Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift

by Jennifer Ashley

  But Eleanor looked too wan, her face too waxen for Hart's comfort.

  The night wore on. There was another confounded clock in here, ticking, ticking. Eleanor woke up, groaning in pain, but the midwife still shook her head. Not yet.

  Eleanor drifted off again, moaning a little in her sleep. Ian stayed with Beth, holding her hand as he dozed.

  Hart stroked Eleanor's hand, wishing he could take all the pain away. In the days before his marriage to Eleanor, he'd spent time with women who liked Hart to inflict pain on them--to bind them and command them, and to use the pain, binding, and words to drive them to pleasure. He'd been good at it. Hart had mastered the technique of squeezing a woman's throat just enough so that when air cut off, her climax was that much more robust. A dangerous practice, but Hart had had the touch.

  But he'd always been the master. He could twist and take, but when it was time to stop and soothe away the hurt, Hart had done it. He'd been excellent at that as well.

  He looked at the woman he loved most in the world, knowing he couldn't take away her hurt, couldn't help her, and it killed him. Hart Mackenzie, the specialist in ultimate control and exquisite pleasures, could do nothing to relieve his wife.

  Not true, he realized--he could do a few things. When Eleanor swam again to wakefulness, he got up onto the bed beside her, where he could snake his hands behind her back and gently rub it. He massaged there then worked his way up to knead her neck, and then her scalp.

  Hart knew how to soothe, how to bring a woman down from unbearable ecstasy. He used the same movements as he glided his hands to her wrists, then to her ankles and back up her calves, trying to take away pain.

  Eleanor, who knew what he was doing, smiled at him, her eyes heavy lidded. "I love being married to a wicked husband."

  Hart gently kissed her lips. He'd spent many years mastering the art of cruelty, but then he could turn around and be kindness itself. Now he wanted to help his wife the only way he could, to let her know he was with her, and would be until the last.

  "I love you, El," he whispered.

  She smiled faintly. "And I love you, Hart. You should sleep. It might be a while yet."

  "I'm not leaving you."

  "No?" Her red brows climbed in her too-white face. "Good thing the bed is nice and wide."

  "It's our bed."

  "Yes, I know." She lightly patted the mattress. "Although I admit, I'm growing a bit tired of it at the moment."

  "This will soon be over," Hart said. "And we'll snuggle down again, like an old married couple."

  "Do hush. And sleep. You're cross as a bear when you don't get your sleep."

  Hart softly kissed her again then laid his head on the pillow next to her.

  He had no intention of sleeping, only of resting curled in her warmth, but the next thing he knew, Eleanor was crying out again, and the midwife bustled around, a smile on her face.

  "It's now, Your Grace," the midwife said. "I believe the little gentleman is coming. Time for you and his lordship to go."

  Hart smoothed Eleanor's hair. "I'm not leaving."

  The midwife made an impatient noise. "Your Grace . . ."

  "Let him stay," Eleanor said. "If he faints, it will be his own fault. Make certain you fall out of the way on the carpet, my love."

  The midwife looked unhappy, but she subsided.

  Ian likewise stayed. He remained on his chair while Beth rose excitedly to help.

  Hart was surprised how much Ian's silent presence comforted him. His volatile little brother, who'd needed so much help in the past, was now a rock in the roiling stream of Hart's world.

  I can always find you, Ian had told him once. He'd meant that he'd know when Hart needed him, would be there, no matter what.

  Eleanor screamed. She seized Hart's hand and hung on.

  She crushed his fingers with amazing strength. Hart gritted his teeth, holding her steady, while her body tightened, her face beading with sweat.

  The midwife and maid helped bend Eleanor's legs, settling her knees, covering her modestly. Eleanor shoved the sheets aside impatiently, her breasts straining against her dressing gown as she arched.

  "Push, Your Grace," the midwife said. "Like I explained to you. Give the little fellow a shove."

  Eleanor's face twisted as she obeyed, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Hart kissed her fingers, still tight around his. "You're strong, love," he said. "You're so strong."

  Eleanor wailed in pain. She clenched Hart's hand even harder, her other fist bunching the sheets.

  "He's coming, Your Grace," the midwife said. "Not much longer."

  "I see him." Beth said, her smile wide. "El, I see his little head."

  "Or hers," Hart said. "It might be a her."

  Eleanor opened her eyes and looked at him, the blue swimming with tears. "What do you know, Hart Mackenzie? He's a . . . " She trailed off into another wail.

  "He's coming," the midwife said. "Here. Quickly."

  A maid was there with blankets, Beth standing with fingers steepled against her lips, the midwife frowning in concentration.

  Eleanor gave one final, agonized heave, and the midwife cried out in triumph.

  She bent over the blanket the maid held, and after a long, breath-stopping moment, the first shrieks--loud and angry--of a new Mackenzie rang out.

  "Welcome to the world, your lordship," the midwife said.

