The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie

by Jennifer Ashley

“Well.” Beth sat back, the tightness in her body corkscrewing. “I can see this will be a different sort of marriage than what I was used to.”

  “You’ll be safe. The Mackenzie name will protect you. That’s why Mac wouldn’t divorce Isabella—so Isabella could retain her money and security.”

  Beth thought of the laughing, gregarious Isabella and the pain in her eyes. “How very thoughtful of him.”

  “I’ll never ruin you.”

  “Even if I have to communicate with you via notes through Curry?”

  His brows drew down, and Beth caught his hand “Never mind, I was joking that time. I’ve never taken a night train to Scotland—well, any train to Scotland. It will be a new adventure. Will the bunks be as interesting as the compartment from Dover, I wonder?”

  They arrived in the morning in Glasgow, and then the train went on to Edinburgh. When they rolled into Edinburgh, Beth looked about with hungry eyes. The city was bathed in fog but didn’t lack in beauty for all that.

  She barely had time to take in the castle on the hill and the avenue that led between castle and palace before she had to hurry, sandy-eyed, into another train that chugged slowly northward.

  At long last, many miles and countless hours since they’d left Paris, the train pulled into a small station on an empty, rolling plain. A mountain ridge rose like a wall to the north and west, cool air flowing from it even in the height of summer. Ian returned from his pacing up and down the corridor in time to hand her out of the train. The sign announced they’d arrived at Kilmorgan Halt, but other than that the platform was empty. A tiny station house crouched beyond the platform, and the station master scuttled back to it after he’d waved his flag for the train to move on.

  Ian took Beth’s arm and steered her down the steps past the station house to the small drive beyond. A carriage waited there, a lush chaise with the top folded down to expose plum-colored velvet seats. The horses were well-matched bays, the buckles of the harness gleaming. The coachman, dressed in red livery with a brush in his hat, leapt from his box and tossed the reins to a boy who climbed up to take his place.

  “Ye’ve arrived, then, m’lord,” the coachman said with a broad Scots burr. “M’lady.”

  He opened the door and Ian boosted Beth in. She settled herself, marveling at the luxury of such a vehicle up here in the wild end of the world.

  But Kilmorgan belonged to a duke, one of the most prominent dukes in Britain. In order of precedence, she’d learned from Isabella, the Duke of Kilmorgan came behind only the Duke of Norfolk and the Archbishop of Canterbury. Small wonder the coach that took them to the duke’s seat would be the most sumptuous she’d ever beheld. “I suppose Curry arranged this, too,” she said to Ian as the coachman climbed back to his box.

  “We have the telegraph even in Kilmorgan,” Ian answered gravely.

  Beth laughed. “You’ve made a joke, Ian Mackenzie.” He didn’t answer. They rolled through a village of whitewashed houses, an inevitable pub, and a long, low building that might be a school or a council house or both together. A stone church with a new roof and a spire stood a little way from the village with a steep path leading to it. Beyond the village, the land dipped to a wooded valley, and the carriage thudded over a bridge that crossed a rushing stream. Up into hills again, the earth undulating in green and purple waves to the sharp mountains in the background The hills were covered in mist, but the sun shone, the afternoon soft.

  The carriage turned from the country road to a wide, straight lane lined with trees. Beth sat back and breathed the pure air. The pace Ian had kept since Paris exhausted her. Now, in this still place with birdsong overhead, she could at last rest. The coachman turned through a wide gate to a lane that led to an open park. The gatehouse was small and square with a flag flapping above it—two lions and a bear on a red background. The lane sloped downward in a wide curve toward the house spread across the bottom of the hill.

  Beth half rose in her seat, hands pressed to her chest.

  “Oh, my dear Lord.”

  The place was enormous. The building rose four stories in height, with tiny windows peeking out of round cupolas under the vast roof. Rambling wings reached left and right from the central rectangle of the house, like arms trying to encompass the entire valley. Windows glittered across the monstrosity of it, punctuated here and there by doors and balconies.

  It was the largest house she’d ever seen, comparable only to the Louvre she’d just left in Paris. But this wasn’t a remote palace she’d never be invited into. This was Kilmorgan. Her new home.

