The Untamed Mackenzie (highland pleasures)

by Jennifer Ashley

  And he was.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You must explain all to us, dear Lloyd,” Eleanor said from her place at the foot of the table.

  A Mackenzie family dinner was taking place at the Duke of Kilmorgan’s mansion on Grosvenor Square several days after their return from Newmarket. A family dinner meant all the Mackenzies, including Fellows and Daniel, Louisa, and Fellows’ mother.

  They dined informally, no place settings to conform to. The guests could sit where they chose, with whom they chose. The only structure to the table was that Hart sat at the head, Eleanor at its foot.

  Ian claimed the chair next to Beth, Daniel was with his father and stepmother, and Mrs. Fellows sat next to Louisa, delighting in every moment of the gathering. She was highly pleased with Fellows’ choice of bride and kept smiling broadly at Louisa.

  “I knew he had good taste,” she said. “You are the sweetest little thing, Louisa. You do know that?”

  When Eleanor demanded the story, the rest of the table quieted. Fellows, on Louisa’s other side, calmly laid down his fork.

  “Louisa’s hatpin,” he said.

  They waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, Daniel said, “What are we supposed to understand from that? Play fair, Uncle Fellows. You have to tell the less clever of us what that means.”

  Fellows didn’t smile, but Louisa could see he was enjoying teasing them all. He took a sip of wine, gave Daniel an acknowledging nod, and went on.

  “When I saw Louisa sticking hatpins into her hat, it gave me the idea. If someone coated a pin or needle with a poison and stuck it into someone, perhaps that person might not die instantly, especially if it was a low enough dose. Or if the pin had been coated with a sedative instead of a poison, the victim might simply grow sick or perhaps fall unconscious. If Sir Richard Cavanaugh spoke to Hargate before he went into the tea tent, perhaps clapped him on the shoulder or shook his hand, he’d have the opportunity to stick something into him surreptitiously. Cavanaugh, as a doctor, would have needles at his disposal. Hargate begins to grow ill in the tea tent. Louisa runs out for the doctor. Cavanaugh comes to investigate, finds Hargate on the ground. A final prick of prussic acid finishes the job, or perhaps Cavanaugh poured it into Hargate’s mouth while he examined him. He had the prussic acid in his doctor’s bag, in a little bottle, along with his medicines and sedatives. He could also pretend to try to revive the man and wave the poison under his nose. Inhaling prussic acid can be just as deadly as imbibing it.”

  “But it was in the teacup, wasn’t it?” Ainsley asked, puzzled. “The one Louisa handed to the bishop.”

  Fellows shook his head. “Cavanaugh saw it lying broken on the ground. Easy for him to drop a little poison onto the pieces after the fact. He made certain to lecture us, the plodding policemen, on how prussic acid killed a man, and pointed out an obvious way Hargate could have taken the poison. He also had a suspect at hand—Lady Louisa, whose father had swindled Hargate. Hargate was still demanding repayment from her family, and perhaps told Cavanaugh of his plan to ask her to marry him in exchange for forgiving the debt. Or Hargate told someone else, and Cavanaugh heard the gossip. In any case, Hargate was blackmailing Cavanaugh over Cavanaugh’s practice of sedating women and taking advantage of them. The poison found in the teacup would point to Louisa, as would the bottle Cavanaugh managed to slip into Louisa's pocket. If Hargate had been standing with someone else when he died, no doubt Cavanaugh would have found a way to point to them. That was an advantage of killing a man at a large gathering—so many handy suspects.”

  “It is all so cruel,” Isabella said angrily. “Especially to Louisa. If I hadn’t been able to convince Mrs. Leigh-Waters to telegraph for you, the Richmond police would have arrested her.”

  “I hope someone would have sent for me even if Isabella hadn’t telegraphed,” Lloyd said, giving the table a stern look.

  “Of course we would have,” Daniel said. “You’re the best detective in the Yard.”

  “Louisa is important to me.” Fellows slid his hand over Louisa’s. “Very important.”

  “Which is why you moved heaven and earth to help her,” Daniel said. He grinned. “We tumbled to that.”

