tone.
“Aye.” Ian had trouble with lies, so he always spoke the bald truth when asked. Ian had told Beth he was going with Fellows, even though she’d been half asleep, pleasantly warm and mussed, and could only murmur, “What? Ian . . . ?”
The journey to Edinburgh and then Lincolnshire took all morning, without much conversation between the two men. Unlike Ackerley, Fellows saw no need to converse unless necessary. He didn’t talk to fill time or awkward spaces, a trait Ian appreciated in his half brother.
They arrived at Halsey’s lavish estate in the early afternoon, the September sunshine warm, though the air was crisp.
Halsey was hosting a hunting party, his footman coolly informed them, but if they cared to follow . . .
As the footman led them out the back of the house and down a sweep of stairs to the lawn, Ian heard horns sounding far out into the woods. Somewhere in the fields, Englishmen in red coats, which they called pink for some reason, would be charging about en masse after a single fox.
Halsey, apparently, was not riding with the hunters but lingered inside a pavilion, where he drank bloodred wine with two elderly guests past their riding days.
Ian recognized the two gentlemen—one was an English duke Hart actually respected, the other a knight of the realm, a soldier who’d earned his honors in Crimea.
Ian noted them only in passing. He went straight to Halsey, fisted his large hands in Halsey’s shirt, and hauled the man from his chair, hoisting him high. Halsey dangled in Ian’s grip, his mouth open.
Words Ian wanted to say flooded his mind—too many words. They jumbled and tangled, getting in the way.
Ian shook Halsey, his hands closing tighter. As he looked into the man’s watery blue eyes, pools of arrogance, the confusion of words fell away, and Ian knew exactly what to say.
“Ye took m’ son.”
Halsey’s eyes widened over Ian’s fists. “Your son? No, not y—”
Ian’s voice rose. “Ye took m’ son!”
“No, not yours?” Fellows asked mildly. “Is that what you meant to say, your lordship?”
Halsey stiffened, but he didn’t dare take his eyes from Ian. The other two gentlemen in the tent had risen, but only looked on, not speaking, not interfering.
“You intended to kidnap Hart’s son,” Fellows continued. “Those are the orders you gave your hired men. They do work for you—the ones we caught are singing your guilt.”
“The devil . . .” Halsey spluttered.
“You conspired to abduct a duke’s son.” Fellows spoke calmly, but in a voice of granite that brooked no argument. “You did abduct the son of Lord Ian Mackenzie, who does not, as you can see, appear to be in a forgiving mood. You should fall on your knees and thank God Jamie was returned home safely.”
Ian slid one hand to Halsey’s throat. This was the man responsible for dragging Jamie away, for having him carried off, bound, drugged, threatened. Ian could not forget the spike of fear that had lanced him when one of the thugs had said, Kill the lad, and let’s be gone.
Halsey’s pulse, his life, beat under Ian’s fingers. All he had to do was squeeze . . .
“Ian,” he heard Fellows say.
The stark terror in Halsey’s eyes was gratifying. Halsey truly believed Ian would choke him to death, any moment now.
“Ian,” Fellows repeated. “You can’t strangle a peer of the realm in front of witnesses. I’d have to arrest you.”
Ian put enough pressure on Halsey’s windpipe to make the man’s eyes bulge. He held him thus for a long moment, then finally he lowered Halsey to his feet but kept his hand around his throat.
“Help me,” Halsey wheezed, gazing desperately at Fellows. “You’re the police!”
“That I am,” Fellows said. “But I’ve come to arrest you, so I’m not certain what help I will be.”
Halsey looked in appeal to his guests, but the two gentlemen stood quietly, listening, saying nothing.
“You can’t,” Halsey said to Fellows.
“I can. You will be tried in the House of Lords, of course, but I’m not certain how your peers will view you. Child abduction is a heinous offense.”
Halsey’s fear increased. “It’s not my fault. Not my fault! I had to. He commanded me!”
Fellows came to stand next to Ian. The two were of a height, one a Highland Scotsman on the edge of berserker rage, the other calmer, in a London suit, but with a look of steel.
“This is interesting,” Fellows said to Halsey. “Who commanded you?”
“My father. And his father. On down the line. Ruin the Mackenzies. It’s the first oath the Earl of Halsey swears when he takes the title.”
“Really?” Fellows gave him a cool look worthy of Hart. “Why has my family not heard of this oath before?”
“Because I take my vows seriously! The Mackenzies did my family a wrong. We never forget. I promised to put it right.”
The English duke broke in, his tone mild. “Not really the thing these days, Halsey. I believe I will send for my carriage.” He strolled away, taking his time, as though the events in the pavilion were of no interest to him.
The soldier merely said, “Bad show, Halsey,” and followed the duke out.
“Ian,” Fellows spoke quietly. “Let him go.”
Two constables appeared at the pavilion’s entrance, and beyond the tent’s wide flap, horses were crowding into the green field, the guests returning from the hunt. Dogs milled about, clustering, panting, and the noise of horses, dogs, and people filled the quiet afternoon.