  She lifted the blanket, the baby glistening and red, still attached at his tummy to his mother. A sheaf of dark hair sprouted from his head, his tiny face screwed up, and he roared.

  Hart sat up, tears blurring the wondrous sight. He touched a broad finger to his child's face.

  "He's beautiful," Hart whispered. "El, he's beautiful."

  Eleanor was laughing, tears spilling down her face. She reached for her baby, and the midwife gently put him into her arms.

  "We'll get him all cleaned up and fed for you, Your Grace."

  "In a moment," El said, her voice weak but rapt. "In a moment."

  Hart kissed Eleanor's forehead and drew her close, his fingertips resting gently on his son, his hand almost as large as the lad's little body. The baby waved his fists, his cries announcing to the world that he'd arrived, and he was hungry.

  Hart wanted to break down and weep; he wanted this moment to never end.

  El touched the boy's cheek. "Hello, Alec." She smiled at him then slanted a sly look at Hart. "A wee little lad. I told you."

  "I'll never doubt you again," Hart said. Then his tears came, and he didn't bother to stop them.

  *** *** ***

  "How's the family, then?" Isabella entered the room an hour later, bringing in the family that had been kept out. Ian watched them from the sofa across the room, where he sat with Beth.

  Mac came behind Isabella, then Ainsley and Cam, Eleanor's father, and Daniel, and with them the Mackenzie children. Ian rose to take Belle from Daniel's arms. He kissed his daughter, remembering every detail of his worry the night Beth had brought her into the world, and before that, when Jamie had come. Hart had just gone through the same ordeal.

  Hart sat on the bed, his back against the headboard, his arm around Eleanor. The midwife had finished the rest of the birthing and washed the child, and the wet nurse had given him his first meal. Ian and Hart had been persuaded to step outside for the procedures, and once he'd walked out of the room, Hart's legs had buckled, and he'd nearly fallen to the floor.

  Ian had caught him, holding his older brother upright in his arms, until Hart had regained his strength.

  Darkness still prevailed outside, but bonfires broke the blackness, the villagers getting started on the Hogmanay celebrations. Inside Hart and Eleanor's bedchamber, all the lamps glowed, and the fire burned high, lighting up the scene.

  "Hart Alec Graham Mackenzie," Eleanor's father, Alec Ramsay, was saying. He tickled the baby's cheek. "What a splendid name for a splendid little fellow."

  They'd call him Alec in the family, Hart had said, in honor o
f Eleanor's father. Small Alec was now dozing in his mother's arms, breathing well, proclaimed healthy and strong by the midwife and the doctor who'd visited after the messiest bit was finished.

  Hart looked as though someone had kicked him repeatedly. Exhaustion stained his face, his eyes red-rimmed, but his smile was strong and as arrogant as ever, as though he'd just done something uncommonly clever.

  Ian's brothers shared Hart's pride, holding up their own children so they could greet their new cousin.

  "He's very small," Jamie informed Ian. "He won't be able to ride his pony."

  "He'll grow." Beth rumpled her son's hair. "In a few years, you'll be racing him."

  Jamie looked doubtful. "He's even smaller than Belle."

  "Not for long, I wager," Daniel said in his deep voice. "Mackenzie men grow tall." He pressed a fist to his chest and laughed down at Jamie.

  Bellamy and Curry carried in trays of wine, whiskey, and champagne. Hart grabbed a glass and drank heavily, this time keeping it down.

  The others raised glasses in a toast. "To the newest addition to the family," Mac said. "God help him."

  "He's our First Footer," Isabella said, lifting her champagne glass. "The first into the house for the New Year."

  "To the First Footer!" Mac and Daniel shouted. Glasses clinked, and champagne disappeared.

  "You've lost your bet, Uncle Hart," Daniel said. "Forty guineas you owe me, I think."

  "Hart, you rogue," Eleanor exclaimed. "You told me you didn't think it was proper to wager on your own child."

  Hart shrugged. "I thought I had a good chance. I'll make good on my bet."

  "Well, I've won quite a packet. Haven't I, Danny?"

  "Ye have, Auntie. As have I. I always trust the mother."

  "Mother." Eleanor held Alec close. "That sounds nice. And here is Papa."

  She handed the baby to Hart. Hart took him, his expression softening to wonder, everything hard in him suddenly gone.

  The others raised glasses once more. Ian put his arm around Beth and sank into her warmth, hefting his daughter in one arm, while his son sat happily in his mother's. This time next year, their little family would be larger, and Ian's happiness would expand yet again.

  "They change you," Ian said to Hart. "We're not the same now."

  "Bloody good thing," Cameron rumbled.

  "Aye," Hart said. He leaned to his wife. "Thank you, El, for saving my life."

  Eleanor winked at Ian as she leaned to kiss Hart's lips. "You are most welcome, love."

  *** *** ***

  "Do you feel you've changed that much?" Beth asked Ian much later.