  “A June wedding,” Isabella said. “Not much time to prepare, but Louisa will have the most beautiful gown and a lovely ceremony. All the trimmings. St. George’s, Hanover Square?”

  “No,” Louisa said. “We’ve discussed it. A quiet family wedding is what we want. Not all of London gawping at us at a fashionable church. We’d like to marry either in Berkshire or at Kilmorgan. Just the family, Isabella.” Louisa gave her a severe look, then added one for the duchess. “Eleanor.”

  Both ladies looked innocent. “You may trust us,” Isabella said. “We’ll give you exactly what you need. The world will be green with envy that they couldn’t attend.”

  Louisa let out a sigh. “A quiet wedding, Izzy.”

  “Yes, yes, I heard you the first time.”

  Mac winked at Louisa across the table. “Don’t worry. I’ll rein her in if she gets too flighty.”

  “I am not flighty, Mac Mackenzie,” Isabella said indignantly.

  “Yes, you are, my sweet Sassenach.”

  Isabella’s cheeks went prettily pink. She subsided, but Louisa knew she’d have to keep an eye on her sister. Isabella loved to come up with grand occasions.

  “I won’t have a mansion to take you to,” Fellows said to Louisa as other conversations began again. “I have enough salary for a modest house, but not in the fashionable district. And no hordes of servants. One or two at most. Are you certain you don’t want to reconsider?”

  Louisa leaned her head against his strong shoulder. “Those are practical things. We’ll work them out. I am so very good at being practical.”

  Mrs. Fellows winked at Louisa. “Don’t worry, dear. I have plenty of dusters put aside you can borrow. And I’ll show you how to black a stove.”

  “Mum,” Fellows said, half weary, half affectionate.

  “I’m only teasing,” Mrs. Fellows said. “But the dusters will be handy.”

  Lloyd didn’t look convinced, but Louisa would show him she’d be fine. She’d grown up with every luxury handed to her, but she’d learned how empty that luxurious life could be. Her father had used his money and position dishonorably, had betrayed his friends’ trust.

  Louisa had discovered how to live simply once the money was gone, she and her mother staying alone in the dower house. It wasn’t money and a title that made one honorable, Louisa had learned, but one’s character and actions. And Lloyd had plenty of honor.

  Ian alone hadn’t spoken throughout the meal. He’d listened to Lloyd’s explanation of Cavanaugh’s actions then gone back to eating without a word. Now he put his arm around Beth and kissed her hair.

  “What do you think, Ian?” Louisa asked him across the table. “Lloyd and I will do well together, won’t we?”

  Ian didn’t answer right away. The table quieted, waiting for Ian’s words of wisdom, but when it became clear he wasn’t ready to respond, they took up conversing again. The family had learned not to push him.

  Finally Ian looked at Louisa. He met her eyes full on, warmth and intelligence in his gaze. “I believe he loves you.”

  “I believe Ian’s right,” Fellows said quietly.

  Louisa didn’t answer in words. She tugged Lloyd down to her and kissed him, her heart in the kiss. She didn’t care who saw, and neither did Lloyd. He put his arm around her and let the kiss turn passionate.

  Daniel whooped, and the ladies applauded. Louisa broke from Lloyd, laughing.

  Mrs. Fellows dabbed her cheek with her napkin. “Aw, look at that,” she said. “You made your old mum cry.”

  Lloyd didn’t smile. The look in his eyes when he leaned down and kissed Louisa again was full of love, and full of heat. Fire burned, but it also warmed.

  Epilogue

  June, 1885

  The woods north of Kilmorgan were deep, isola
ted, quiet. The two men in kilts had walked a long way, Hart leading, his half brother following.

  Fellows acknowledged that a kilt was good for walking in the woods. Thick boots and socks kept the underbrush from scratching his legs, and the wool of the kilt kept him warm as he and Hart made their way through the cool, dim forest.

  Fellows’ wedding to Louisa had been more or less a blur, and thoughts of it came to him in a series of images. He standing in the Kilmorgan chapel, a minister before him, Hart at his side as his groomsman. Aimee Mackenzie scattering flower petals down the aisle, Isabella Mackenzie following her. Then Louisa walking in on Ian’s arm, and everything else fading.