Ian yanked Halsey from his feet and dragged him from the tent. In the sight of Halsey’s guests, Ian released him, turning his back as the constables moved in to detain him on Fellows’s order.
Ian walked away without looking back, without saying a word, as though Halsey no longer existed.
The English called such an action a cut direct. It meant that the person had done something unconscionable, deserving to be ignored and socially ruined.
While not as satisfying as strangling the man, Ian decided that the cut direct had its merits. He could walk away from Lord Halsey and be done with him. Fellows would deal with Halsey, as would Hart, but Ian no longer had to think about him. His family was safe, and it was finished.
Ian walked through the house to the carriage and climbed inside to wait for Fellows, turning his thoughts squarely on Beth, and home.
Chapter Twenty
The arrival of Cameron and Ainsley, Mac and Isabella,
Fellows’s wife Louisa, Daniel and Violet, and all the Mackenzie children—not to mention the McBrides and their collective brood—pushed Ian’s thoughts from the events of the previous days.
That was all over—now was a fine time to enjoy. The house filled with light, noise, and laughter. Ian reflected that before Beth, he had only been able to endure a few people at a time, and those his immediate family. Since then, his family had extended into many, a circle that grew each year, bringing friends along with them. These days, Ian found himself looking forward to being among them instead of dreading it as an ordeal. He still mostly listened instead of conversing, but he could be in the middle of them now, watching, observing, taking pleasure in their company.
Hart’s birthday, a few days after the family’s arrival, brought even more people to Kilmorgan. The doors between the huge formal drawing rooms on the ground floor had been flung open, combining several chambers into one. Family and guests swarmed them, talking and laughing, eating, drinking, while musicians filled the empty spaces with Scottish tunes.
So many colors, Ian thought as he stood holding a half-drunk glass of Mackenzie’s finest malt. Blues and greens of Mackenzie and McBride plaids, plus the tartans of their neighbors and friends—red and black, yellow and green, red and blue. The ladies were in gowns of the plaid of their clans or popular hues of the day—bottle green, electric blue, silver gray, the palest pinks, yellows, and ivories on the youngest ladies.
Beth wore a gown of deep blue trimmed with silver braid—the skirt hung straight from her waist in front but gathered into a soft train behind her. Gloves covered her bare arms to the elbow, and the necklace of precious stones Ian had bought her in Edinburgh rested on her bosom.
Beth was animated as she moved among the guests, her cheeks flushed, her eyes as sparkling as the necklace. At one time, Beth had been shy but gracious—now she was a fine hostess, one of the brilliant Mackenzie women.
Ian enjoyed watching her most of all.
“Heard you tried to choke the Earl of Halsey to death.” Mac Mackenzie, resplendent in Mackenzie plaid, formal coat, and watered silk waistcoat, stopped in front of his brother. His glass held lemonade, not whisky. “Damn, I wish I’d seen that.”
Ian moved slightly so Mac did not block his view of Beth. “Halsey is finished.”
“That he is. England will be too hot to hold him. His barrister might get him off on the charges Hart’s laid against him for theft and kidnapping, but he’ll have to flee the country, regardless. No one is happy with him.” Mac grinned, his amber eyes glinting. “I think Old Malcolm would have toasted ye.”
Mac lifted his glass and gazed up at the portrait of Malcolm and Mary Mackenzie that hung high on the wall, painted shortly after Malcolm had taken up the mantle of the dukedom. The pair looked down upon the assembled company with great dignity, but Ian swore he saw a twinkle in Malcolm’s golden eyes.
“And, you got my bloody awful paintings back,” Mac went on. “Thank you for that.”
Ian shrugged. “They’re not awful.”
Mac looked pleased. “Kind of you to say so. I’ll paint you much better daubs than those, though. I’ll start tonight, in fact.”
Mac toasted Ian with his lemonade, then turned and made his way toward the crowd around Hart. No matter how elegantly Mac dressed tonight, Ian knew he looked forward to throwing off everything but his kilt and tying a kerchief over his hair, ready to immerse himself in his art. As soon as Mac could politely escape, he’d be up in the studio in his wing of the house, busily painting away.
Cameron was the next Mackenzie to stop beside Ian. His suit and kilt were as formal as Mac’s, but they hung negligently on his large frame. While Mac had been verbose about Halsey, Cam only pressed his big hand on Ian’s shoulder.
“Well done, Ian.”
Ian nodded, warming under his brother’s praise.
Cameron stood with him a moment, the two of them studying the crowd. “Hart’s in his element, isn’t he?” Cam waved his whisky glass to where Hart stood quietly in the midst of a circle, all in that circle fixed avidly on him. Cam scoffed. “Hart hasn’t changed. He loves to orchestrate everything, as usual.”
“No, Eleanor does.”
Cameron gave Ian a startled look, then laughed out loud. At that moment, the Duchess of Kilmorgan, cheeks pink, smile bright, glided unerringly to Hart, ending up at his side, her arm going through his. Deftly, she edged Hart from that group and took him to another.