  The coachman pointed at the pile of house with his whip.

  “Built just before the time of Bonnie Prince Charlie, m’lady. The duke then wanted no more drafty castles. Employed th’ whole village and laborers for miles around. The bloody English burned the place after Culloden, but the duke, he built it back again, and his son after. Nothin’ keeps down a Mackenzie.”

  The pride in his voice was unmistakable. The lad next to him grinned. “He’s clan Mackenzie, too,” the boy said. “Takes credit for it, like he was there.”

  “Shut it, lad,” the coachman growled.

  Ian said nothing, only adjusted his hat over his eyes as though he meant to doze off. The restlessness that had kept him roving the trains had vanished. Beth clutched the edges of the seat and stared, drymouthed, as they approached the house. She recognized the Palladian elements—the oval windows wreathed with stone curlicues, the arched pediments, the symmetrical placement of every window and door across the enormous facade. Later generations had added things, like the stone balustrade that encircled the marble entranceway, the modern bellpull beside the front door. Not that Beth had to ring to get in. As Ian handed her down, the double doors opened to reveal a tall, stately butler and about twenty servants waiting in a marble-tiled hall. The servants were all Scottish, all red-haired and big-boned, and all smiled with enormous pleasure as Ian led Beth through the door.

  Ian didn’t introduce her, but as one, every maidservant curtsied and every man bowed. The effect was marred by five dogs of various sizes and colors that barreled through the hall and headed straight for Ian.

  Not used to dogs, Beth pulled back, but laughed as they reared up on Ian, burying him in paws and waving tails. Ian’s face relaxed, and he smiled. And, to her astonishment, he looked direcdy at them.

  “How are you, my bonny lads?” he asked them, The butler ignored this, as though the canine welcome was commonplace. “M’lady.” He bowed. “If I may say, on behalf of the entire staff, we are verra pleased t’ see ye arrive.”

  From the smiles that beamed at her, the staff obviously agreed with him. No one had ever been this happy to see Beth Ackerley before.

  Lady Ian Mackenzie, she corrected herself. Beth had known from the first moment she met Ian Mackenzie that her life would become entangled with his. She felt the tangle grow, winding around her.

  “Morag will lead ye to your rooms, m’lady,” the butler continued. He was tall and largeboned, like the rest of them, his red-blond hair going to gray. “We have a bath prepared and the bed made up so ye can rest after your long journey.” He gave Ian a bow. “Your lordship, His Grace is waiting in the lower drawing room. He asked that ye see him as soon as ye arrived.”

  Beth had taken two steps with the beaming Morag, but she pulled up in alarm. “His Grace?”

  “The Duke of Kilmorgan, m’lady,” the butler said patiently.

  Beth looked at Ian in panic. “I thought he was in Rome.”

  “No, he’s here.”

  “But you told me… Wait, did Curry receive a telegram? Why didn’t you warn me?”

  Ian shook his head, his dark red hair spilling against his collar. “I didn’t know until we rode through the gate. The flag was up. The ducal flag always flies when Hart’s at home.”

  “Oh, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Ian held out his hand. “Come with me. He’ll want to meet you.”

  Ian, as usual, didn’
t betray what he was thinking, but Beth sensed that he wasn’t entirely happy with this turn of events. Despite his calmness in the carriage, he was now tense, wound tight, like when he paced the train.

  Her own fingers were ice-cold when she slid them into Ian’s warmer hand. “Very well. I suppose I had better get it over with.”

  Ian gave her the faintest of smiles, then held her hand tighter and led her off into the bowels of the house. The dogs, all five of them, followed, their nails clicking loudly on the slate floor.

  Chapter fourteen

  Hart Mackenzie, Duke of Kilmorgan, both resembled his brothers and at the same time looked nothing like them. He sat behind a writing table near the fireplace, the desk long and ornately carved, as befitted the rest of the room. He was writing with great intensity and didn’t look up when the door closed behind Ian.

