Jamie hung from the crook of the man’s arm, hands bound. The last man standing pointed his pistol at Ian, and Ian aimed the rifle directly at his head.
“Put m’ son down,” Ian said, making every word slow and clear.
Jamie hung still, not fighting. Not from fear for himself, Ian knew. Jamie worried that a sudden move would make the man shoot, and Ian might die.
“Put m’ son down,” Ian repeated.
The pistol wavered. Above them, the lights continued to soar, the man’s eyes shining in their glow.
A sudden burst of red among the green made the thug jump. In that instant, he fired, and so did Ian.
Hot pain brushed Ian’s side as he threw himself out of the way. Ian swung in a full circle, kilt moving, until he faced the man again, rifle raised.
Except the thug was no longer there. He was on the ground, Jamie under him. Ian laid the rifle on the ground and approached, his knife held ready.
Jamie crawled out from under his unmoving captor, struggling with his bonds. “Dad, did he get you?” He was shivering, his words shaky. “Dad—ye all right? Speak t’ me!”
Ian swept up Jamie, holding him in strong arms while he swiftly cut away the thin rope around Jamie’s wrists.
“He missed,” Ian said. “Grazed me. I’m not s’ old I can’t duck a bullet.”
Jamie laughed out loud, then he flung his arms around Ian, his body trembling.
Jamie would never, ever break down and cry before his sisters, or his young cousins, or even his mother, but here in the privacy of the woods, he clung to Ian and wept.
Ian held him close, his own eyes wet, rejoicing that his son was warm and alive and safe in his arms. Nothing else mattered, only this now.
Jamie’s cries died into sniffles, and he scrubbed a hand across his dirty face. Ian went on holding him, father and son taking comfort in each other, as the aurora spun in its green and red dance in the heavens.
Chapter Nineteen
Under the last flares of the aurora borealis, Beth saw Ian silhouetted on a hill against the sky, a rifle across his back, and a boy in his arms. Beth shook off the well-meaning holds of John and Eleanor and raced up the path, making straight for her husband and son.
Ian stopped and waited for her. Beth, her heart pounding, reached them, sobbing in relief when she saw that Jamie was whole and unhurt.
No words would come as she took Jamie into her arms, holding him tight. He was heavy, her boy, growing so swiftly. At the moment, he was only her firstborn son, the babe the midwife had laid into her arms so long ago. That faraway morning, Ian had put his hand on Jamie’s back while the lad lay on Beth’s chest, completing the circle.
They completed it again, Ian, Beth, and Jamie. The girls, guarded by Eleanor, came running to them next, crying and overjoyed.
Ian lifted Megan, and Belle flung her arms around her mother and father at the same time. They were a family, whole and together.
The household surged forward to bring them home, everyone talking at once. Fellows and his men headed for the woods where Ian directed, Fellows giving orders to arrest all they could find. He sent others to the cove, to wait for the ship that had been coming to take away the villains.
Jamie, once he’d recovered his composure, struggled to get down. Beth released him with reluctance, but Jamie was fine, she had to admit. Excited and exhausted, but whole.
Surrounded by family, friends, and protectors, they made for the house, which was fully lit. Beth noticed Ian walking somewhat stiffly, but he said nothing, only carried Megan in silence.
Jamie refused to return to bed. Beth allowed him to sit up in the drawing room to tell his story and fortify himself with hot, milky tea. The girls and wee Malcolm declared they wouldn’t go to bed if Jamie didn’t. They, and Alec, who was at last awake and furious he’d missed the adventure, sat bundled in blankets and plaids, surrounded by parents, friends, retainers.
“They wanted Alec,” Jamie was saying as Curry handed him his cup. Curry had lingered to serve the tea Eleanor poured out, and whisky for the adults, and he made no pretense of not listening avidly.
“I heard the men whispering to each other when they came in,” Jamie went on. “They were after the heir to Kilmorgan. So I sat up and told them I was Alec Mackenzie, the duke’s son. They didn’t waste any time sticking a cloth full of chloroform over Alec’s face, and mine. I smelled it and held my breath as long as I could. I drifted off a little, but was awake soon enough.”
As Jamie spoke, his voice grew stronger, more confident. “They first wanted to hide out in the distillery until morning. Then they decided it was too risky—ye might come and find them. So they stole a few things and left again. They couldn’t see well in the dark, even with the lanterns, but they made me tell them the way to the cove where they could wait for a ship. I guided them to the cave they hid in—I decided it was a good place for Dad to corner them. I was right.” Jamie paused to take a sip of tea, his face flushed with heat and triumph. “You should have seen Dad drive them out of there. They ran like their backsides were on fire.” He hooted with laughter, proud and happy.
