* * *
Ian didn’t come out of the half muddle he’d sunk into until he was on top of the hill, surrounded by the ruins of Kilmorgan Castle.
Once upon a time, Malcolm Mackenzie and his father had been driven from this place by an army. Malcolm had returned, undaunted, not once but many times, indefatigably clinging to the land and making it his.
Ian had that same doggedness, or so he’d like to think. He was part of this place. No matter what the world did to him, Ian could come to the top of this hill and sink into the ground, the weight of centuries rendering his troubles insignificant.
The September afternoon was warm. Ian stretched out among the old stones, face down, soaking up the heat from the grass and earth. His sporran was an uncomfortable lump under him, and insects buzzed around him, but Ian wasn’t bothered. He watched a worm emerge from a hole, inch along the dirt, and dig itself into another.
Ian’s frustrations eased, brushed away by the quietude. He began to forget why he’d been upset, but he knew the reasons would come rushing back when he rose and went down the hill. Better to stay here awhile until he could face his troubles again.
The darkness of the past tapped on his senses. Fear and anger, the two emotions that had chased Ian most of his life, wanted to reclaim him.
They had blotted out every other feeling. Contentedness, hope, and most of all, love, had not been able to penetrate the miasma of fear and rage that were his constant companions. Not until Beth.
Thinking of Beth eased him further. She had the sweetest smile. Even when Ian aggravated her to the point of exasperation, the smile waited to warm her eyes.
Beth had eyes blue like a deep Highland loch. Ian had fallen in love with her eyes first thing, when he’d seen her watching him in the box at the opera, nothing but interest and innocence when she’d looked at him. Ian hadn’t realized that what he’d felt was love—he’d put his fascination with her down to yet another of his obsessions—but time had proved that a deeper emotion had been at work.
When Beth had found him, Ian had been existing in a constant pit of despair. He’d learned to survive, but the walls of his mind had closed him in, trapping him. He’d lived a half life, able to walk through the world, but keeping the walls between it and himself.
Beth had given him that lovely smile, stretched out her hand, and helped him claw his way from his darkness into the light.
For that, Ian could never repay her. He could only love her with all his strength, want to be his best for her. Could he ever be?
Ackerley’s speech had jolted Ian out of his complacency. Before Beth, Ian had been so long denied any happiness that once he’d found it, he’d dived in, wallowed in it, and not wanted to come out.
He’d begun a comforting routine with Beth, his son and daughters, and his life at home. Breakfast with the children, attending to business while the wee ones had lessons and Beth wrote letters, lunching with Beth, taking Jamie and the girls out for long tramps or Jamie fishing when they were home in the Highlands, to see sights when they were in London.
In the evening, Ian and Beth sat in the nursery as the children dined, and then Beth and Ian took supper together, privately. When they were in London, they might attend a play or opera, or one of the few balls or soirees Beth felt obligated to drag Ian to. Or they’d simply spend the rest of the evening in, which Ian liked most of all. His brothers and families might visit, or one of the McBrides with their wives and children, or Fellows would come with Louisa and sons.
Best of all were the evenings Ian and Beth would be alone, to talk or sit in silence, simply enjoying each other’s company.
And then to bed . . . Ian let his imagination drift to Beth’s arms around him, her lips warm, her hair tangling him as he slid inside her, where he belonged.
He’d indulged all his senses in his new life. Ian never wanted things to change, saw no reason for them to.
But what if Ackerley were right? What if Ian had sunk into comfort because it helped him ignore his madness? Instead of facing it and conquering it, perhaps he’d simply tucked it away, letting Beth indulge him. He’d been bloody useless against the robbers, hadn’t he? Plus Ian had looked at Ackerley, when he’d arrived, and wanted to drop the man into a well. The deep fear that Beth and his new life could be taken away from him lingered, threatening to bring back the darkness.
Ian couldn’t push aside the fact that perhaps Ackerley could help him. What if the man held the key to releasing Ian from the last box of his madness? Could make him a whole man, instead of one who preferred to sequester himself from the world with his wife and children? Beth loved to go out—Ian knew this—but she deferred to his shyness and stayed home with him most nights.