  Fellows knew he’d said the vows, put the gold ring on Louisa’s finger, done everything right. But all he could remember was Louisa in ivory satin, her smile behind her gauze veil, the sweet-smelling yellow roses in her flame-red hair. Once Fellows was married to her, he’d lifted the barrier of the veil, taken her into his arms, and kissed her.

  And kissed her. One taste of her had not been enough.

  Only Louisa had existed for him as they’d stood in the sunlight coming through the chapel’s plain windows. Her warmth, her touch, her love.

  As the kiss went on, the rest of the family had started to clap, then to laugh, until finally, Hart had tapped Fellows on the shoulder and told him to take it to the house.

  Fellows wasn’t certain how he’d gotten through the wedding festivities afterward. It had still been light, the June sunshine lasting far into the night, when he’d at last taken Louisa to the bedroom prepared for them—one well away from the rest of the family.

  That night was imprinted on his memory forever. Louisa and he under the sheets, Lloyd inside her, her light touch, her kisses, the little feminine sounds she made as she reached her deepest pleasure. Lloyd had touched her and loved her far into the night, until they’d slept, exhausted. As soon as morning light brushed them—very early—Louisa had wakened him with a kiss. She’d smiled sleepily at him, and Lloyd had rolled onto her and loved her again.

  That had been three days ago. They’d spent most of that time in their bedroom. Daniel remarked, when they’d finally emerged, that he was surprised either of them could walk.

  Today, Hart had wanted to take Fellows on a ramble through the woods. He wouldn’t say why, but Fellows, being the great detective he was, realized the outing was important to Hart.

  After about half an hour of tramping, Hart stopped. They were in a small clearing, woods thick around them, the evergreen branches shutting out the sky.

  “This is where it happened,” Hart said. “Where our father died.”

  Hart had told Fellows the true story of their father’s death, after Hart’s marriage to Eleanor. Not the widely circulated public version of the duke falling from his horse and breaking his neck, nor the story Hart had told the family, that the old duke had accidentally shot himself. Hart had told Fellows the truth. All of it. Only Hart had known, and he’d told only Eleanor.

  “Father lived his life in hatred,” Hart said now. “And he tried to pass that hatred on to us. He hated me because I was his heir, and he knew I’d push him out one day. He hated my brothers because our mother loved them, and because I took care of them better than he ever could. He hated you because you reminded him he had no control over himself, or over the world, as much as he pretended to.”

  “I’m glad we finished with the hatred,” Fellows said.

  Hart looked around the clearing, the tension in him easing a bit. “Maybe the hatred made us stronger.”

  “I don’t think so,” Fellows said. “It kept us apart, and weak. Love is better.”

  Hart grinned. When he did that, he looked as he had as a very young man—handsome, devilishly arrogant, certain he’d rule the world. “Did Louisa teach you that?”

  “Yes,” Fellows said without shame. “As Eleanor taught you.” He studied Hart for a time. “I kept it, you know. I still have it.”

  Hart stared at his abrupt change of subject. “Kept what?”

  “The shilling you gave me when I was ten years old. You must have been about that age too.”

  Hart frowned. “I’m not recalling . . .”

  “The duke’s coach pulled up in High Holborn—he was on his way to Lincoln’s Inn. A traffic snarl, of my making, stopped the carriage. The duke got down to see what was the matter. I’d planned to tell him I was his son that day. He was supposed to look astonished then welcome me into the coach and take me home with him. Instead, he beat me. You looked happy that I took my fists to him, and you gave me a shilling.”

  Hart’s expression cleared. “I remember now. That boy was you?”

  “You wouldn’t have noticed a resemblance with my face so filthy. Not to mention bruised and bloody.”

  “Good Lord. I wish I’d known.” He gave Fellows a grim smile. “Yes, I was happy you pummeled him. The man beat me every night of my life, so I was glad to see him get a taste of it. He beat me to make a man of me, he said. Well, he succeeded.”

  “Yes.”

  Both of them looked around the clearing again, where a man who’d made so many miserable had come to his end.

  “They’ll be wondering where we are,” Fellows said after a time.

