Eleanor bounced baby Hart Alec Graham Mackenzie in her arms, and Hart said, “Enough. Let us finish this.”
Mac herded his three children away, Eileen running screaming after her cousin Jamie. Aimee hurried behind, having appointed herself guardian to impetuous Eileen.
Hart sat in the chair and reached for baby Alec. Alec still wore long gowns, but Eleanor had fastened a piece of Mackenzie plaid around his sturdy waist. Eleanor stood at Hart’s right, and Lord Ramsay, who now called himself Grandfather Alec, took a place on Hart’s left.
Hart lifted his head and stared at the camera. He imagined how the finished photo would look: himself in the middle, straight and arrogant; Lord Ramsay looking almost comically regal; Eleanor, beautiful, her face softened with good humor; and baby Alec sitting up on Hart’s lap, Hart’s hands around him.
Alec. The miracle of a child that Eleanor had presented to Hart on a cold December evening, one of the longest nights of Hart’s life. Ian had plied him with drink, but Hart had paced and sweated, terrified that he’d relive the night that Sarah had died, and then the day that Graham had.
But Eleanor, resilient, had pulled through, and small Alec had greeted Hart with robust wails. Hart had lifted his son, small enough to hold in his cradled hands, his heart overflowing with so much joy and relief that he’d wept.
Hart thought of that night now as he looked down at Alec. Alec stared back up at his father, his gaze perfectly steady. Going on six months old, Alec had already perfected the Mackenzie glare.
“Mind your manners, now,” Hart said to him.
Alec loved Hart’s rumbling voice. Even now, his eyes softened. He gave his father a grin and reached up to touch his face. The camera caught it, father and son sharing a glance, the little hand on Hart’s jaw, Hart laughing down at Alec.
Hart made the photographer do another exposure, this one stiffly dignified, as portraits were supposed to be. But ever after, Eleanor would treasure the first one. She had it framed and hung it in a place of honor in the family’s private drawing room.
The afternoon of photographs wasn’t finished yet. Eleanor insisted they end with one of the entire family: Hart, Cameron, Mac, and Ian and their collective families, and—God help them—all the dogs.
They stood in a row, the four Mackenzies, with Ainsley and Daniel, Eleanor and Lord Ramsay, Beth and Isabella, the seven children, and the five dogs grouped around them. The portrait was difficult to pose, because no sooner were the younger children seated in front than two-year-old Robert decided that he’d much rather run after the butterfly that had landed on a flower on the edge of the terrace. Ruby and McNab decided to go after him.
Ben, smart animal, lay his great head between his paws and fell asleep in the sunshine, his snores sounding even over the children’s cries. Aimee chased Robert, Jamie went to see what the fuss was about, and Gavina demanded to be set down so she could crawl about, or at least play with the dogs.
Daniel loped off and lifted both Jamie and Robert into his big arms, carrying them, protesting, back to the terrace. The dogs followed.
Much arguing and cajoling followed. In the midst of it, Hart gave Eleanor a squeeze and leaned down to her. “I bought you a present.”
Eleanor’s eyes lit. “I adore presents. What is it?”
“A surprise, minx. You’ll have to wait. Your punishment for putting me through the torture of having our portrait taken.”
Eleanor handed Alec to him, turned swiftly, and started chivying the others into position as only Eleanor could chivy. They finally got settled, and the photographer said, “Still now. And… done.”
The portrait of the entire Mackenzie family, seventeen of them, with five dogs, was printed on a large sheet, framed, and hung in the foyer of Kilmorgan Castle.
But that was to come. Today, the children, released from the restriction of having to stand still, now ran about the garden, screaming and shouting, in a game of tag that seemed to have no rules. Mac and Daniel dodged after them to make sure no one was hurt in the fray.
The ladies served tea and talked. And talked and talked. Cameron, Ian, and Hart exchanged a glance, went inside to discard their finery, and took out their fishing poles.
As it was, Hart did not have the chance to give Eleanor her present until late that night, which was fine with him.
Eleanor, in her silk dressing gown, gave Hart a curious look as she opened the wrappings of the square box he presented her. They were in the bedchamber Eleanor had been given when she’d become Hart’s wife, which Hart had adopted as their bedchamber. No longer would he sleep in that mausoleum of a room when he could curl up cozily with Eleanor.