What if Ian could give her a man who could boldly escort her everywhere, could look others straight in the eye at first meeting and give them a bluff, hearty greeting, as his brothers did?
Was it worth hearing what Ackerley had to say?
At the same time, Ian’s mind shrank from what Ackerley’s cure might entail. The doctors at the asylum had all but flayed his skin from his bones—that was what their experiments on his mind had felt like. They’d used him to test every quack treatment, every far-fetched idea they’d come up with, often in front of an audience, and no one had stopped them. They’d displayed Ian, showed their colleagues what a quick mind he had, then punished him for it. Hart would have stopped such things, had he known, but Ian’s communications with the outside world had been monitored, his letters suppressed. In the end, Ian had lost even the ability to speak.
Ian did not like dilemmas. He preferred things to be laid out in plain and simple facts—one choice right, the other wrong. Ambiguity made him uncertain, and uncertainty unsettled him.
Mathematics and geometry had no ambiguity. A squared plus B squared equaled C squared, every time. The Fibonacci sequence never varied—each number was the sum of the two numbers before it.
“. . . twenty-one,” Ian began to murmur. “Thirty-four, fifty-five, eighty-nine, one hundred forty-four . . .”
His words echoed hollowly on the stones of the old castle. Most of the sound was captured by the breeze, but the wind was echoing too.
Echoing on what? Ian let his voice grow louder. “Two hundred thirty-three, three hundred seventy-seven, six hundred ten . . .”
The numbers bounced back to him, the stones reflecting them. When Ian raised his head, the echoing receded. Only when he lay flat did he hear it again.
Ian skimmed his hands over the grass where he’d been lying. It moved. Not the individual blades, but a section of tufted grass over stone shifted.
Ian tugged at it. Earth and rocks crumbled as he brought up an entire chunk of sod. It came away far faster than it should have for dirt that had lain undisturbed for a century.
The slab of grass, which had obviously been set in place deliberately, came out from under Ian, revealing a large, rectangular hole.
Unfortunately, most of Ian’s torso was right over the hole. Ian’s body folded forward, and he slithered abruptly and silently down into inky darkness.
Chapter Eight
“Ian?” Beth’s throat was raw from shouting, her breath coming faster as every fear sprang to life. “Ian, where are you?”
Fellows’s party of searchers had been all over Kilmorgan—the house, the grounds, the distillery and its environs, the hill of the castle and the ruins on top. Night had fallen as they searched, and lanterns bobbed through the darkness, tiny points of swaying light.
Ian hadn’t vanished like this in a long, long time. After the first golden days of their marriage, he’d sometimes gone for his extended walks, disappearing into the Highlands and returning when he was ready. Their first row after Ian and Beth had taken up residence in their cozy house had been about Ian walking off without a word.
Beth understood why he’d gone—he’d still been learning to deal with life and all its uncertainties. She’d finally instilled in him the need to at least leave a note wh
en he decided to go tramping, and he’d come to understand why this was important.
Ian wasn’t worried about himself, his logic went, so why should Beth be? To this day, Beth wasn’t certain he believed how much she would be devastated if something happened to him. But he’d conceded that telling her when and where he was going made her feel better, and he was happy to do that for her. Sometimes, he’d take her by the hand and pull her off with him.
After the children had come, and especially after Megan was born, Ian had ceased his lonely rambles. He continued to enjoy long walks, but he liked to take one or all of the children with him. His time of needing absolute solitude had ended.
So what had occurred to make him go this time? Or had Ian gone at all? There were men out there willing to rob Kilmorgan, to incur Hart’s wrath. No sane person would, which meant whoever it was must be dangerous.
Conclusion, Ian had decided to take a short tramp to ease himself from the strain of meeting John, and had come to some danger.
As the night deepened, Beth’s fears did as well. The local police sergeant and constable had recruited men from Kilmorgan and nearby villages and crofts to join the search. But so far, nothing.