As Hart glanced down at Eleanor, who was chattering, as usual, his eyes took on a light of both hunger and deep happiness. Ian realized that Hart didn’t give a damn where Eleanor was taking him, or whom she wanted him to speak to, as long as she was with him.
Another Mackenzie, a near mirror of Cameron, but twenty years younger, came at them. “Now then, Dad,” Daniel said, giving his father a nod. “Ian, I believe that Ackerley fellow is looking for you. Although at the moment, he’s listening to my wife explain to him the tricks of a fraudulent medium’s trade. He’s lapping it up.”
Violet Mackenzie, her dark hair shining, was speaking to Ackerley, her expression amused. Ackerley looked poleaxed.
“Vi has that effect on men,” Daniel said with pride. “Though I believe I’ll go steer him away. He’s a widower—he might get ideas. I don’t care if he’s a man of the cloth.”
Daniel winked at them and moved purposefully toward Ackerley and Violet. Cameron boomed another laugh. “A man married to a beautiful woman can never relax his vigilance. Danny learned that soon enough.” He rumbled in his throat. “Although if any man looks twice at my daughter-in-law, they’ll not have only Danny to face.”
Ainsley, Cameron’s wife, her light blond hair dressed in a wonderfully complicated knot of ringlets, came to rest at Cameron’s side. Cameron went from growling bear to human being in the space of an instant, his arm stealing around Ainsley’s waist.
Ian started to move away from them, wanting to speak to Ackerley, then remembered the lessons in politeness he’d painstakingly learned from Beth. “Excuse me,” he said to Ainsley. “I need . . .” He gestured with his glass to Ackerley.
Ainsley flashed her warm smile, looking pleased. “Of course, Ian.”
Ian gave her and Cameron a nod, made brief eye contact with them both, then strode away. He fleetingly wondered if he’d performed the social niceties correctly, then forgot all about it as he reached Ackerley, Violet, and Daniel.
“Come and talk to me,” he said to Ackerley.
Ackerley looked surprised, but Violet, who’d ceased her conversation the moment Ian arrived, gave Ackerley a soothing look. “Ian would not ask if it weren’t important,” she said. “We will speak later, Mr. Ackerley.”
“Indeed,” Ackerley said, somewhat breathlessly. “I look forward to it.”
Ian again made himself remember to utter a polite leave-taking to Violet and Daniel, then led Ackerley out of the drawing rooms.
Guests roamed freely about the house, most congregating in the gallery, which had become a source of fascination now that it had been the scene of a crime. All the stolen art had been restored. Fellows had found the remaining paintings and bronzes in Halsey’s cellars, shoved between racks of wine. Mac and several art historians had worked swiftly to repair the damaged artworks and return them to their places in the gallery.
Ian led Ackerley up the stairs to a sitting room in his wing of the house. He shut the door behind them, and the noise of the crowd below dimmed.
“Well?” Ackerley asked, sounding eager. “Are you ready to resume our sessions?”
“No.” Ian set his whisky glass on a table. He hadn’t spoken to Ackerley much since the night of Jamie’s abduction, needing time to think things through. Ian had mulled and pondered the question in many different ways, always arriving at the same conclusion.
“I have decided,” Ian said. “I no longer wish you to cure me.”
Ackerley’s face fell. “No? But we were making such progress. I planned to write up my
notes and send them to the philosophers of science in Vienna—”
Ian held up his hand. “I don’t wish to be cured.”
Ackerley heaved a sigh, but he gave a resigned shrug. “I cannot force you, of course. That would be remiss. But may I ask why?”
Ian waited, then realized that Ackerley was, in fact, asking why.
“I am mad,” Ian answered. “I always will be. But if I hadn’t been mad, I wouldn’t have found Jamie.” And that would have been unthinkable. “I work. So, I want to stay mad.”
“Ah.” Ackerley gave Ian a thoughtful look. “That is true. I would say that you do, er . . . work.”
They both fell silent. Ackerley chewed his lower lip over his neat beard while Ian stood motionless.
“One thing,” Ackerley said after a time. “Do you mind if I continue asking you questions about your madness? To satisfy my curiosity. My besetting sin.”
Ian shrugged, already finished with the topic and moving on to other matters in his head. With Halsey and danger out of the way, Ian could resume the fishing appointments with Jamie. The fish would be biting tomorrow; he was sure of it.
Ackerley was still talking. “Also—do you mind if I continue reading Lady Mary’s journals you found in your attics? Perhaps with a thought to publishing them? Lady Mary’s account of her elopement with Lord Malcolm makes an intriguing love story.”
Ian could fish with Jamie, then later Ian would clean up with a bath, asking Beth in to wash his back. “As you like.”
“Or, perhaps I should ask His Grace? It is his house, after all . . .”
“No.” Ian’s attention snapped to Ackerley. “The journals are mine. You take them and do as you wish.”
Ackerley opened his mouth to continue speaking, but was interrupted by Beth’s gentle voice. “Ah. I’d wondered what had become of you two.”
The hum of the party below came to them, reality intruding into Ian’s quiet sanctuary.
A Mackenzie Clan Christmas Page 26