“Oh, Hart, it’s lovely.”
It was a small camera, so small as to fit into Eleanor’s hand. She turned it around and around, examining the lens, the leather case, and the brass fittings that would let glass plates slide across its back.
“You said you liked handheld cameras.”
“But this one is so tiny.” Eleanor smiled at it. “How very clever. I can carry it about in my pocket.”
“There is a box of dry plates in the drawer of the table behind you.”
Eleanor went to it and pulled out the box. She withdrew a plate and quickly worked out how to slide it onto the back of her little camera. “Now,” she said. “What on earth can I take a picture of?”
She smiled at Hart, her eyes sparkling. Hart unfastened his dressing gown and let it fall. “Let us think.”
Eleanor laughed. “Do hold still.”
Hart drew himself up and gave her his best portrait glare, a Mackenzie in all his dignity. Except that he wasn’t wearing a stitch.
Eleanor took photo after photo, until Hart took the camera from her. “Your turn.”
She hadn’t paid her dues yet. Eleanor had begged off any photos while she carried Alec, as much as Hart argued that he’d never seen her so beautiful. She’d only given him the look women reserved for men they thought hopeless.
After that, they’d been busy—with Alec, with the estate, with Hart working with Ian at the distillery, with the fêtes and balls Hart still hosted as duke and supporter of his party. Never mind that the party had gone down in defeat, and Gladstone had once more returned to the fold. David Fleming vowed to carry on.
“I’m not sure I can,” Eleanor said. “I’m rather shy, you know.”
Hart set down the camera, came to Eleanor, and ripped open her dressing gown. She fended him off and undid the buttons herself of the nightgown she wore beneath.
Hart stood back and waited while Eleanor came into view. Her hips had grown a little more curved since she’d had Alec, her breasts more full. Her hair was a fall of red gold glory, her eyes sweetly blue. Freckles spread across her face and onto her forehead, and across her chest, dipping to her breasts.
Beautiful. Hart snapped the first photograph of her from the waist up, Eleanor with her thick hair falling across one breast.
Next, Eleanor lay on the bed, rolling onto her side, coyly shielding herself with her thigh, her arm over her bare breasts.
Nudity, not quite revealed, was even more beautiful than if she’d spread herself out for him.
Hart leaned down to kiss her. He dropped more kisses to her bare side, and then he forgot about the camera. It tumbled to the mattress while he gently lowered her onto her back, and then he climbed over her, body surrounding hers. Where he belonged. Thoughts of his past, his mistakes, his anger, and his misery, were gone. Hart looked into Eleanor’s eyes, felt her arms around him, and knew he’d found home.
Author’s Note
One of the most contentious debates in England in the 1880s was the question of Irish Home Rule. There were those, like William Gladstone, prime minister during the time in which the Mackenzies’ series is based, who wanted to give Ireland some independence from England. In 1885, Gladstone began campaigning for his Home Rule bill, which would allow Ireland to set up a separate parliament in Dublin to contend with Irish affairs, though it would still
answer to English rule. The question was a touchy one, and Gladstone had many opponents, including the queen.
Gladstone returned to power in 1886 after a temporary defeat, and was able to get the Home Rule bill passed in the House of Commons, but it was defeated by the House of Lords. The bill was once more brought to the vote in 1889 and once again passed in Commons, but again defeated in the House of Lords.
I borrowed Gladstone’s struggles with Irish Home Rule for this story and moved them a few years earlier. Hart, no lover of the English, wished to put forth Home Rule for Ireland, but he wanted his version, not Gladstone’s. Hart’s idea was to give Ireland complete independence from England, and from that victory, propose the same for Scotland. Hart’s scheme was to draw followers from both Gladstone’s Liberals and the Tory party, defeat Gladstone by calling a vote of no confidence, and step in to rule with a coalition.
Gladstone served as prime minister four times, resigning from office for the last time in 1894.
Chapter 1
SCOTLAND 1884
Juliana St. John’s fiancé was an hour late to his own wedding. While Juliana sat waiting, resplendent in satin and yellow roses, her hands growing colder as the minutes ticked by, various friends and family members were dispatched through rainy Edinburgh to find out what was the matter.