Eleanor leaned down and kissed his cheek, her eyes full of relief. “You are a brave, wonderful lad, my nephew. What made you declare you were Alec and go in his place?”
Jamie gave a shrug that was so like Ian’s Beth’s heart ached. “Alec’s littler than me, in’t he? They might have hurt him. I’m bigger and older—I could take it.”
“I’m not that little,” seven-year-old Alec said with indignation.
The fact that Alec was Lord Hart Alec Graham Mackenzie, heir to the Duke of Kilmorgan, and Jamie was the son of the youngest son, thus at the bottom of the line of succession, did not keep Jamie from sending Alec a severe look.
“You’re little enough,” Jamie said. “Those men would have carried ye off like a sack of potatoes. I was protecting ye, lad. That’s what cousins are for.”
Alec’s look, while still petulant, held admiration. “Well, thank ye,” Alec said. “’Twas well done.”
“It certainly was,” John Ackerley put in. “A toast to Jamie Mackenzie, a brave, brave lad.”
Jamie only shrugged again as they raised their glasses and cups, his cheekbones red. “Dad was very brave too. He fought them all, single-handed, and put down every one of the bas—er, thugs.”
Ian, who had said very little from where he sat next to Jamie, now spoke. “The lights.”
Jamie frowned at him, then gave a conceding nod. “Aye, th’ aurora distracted them a just a little, I suppose. We were lucky the lights showed themselves tonight.”
Ackerley gave him a wise look. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, young man.”
“Aye,” Jamie answered gravely. “So do Mackenzies.”
* * *
After an hour or so of celebrating, Jamie began to droop. Beth declared that the children must rest to face the day tomorrow, and that Ian needed his sleep too. Both the younger and older generations made their way to their beds, no longer reluctant.
Ian insisted he tuck the children in, and Beth didn’t have the heart to stop him. This time, however, the boys slept in the nursery, the room now guarded not only by the nanny but by two sturdy policemen, who declared no kidnappers would get past them.
Not until Ian and Beth were safely shut into their own bedroom did Beth let herself collapse.
Ian caught her, her tall, strong husband cradling her in his arms. The firmness of his body against hers, his warmth, his solidity, let her finally break down. Ian, the man so many people dismissed as mad, had gone alone into the night, bested five men, and brought Beth’s son home to her, alive and unscathed.
“Thank you, love,” she whispered, her face buried in his shoulder. Tears wet his shirt. “Thank you.”
Ian wordlessly pulled her close. He kissed the line of her hair, warm lips on her skin.
Beth pulled back, taking in Ian’s loose shirt, his plaid sagging around his hips. He was delectable.
&
nbsp; When she slid her arms around him again, Ian winced, and grunted.
“You are hurt,” Beth said with conviction. She pushed aside his protesting hands and dragged up his shirt. A thin but deep gash laced the hard muscles of his side, dried blood caking the wound. “Good heavens, what happened?”
“He had a pistol,” Ian said, his tone as matter-of-fact as Jamie’s had been. “Didn’t go in.”
“Oh, Ian.” Beth rested her head against Ian’s chest, feeling his even heartbeat. The injury brought home to her how easily she could have lost him tonight. “Ian,” she whispered.
“I’m all right,” Ian said, sounding puzzled at her concern.
Beth made herself let go of him. She ordered Ian to sit down, then she fetched a basin of water and a cloth and bathed the wound.
Ian let her, though he didn’t hold back his swearing when she dug too deep. As Beth wrapped the final bandage around him, Ian stopped growling, cupped his hand around her hip, and pulled her down to his kilt-clad lap.
The cloth Beth had used to clean the last of the blood fell to the carpet with a wet slap. Ian’s bare, tanned torso moved against the pale bandages as he slid his hands up her waist, pulling her close.
His kiss was fierce, savage, all his fears, rage, and joy coming to Beth. His hands found her curves and warmed them.
When he eased the kiss to its close, Beth touched his face, her heart full. “I might have had to say good-bye to you forever tonight, you and Jamie.”
Ian skimmed his thumb across her cheek. He studied her with eyes of amber-gold, the eyes that had arrested Beth when she’d seen him for the first time. She’d known, when his gaze had swept over her, that Ian Mackenzie was an extraordinary man indeed.
“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.
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