  The vast drawing room in which Beth and Ian awaited His Grace’s attention looked as though it had once been three rooms, with the intervening walls removed. The ceiling rose higher than a ceiling had a right to, and was covered with frescoes of frolicking gods and goddesses. The walls were covered with paintings, too. They ranged from pictures of the Kilmorgan house in various stages to portraits of ladies and gentlemen—some in Scottish dress, some in whatever formal clothes were fashionable in their period. One could learn a history of clothing, Beth reflected, simply by studying the portraits in this room. Ian had closed the door on the faces of the five dogs, and they’d looked resigned, as though knowing they were never allowed in this grand sanctuary. Hart was going to make Ian and Beth stand there like schoolchildren waiting to be dressed down, Beth thought irritably. “Your Grace,” she said. The duke glanced up sharply. His eyes glittered the same gold as Ian’s but pierced Beth from across the room—hawk’s eyes.

  Ian said nothing, remaining in place without flinching.

  Hart’s pen clattered to his pen tray and he rose.

  He was tall, like all the Mackenzies, his hair a darker redbrown. Hart had the Mackenzie broad shoulders, powerful build, and square face. He wore a formal kilt, the Mackenzie colors, blue and green with red and white thread. His dark coat fit him like a second skin, likely made for him by the best tailors in Edinburgh.

  Still, he wasn’t a mirror image of the brothers she’d already met. Mac’s face bore the restless brilliance of an obsessed artist. Cameron’s face was heavier, more brutish, complete with scar. He looked like a ruffian. So did Hart, but Hart’s smooth confidence rolled off him in waves. This was a man who had no doubt that his slightest command would be fulfilled. It wasn’t conceit, but cool certainty.

  Hart overpowered every single thing in the room—except Ian. The waves of Hart’s overweening confidence seemed to break and flow around Ian without Ian feeling the slightest effect.

  Hart finally removed his knifelike gaze from Beth and switched it to Ian. “Was there no other way?” He spoke as though they were in the middle of a conversation, but Ian nodded.

  “Fellows would have found some means to use her. Or turned her into an excuse to arrest me.”

  “The man’s a pig.” Hart’s stare came back to Beth. “She was once a lady’s companion? Why did Isabella befriend her?”

  Beth pulled herself away from Ian and walked forward, sticking out her hand. “I’m very well, thank you so much for inquiring. The journey was tiring but uneventful, no problems on the lines, and no Fenian bombs at any of the stations.”

  Hart shot Ian a scowl.

  “She is fond of jokes,” Ian said.

  “Is she?” Hart answered, his voice cool.

  “I am also fond of chocolate, and of raspberry fool.” Beth curled her ignored hand at her side. “At the moment I’d be fond of a cool drink of water and a soft bed.”

  Hart spoke directly to her for a change. “I don’t recall sending for you, Mrs. Ackerley. You’d even now be reclining on a soft bed if you’d gone upstairs with the maid.”

  Beth’s heart hammered. “The only person I ever allowed to send for me, Your Grace, was Mrs. Barrington, and that was because she paid me wages.”

  Hart’s brows drew fiercely together, and Ian said, “Leave her be, Hart.”

  Hart gave Ian a quick glance, then returned his scrutiny to Beth. The look told her Hart didn’t know what to make of Beth or what she was to Ian.

  Beth wasn’t quite sure what she was to Ian either, but she saw that Hart didn’t like not understanding. He wanted to instantly sum her up and put her in a slot—likely he had done so before she even arrived, and having to reassess her made him irritable. Hart said coolly, “Now that we’ve established you’re a woman of independence, will you indulge us a moment? I’d like to talk to Ian alone.”

  A man bound and determined to get his own way—always. Beth opened her lips to say a polite, “Of course,” but Ian spoke again.

  “No.”

  Hart’s eagle gaze swung to him. “What?”

  “I want to see that Beth gets upstairs and settled in. We can talk at supper.”

  “We have maidservants to help her.”

  “I want to do it.”

  Hart gave up, but Beth could see that it rankled. “The gong goes at seven forty-five and the meal is served at eight. We dress formally, Mrs. Ackerley. Don’t be late.”

  Beth slid her hand through Ian’s, trying to hide her nervousness. “Call me Beth, please,” she said. “I am no longer Mrs. Ackerley and have become, to our mutual astonishment, your sister.”

  Hart froze. Ian raised his brows at him, then turned around and led Beth from the room. As they walked out, surrounded by the waiting dogs, Beth slanted a worried glance up at Ian, but Ian wore the broadest smile she’d ever seen.