Juliana’s stepmother, Gemma St. John, and the matron of honor, Ainsley Mackenzie, tried to keep her spirits up, but Juliana knew in her heart that something was terribly wrong. When Grant’s friends returned, embarrassed and empty-handed, Ainsley asked her husband, a tall brute of a Scotsman, to go. The result was different.
Cameron Mackenzie opened the vestry door enough to stick his head around it, never mind the group of ladies fluttering about like nervous moths. “Ainsley,” he said, then shut the door again.
Ainsley pressed Juliana’s hands, which by now were like ice. “Never you mind, Juliana. I’ll discover what has happened.”
Juliana’s stepmother, only ten years older than Juliana herself, was angry. She said nothing, but Juliana saw rage in every movement Gemma made. Gemma had never liked Grant Barclay and liked Grant’s mother still less.
Ainsley returned in a short time. “Juliana,” she said, her voice gentle. She held out her hand. “Come with me.”
When a person spoke in that tone, terrible news was certain to follow. Juliana rose in a swish of skirts. Gemma tried to follow, but Ainsley held out her hand. “Juliana alone, I think.”
Gemma, of the volatile temper, started to protest, but Gemma was also intelligent. She gave Juliana a nod. “I will be here, dear.”
Juliana had a temper of her own, but as she stepped out into the gusty rain of the church’s courtyard, she felt nothing. No anger, no fear, nothing but a curious numbness. She’d been engaged to Grant for years now. The wedding had always been so comfortably far away that it had come as a shock to reach the day. And now…
Was Grant ill? Dead?
It was a rainy Edinburgh day, mist cloaking the city, the sky obscured. Ainsley led Juliana in her finery out and through a tiny yard, mud soaking Juliana’s new white high-heeled boots. They reached an arched breezeway, and Ainsley started down this, away from the main church. Thank heavens, because all the guests were in the church, waiting and watching, now speculating about what had gone wrong.
Under an arcade, but still in the chill, Cameron waited alone. When Ainsley dragged Juliana over, Cameron looked down at her with flint-hard eyes. “I found him.”
Still Juliana felt nothing but numbness. None of this seemed real, not the tall Scotsman in Mackenzie plaid, a silver flask in his hand, not the lowering skies outside the church, not Juliana’s wedding finery.
“Where is he?” Juliana asked.
“In a carriage behind the church,” Cameron said. “Do you want to speak to him?”
“Of course I want to speak to him. I am going to marry him…”
She noticed the look Ainsley and Cameron exchanged, caught the glimpse of anger in Ainsley’s eyes, the annoyance in Cameron’s.
“What is it?” Juliana squeezed Ainsley’s hand. “Tell me before I go mad.”
Cameron answered for her. “He eloped,” he said. “He’s married.”
The arches and the courtyard, solid Edinburgh stone, spun around and around her, but no, she was standing upright, staring at Cameron Mackenzie, Ainsley’s warmth at her side.
“Married,” she repeated. “But he’s marrying me.”
She knew that the last thing in the world Lord Cameron wanted to do this day was hunt down Juliana’s groom and then tell Juliana what he’d discovered about the despicable man. But she kept staring at Cameron, as though if she glared hard enough, he’d change the story and tell her a different one.
“He married yesterday afternoon,” Cameron said. “To a woman who was teaching him the piano.”
This was mad. It had to be a joke. “Mrs. Mackinnon,” Juliana said without inflection. She remembered the woman with dark hair and plain dresses who had sometimes been at Grant’s mother’s when Juliana arrived. “She is a widow.” A strange laugh escaped her lips. “Not anymore, I suppose.”
Cameron’s steady gaze seemed to hold Juliana upright. “I told him he needed to have the decency to tell you himself. So I brought him. Do you want to talk with him?”
Cam was giving Juliana the choice—to face Grant while he shamefacedly confessed that he’d betrayed and abandoned Juliana, or to walk away.
“No,” she said. “No.”
Cameron pressed his flask into Juliana’s hand. “Get that inside you, lass. It will lessen the blow.”