  Eleanor and Louisa, their wives and lovers. “They will,” Hart agreed.

  “If they have to come after us, they’ll scold when they get here,” Fellows said.

  “True. Then want to do something daft, like have a picnic.”

  “The ladies do enjoy a picnic. After a five-mile hike.”

  “I think we’ve been domesticated,” Hart said. “The Highland warriors have gone soft.”

  Fellows shrugged. “I can do with a little softness now and again.”

  “Eleanor knew I could too,” Hart said. “That’s why she came back for me.”

  “They saved us from ourselves,” Fellows offered.

  “Someone had to.”

  The clearing had been a place of violence. Fellows imagined it, the gunshot, birds fleeing in a sudden rush of wings, the heat and smell of blood. The old duke, mean and thoughtless, falling dead. Hart breathing hard, the shotgun in his hands.

  So much viciousness and cruelty. All gone now. The ground of the clearing was soft green, tiny yellow flowers blooming where the sun reached.

  Without another word, the two men turned and started back for Kilmorgan.

  They emerged from the trees near the river where Ian had taken the rest of the family fishing. They were all there—Beth and her children on a spread blanket; Mac’s family nearby with Louisa and Fellows’ mother; Ainsley and Cameron together; Daniel playing with his little sister; Eleanor and Alec on another blanket.

  And Louisa. She smiled at Lloyd from where she reposed next to Isabella, and she rose to greet him.

  Fellows met her halfway across the grass. He took her hands, and they shared a kiss, full of warmth, delight, and the sweet taste of sugared tea.

  Louisa eased back down from her tiptoes and brushed her fingers across Lloyd’s mouth. The simple wedding band glistened on her finger next to her engagement ring with its small diamond.

  “Welcome home,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Fellows answered. He meant the thanks for all, for all she was and all she’d done for him.

  He drew her into his arms, and Louisa softly kissed him again. Laughter surrounded them, and the summer sunshine.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next Mackenzie historical romance

  THE WICKED DEEDS OF DANIEL MACKENZIE

  Available October 2013 from Berkley Sensation

  Chapter One

  London 1890

  He doesn’t have the ace.

  Daniel Mackenzie held four eights, and he’d backed that fact with large stacks of money.

  He faced Mortimer, who was ten years older and had a face like a weasel. Mortimer was pretending he’d just been given an ace from the young woman who dealt the cards at the head of the table, completing his str
aight. Daniel knew better.

  The other gentlemen in the St. James’s gaming hell called the Nines had already folded in Fenton Mortimer’s favorite game of poker. The entire club now lingered to see the battle of wits between twenty-five-year-old Daniel Mackenzie and Mortimer, a hardened gambler. So much cigar smoke hung in the air that any consumptive who’d dared walk in the door would have fallen dead on the spot.

  The game of choice at this hell was whist, but Mortimer had recently introduced the American game of poker, which he’d learned during a yearlong stint in that country. Mortimer was good at it, quickly relieving young Mayfair aristos of thousands of pounds. And still they came to him, eager to learn the game. Eleven gentlemen had started this round, dropping out one by one until only Daniel and Mortimer remained.

  Daniel kept his cards facedown on the table so the nosy club fodder wouldn’t telegraph his hand to Mortimer. He gathered up more of his paper bills and dropped them in front of his cards. “See you, and raise two hundred.”

  Mortimer turned a slight shade of green but slid money opposite Daniel’s.

  “Raise you again,” Daniel said. He picked up another pile of notes and laid them on the already substantial stack. “Can you cover?”

  “I can.” Mortimer didn’t dig out any more notes or coin, obviously hoping he wouldn’t have to.

  “Sure about that?”

  Mortimer’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, Mackenzie? If you’d like to question my honor in a private room, I will be happy to answer.”

  Daniel refrained from rolling his eyes. “Calm yourself, lad.” He lifted a cigar from the holder beside him and sucked smoke into his mouth. “I believe you. What have you got?”

  “Show yours first.”

  Daniel picked up his cards and flipped them over with a nonchalant flick. Four eights, one ace.

  The men around him let out a collective groan, the lady dealer smiled at Daniel, and Mortimer went chalk white.