  She was a wonderful, amazing woman. Ian’s heart warmed as Beth emerged from her dressing room in a gown of dark blue silk. The bodice bared her-bosom, perfect for the necklet of diamonds he’d just given her. Beth gazed up at him serenely as he held out his arm to escort her down to dinner. The necklet had belonged to his mother. Ian remembered his father’s pride in her beauty, remembered his father’s jealous rages when any other man so much as looked at her. He’d had uncontrollable rages, with dire consequences. Any other woman would have fallen over in fear when Hart turned that famous stare on her. Hart’s own wife had fainted on more than one occasion when Hart had looked at her. Not Beth. She’d stood straight and tall and told Hart what she thought of him.

  Ian had wanted to laugh until the paintings of his illustrious ancestors rang with it. Hart needed a kick in his ass sometimes, and if Beth wanted to do it, Ian would let her. Hart was quiet when they entered the dining room, and he pointedly remained standing until Ian seated Beth. Hart took the chair at the head of the table, and Ian and Beth sat across from each other a few feet down from him. If Hart hadn’t been there, Ian could have had supper served in the little dining room in his own wing of the house. He and Beth could have sat side by side and basked in the privacy.

  He’d wanted to linger in the dressing room with her and help her dress for dinner, but Curry had arrived and insisted he bathe and shave Ian and get him sorted. Ian’s Mackenzie kilt had been draped over Curry’s arm. When Ian and Beth retired tonight, Ian would dismiss the overly helpful staff and undress her himself. He was determined to fall asleep in her arms and wake up in them as well.

  “Did you hear me?” Hart said sharply.

  Ian dissected the sole on his plate and ran through the words Hart had poured out while Ian had focused on Beth. “The treaty you had drafted in Rome. You want me to read it and commit it to memory. I’ll do that after dinner.”

  “Are many treaties with foreign nations stored in Ian’s head?” Beth asked. Her voice was innocent, but her blue eyes danced.

  Hart gave her a hard look. “Treaties have a way of reading a bit differently once committees get hold of them. But Ian will remember every word of the original.”

  Beth winked at Ian. “I’m certain it makes for fascinating teatime conversation.”

  Ian coul
dn’t resist a grin. He’d not seen Hart this annoyed in a long time. Hart bathed Ian in a cold stare, but Beth blithely ignored him. “Did your bowls survive the journey intact?” she asked Ian.

  Ian’s pulse quickened as he remembered the cool brush of porcelain against his fingers, the satisfaction of Mather’s bewildered face. “I unpacked them and put them in their places. They fit well.”

  Hart interrupted. “You bought more bowls?”

  Beth nodded after Ian had remained silent a moment, “They are both quite lovely. One is a white bowl with a blue flush and interlinked flowers. The other is red flowers and thinner porcelain. The wash and fineness of the porcelain indicate it might be Imperial Ware. Have I got that right?”

  “Exactly right,” Ian said.

  “I found a book in Paris,” she said with a cheeky smile.

  Ian looked at her and forgot everything else in the room. He was aware of Hart’s stare but only peripherally, as though an insect buzzed on the edges of his hearing. How did Beth always know what words he needed and precisely when to say them? Even Curry didn’t anticipate him like that.

  She was taking everything in, the lavish room, the long table, the gleaming silver serving dishes. The paintings of Mackenzie men, Mackenzie lands, and Mackenzie dogs, and the white-gloved footmen hovering to wait on them. “I was surprised you had no piper,” she said to Hart. “I imagined we’d be escorted to dinner to the drone of bagpipes.”

  Hart gave Beth a deprecating look. “We don’t have the pipes inside. Too loud.”

  “Father used to,” Ian said. “Gave me raging headaches.”

  “Hence the ban,” Hart returned.

  “We’re not a storybook Scottish family with everyone wearing claymores and longing for the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie. The queen may build a castle at Balmoral and put on plaid, but that doesn’t make her Scottish.”

  “What does make one Scottish?”

  “The heart,” the Duke of Kilmorgan said. “Being born to a Scottish clan and remaining part of the clan inside yourself.”