A very proper lady did not drink spirits, and Juliana had been raised to be so very proper. But the turn of events made this a highly unproper occasion.
Juliana tipped back the flask and trickled a bit of burning Scots whiskey into her mouth. She coughed, swallowed, coughed again, and dabbed at her lips as Cameron rescued the flask.
Perhaps she should not have drunk. What Cameron had told her was starting to seem real. Two hundred people waited in the church for Juliana St. John and Grant Barclay to wed, two hundred people who would have to be told to go home. Two hundred gifts to be returned, two hundred apologies to be penned. And the newspapers would certainly enjoy themselves.
Juliana pressed her cold hands to her face. She’d never been in love with Grant, but she had thought they’d at least formed a mutual respect for each other. But even that… Grant hadn’t given her even that.
“Ainsley, what am I going to do?”
Cameron tucked the flask inside his greatcoat. “We’ll take you home. I’ll have my carriage pull up in the passage at the end of this walk. None need to see you.”
They were kind, Ainsley and Cameron—they were being kind. Juliana didn’t want kindness. She wanted to kick and rage, not only at Grant, but at herself. She had been so secure in her engagement, rather smug that she was no longer in danger of being left on the shelf.
Her future had just crumbled to dust, her safe choice ripped from beneath her feet. Shock still rendered her numb, but she sensed regret coming hard on its heels.
Juliana rubbed her arms, suddenly freezing. “Not yet. Please, give me a moment. I need to be alone for just a moment.”
Ainsley glanced into the courtyard, into which people were now emerging from the church proper. “Not that way. There’s a chapel down here. We’ll keep them out.”
“Bless you, Ainsley.” Juliana could not unclench herself enough to give Ainsley the hug she deserved.
She let Ainsley guide her to the door of the chapel, which Cameron opened. Cameron and Ainsley stepped back, and Juliana went in alone, the door clicking closed.
The chapel was chilly but dim and peaceful. Juliana stood for a moment in front of the bare altar, looking up at the plain cross hanging above it, alone and unadorned.
Grant, married. To Mrs. Mackinnon. Juliana now realized things she’d seen in the past few months but paid no mind to at the time—Grant and Mrs. Mac
kinnon side by side at Grant’s mother’s piano, their exchanged smiles, the looks between them. Grant gazing pensively at Juliana as though he wanted to speak to her about something important, and then making some joke or inane remark instead.
She knew what he meant to say, now. Miss St. John, I’ve fallen in love with my piano teacher and wish to marry her, not you.
Scandal. Humiliation.
Juliana balled her fists, wanting to shout at Providence for being so aggravating. But, even in her agitation, blasphemy in a chapel seemed wrong, so she settled for storming into a pew, her ivory skirts billowing around her.
“Blast!” she said and slammed herself into the seat.
On top of something that moved. A human something, a man with long legs under a woolen kilt, a broad body that heaved up onto strong elbows. A man coming awake to find a hundred and twenty pounds of young woman in wedding garb sitting on his thighs.
“What the devil?” Gray eyes the same color as Ainsley’s flashed in a face that was too tanned to have been in Scotland long. “Juliana?”
Elliot McBride obviously had no compunction about blaspheming in a church. Or sleeping in one.
Juliana swiftly rose, but she couldn’t move out of the pew. She stared back down at Elliot as he heaved himself partway up and lounged against the side of the pew, his booted feet still on the bench.
“Elliot?” Juliana said, her voice a gasp. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to find some quiet. Too bloody many people about.”
“I mean, here in Scotland. I thought you were in India. Ainsley said you were in India.”
Elliot McBride was one of Ainsley’s many brothers, a young man the young Juliana had fallen madly in love with about a hundred years ago. He’d disappeared to India to make his fortune, and she hadn’t seen him since.
Elliot rubbed a hand over his stubbled face, though he smelled of soap and water, as though he’d recently bathed. “Decided to come home.”
Laconic, that was the way to describe Elliot, the untamed McBride. Also large and strong, with a presence that knocked the breath out of her. It had been so when she was a child and he was the wild older brother of Ainsley, again when she’d been a proud debutante, and he’d attended her coming-out ball in his army regimentals.
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