“Ian!” Beth shouted desperately. She was halfway up the hill to the castle ruins, shivering in the biting wind. “Please answer!”
Fellows came down the path from above. “Best you go inside now, Beth. Believe me, I will keep searching. You falling in the darkness and hurting yourself won’t help him.”
Beth jerked from Fellows’s steadying hand. “I’ve been scrambling up and down this hill for years. Why should I fall now?”
“At night?” Fellows gave her a severe look. “While you’re upset, with your thoughts fixed on your husband’s well-being? When I find Ian, I don’t want to have to explain why I let you break your leg climbing around in the dark. Trust me, I do not want to have that conversation with him.”
A small part of Beth knew Fellows was right. Letting herself come to harm would accomplish nothing.
At the same time, practical considerations were the last things Beth was concerned about. Her husband was lost, perhaps hurt, maybe by the ruffians who’d come to rob the house. She could not rest, sit still, even think until he was found and she could release this breath she was holding.
Fellows did not give her the leisure to decide. “Simons, escort Lady Ian back to the house,” he said to the constable from the next village. The young man was English, from Yorkshire, sent to patrol the wilds of Scotland. To him, a chief inspector of Scotland Yard outranked a Scottish noblewoman, no matter that her brother-in-law was a duke.
“Yes, sir,” the constable said. “My lady?”
Beth knew that Fellows could recruit half a dozen men to escort her down the hill, bodily if they had to. She sighed and conceded.
As she reached the bottom of the hill, she saw lights on the drive, heard the clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels on gravel. Beth increased her pace, running by the time she made her way across the lawn to the drive, the constable panting behind her.
The carriage bore the ducal crest of Kilmorgan—a stag’s head surrounded by laurel leaves. A footman dropped off the back of the coach and hurried to open its door. Beth heard Eleanor’s voice even before the bulk of Hart descended.
“I know there is something dreadfully wrong,” Eleanor was saying as Hart helped her to the ground. “An entire village does not disappear in the middle of the night, especially when they know you are coming, Hart. They line up to greet you. No one, nothing, and your coachman is being maddeningly vague.” Eleanor paused to shoot the coachman an admonishing look. The man remained on his perch, pretending not to notice. “Ah, here is Beth to enlighten us. Beth . . . ? What is it, darling? What has happened?”
Beth ceased running, her arm folded across her stomach. “Ian is missing. Truly missing. We can find him nowhere. Not here, not at our house, not at his fishing places, not anywhere . . .”
Eleanor caught Beth as she swayed. Beth’s eyes filled with tears, fear closing her throat. She wanted to keep running until she saw the bulk of Ian against the night. She wanted to feel his strong arms around her, hear him reassure her that everything was all right.
Hart said nothing at all. He’d gone utterly still, his gaze fixed on Beth.
Beth had always been able to rise to Hart’s stare, to look him in the eye and not let the formidable man intimidate her. Tonight, that resolve deserted her. Ian was special to Hart. Ian was Hart’s vulnerable little brother, the one he protected at all costs. When Ian had first met Beth, Hart had tried to protect him against her.
And now she’d gone and lost him.
“I’m sorry,” Beth said, tears choking her. “I invited my brother-in-law here, he upset Ian—I should have known Ian wasn’t ready for someone from my past.”
“Great heavens.” Eleanor drew Beth against her. “Ian missing is hardly your fault. Tell her that, Hart, instead of standing there like a monolith.”
“It is my fault,” Beth said mournfully. “I should have stayed with him, not let them be alone.”
“Absolute bloody nonsense.” Eleanor’s vehemence cut through Beth’s descent into despair. “You need a drop of something to steady your nerves. Hart will find Ian, and all will be well. Go on, Hart. You know this place better than anyone.”
“Not better than Ian.” Hart uncurled the gloved fingers he’d clenched into his palms. “Beth, calm yourself and tell me exactly what happened.”
Beth drew another ragged breath, but Hart’s curt command was what she needed. She related the tale of the robbery, John Ackerley’s arrival, Fellows’s worries, and Ian walking off into the blue.
“It must have been too much for him,” Beth said. “I know John said something to him, but the blasted man won’t tell me what.”
Eleanor rubbed Beth’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit. Hart will join the hunt, and you and I will interrogate Mr. Ackerley. I assume you kept him inside so he wouldn’t get lost while all the men are running about?”
Beth could only nod. Hart reached out and put a hand on Beth’s shoulder. A reassuring hand, one with steely strength that the last ten years hadn’t diminished.
“No one takes care of Ian better than you, Beth,” Hart said, his voice a quiet rumble. “But Ian’s his own man. If he takes it into his head to do something, none of us can stop him, not even you. I’ll find him. Ian has repeatedly said he can always find me, but the reverse is also true. I can always find him.” Hart’s fingers squeezed before he released Beth. “Go with Eleanor. I won’t stop until I bring him home.”
Beth’s tears stung her cheeks, but they were tears of relief. No man was as resolute as Hart—except Ian, of course. Hart would find him, whether Ian was hurt or well.
Beth tried not to think about Ian hurt, or gone forever from her. But Beth had been raised in workhouses, seeing the horrors of the world at too young an age. Bad things happened, and they happened quite often. She would have to face that.
Eleanor’s arm tightened around Beth, and Beth sank into her sister-in-law’s warmth. Hart, without another word, turned his back and strode off into the darkness.
* * *
Too much bloody darkness. Ian lay tangled on something hard, blinking and trying to see. His head and body hurt, his mouth was dry, his eyes sandy. He had no idea where he was, or where he’d been. This was no room in Kilmorgan Castle or in his house where he lived in peace with Beth.
Panic swept over Ian, whirling him back to the old days, when he’d lain on a brick floor, shivering and wet, as so-called doctors tried to drive the madness from him with ice-cold water. Or, when he went on one of his screaming rants, they’d lock him in a little room with no windows, no light, no sound. Both to calm him and to assure he didn’t hurt anyone, they’d claimed. They’d been afraid of him, not knowing what to do with a panicked and lonely young man.
Waves of fear continued to strike, trying to drive Ian back to his state of rage and terr
or, when nothing made sense, and no one understood him.
The need to pound his fists against the broken ground and scream until he was hoarse worked up inside him. He’d do it—he’d go mad, locked away in this place of darkness, forgotten, and alone.
“ . . .Six hundred and ten, nine hundred and eight-seven . . .” The clarity of the numbers, the equation that existed in eternal perfection started to penetrate the fog. He was Ian Mackenzie, husband of Beth and father to Jamie, Belle, and Megan. Children with no madness in them, and clever, all three of them in different ways. Children to make a man proud.
Ian drew a long breath, and another. Daniel’s wife, Violet, had taught him how to slow his breathing, which would still his thoughts. She’d learned it as a performer, as a way to calm herself before facing an audience. Ian lay still and focused on the lift and fall of his chest. The air was dank but not heavy, with a touch of movement. That meant that this place was not sealed off, an airless tomb. There was a way out.
Ian cautiously felt the ground in front of and around him. His hands touched stones, but not necessarily natural ones. Some had the rough, flat feel of bricks, which crumbled when he pressed them. Others were jagged and hard, with the smooth feel of granite.
Rational thoughts came back to him. Ian had been lying on the hilltop, unhappy about the revelations John Ackerley had given him, and he’d fallen. He must have struck his head and been rendered unconscious, waking sometime later in this confused state.
There was nothing wrong with him then. Ian spent a moment in thankfulness, letting the feeling well up and warm him. He had not gone raving mad. He’d simply met with an accident.
He had fallen into a hole from the top of the hill down to . . . where? The old castle had cellars, he knew—he’d explored the ones that could still be reached.
But the cellars opened up into another area of the ruins. Hart had ordered that doors be fixed over them from the top so that the many children who now played at Kilmorgan wouldn’t fall into them. Ian had been lying nowhere near those trapdoors.
A MacKenzie Clan Gathering Page 6