  The day was starting, the Hogmanay celebrations would commence soon, but Ian and Beth lay in their bedchamber, entwined and bare, the covers keeping them from the cold world.

  Jamie and Belle had been taken back to the nursery for their breakfasts, both chattering about Alec and New Year's, and the unusual excitement in the house. Nanny Westlock had taken charge, and Ian had led Beth, exhausted though she wouldn't admit it, back to bed.

  Ian had gathered Beth into his arms, and they'd celebrated with passionate, warm, lovemaking. Ian's desire and love tangled inside him, blotting out all that was terrible and brutal in the world. Now, he trailed open-mouthed kisses down Beth's body, loving her softness.

  "Ian?" Beth prompted, her voice low and sleep-filled.

  Instead of answering, Ian reached into the drawer in the bedside table and pulled out the tissue-wrapped package he'd been saving to give Beth for Hogmanay. He laid it on her bare chest and pressed a kiss to her breast.

  "You didn't have to get me anything," Beth exclaimed, though her face softened in pleasure. "You did so much with that wondrous surprise for Jamie."

  "Open it," Ian said.

  Beth undid the wrapping, which fell to the sheets, and drew a quick breath when she saw what lay inside. A locket of heavy silver rested in her hand. Beth pried open the locket, her eyes shining.

  Inside were pictures, drawn and colored by Mac, of the two children, Jamie on the left, and Belle on the right. The pictures were tiny, yet Mac had executed them in fine detail.

  "Ian, it's perfect."

  "The locket was my mother's."

  "Oh." Beth's expression went quiet. She closed the locket and held it close. "Then I'll treasure it all the more."

  Ian had very little from his mother, but he'd always kept the locket safe. But Beth should have it. His mother would have liked that.

  Beth laid it and the wrappings carefully on the bedside table. "Thank you, Ian."

  "Mmm." Ian lowered his head back to her breast, licked around her satin areola, and drew it into his mouth.

  "You didn't answer before," Beth said, her voice going soft. "Do you feel you've changed? Being a husband and a father?"

  Of course he had. She knew that--why did she need to ask? "It's better now," Ian said. He licked her nipple until it stood up in a fine point. "Much better."

  "I'm inclined to agree with you."

  Ian's thoughts went back to the funeral they'd attended the day Beth had broken the bowl. Death, sorrow, the loss of something he treasured. Instead of sinking into darkness and despair, Ian had walked forward, moving to what had been important--Beth, Jamie, Belle.

  Beth had let him do that. He'd never have been able to sort out his thoughts or focus on what was vital in his life without her.

  "Much better," Ian repeated. He kissed between her breasts and moved to her lips, sliding over her body to enter her again. "Thank you, my Beth," he said, echoing Hart's words to Eleanor.

  Beth's beautiful smile spread over her face as Ian looked straight into her eyes. "You're welcome, Ian Mackenzie."

  End

  Want more Mackenzies?

  Read on for a preview of

  The Seduction of Elliot McBride

  Book Five

  of the Mackenzies / Highland Pleasures series

  December 31, 2012

  * * * * *

  The Seduction of Elliot McBride

  Mackenzies

  Book Five

  by Jennifer Ashley

  Chapter One

  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, various friends and family members were dispatched through rainy Edinburgh to find out what was the matter.

  The matron of honor, Ainsley Mackenzie, tried to keep up Juliana's spirits, as did Juliana's stepmother, Gemma, in her own way. But Juliana knew in her heart that something was terribly wrong.

  When Grant's friends returned, embarrassed and empty-handed, and Ainsley asked her husband, a tall brute of a Scotsman, to go, the. The result was different.

  Lord Cameron Mackenzie opened the vestry door wide enough to stick his head around it. "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. Gemma said nothing, but Juliana saw rage in every movement she 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 rustle of satin. Gemma tried to follow, but Ainsley held up her hand. "Juliana alone, I think."

  Gemma, of the volatile temper, started to protest, but Gemma was also intelligent. She gave Juliana a nod and squeezed her hand. "I will be here for you, 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 but a curious numbness. She'd been engaged to Grant for several years now. The wedding had always been so comfortably far away that it had come as something of a shock to finally reach the day. And now . . .

  Was Grant ill? De
ad?

  Mist and light rain cloaked the city, obscuring the sky. 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, speculating about what had gone wrong.

  Under an arcade, but still in the chill, Lord Cameron waited alone, a broad-shouldered giant of a man in a Mackenzie plaid kilt. When Ainsley and Juliana reached him, Cameron looked down at Juliana with flint-hard eyes. "I found him."

  Still Juliana felt nothing but numbness. None of this seemed real, not Cameron, not the lowering skies outside the church, not her wedding finery.

  "Where is he?" Juliana asked.

  Cameron gestured with the silver flask in his hand. "In a carriage behind the church. 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 reflected anger in Cameron's.

  "What is it?" Juliana squeezed Ainsley's hand. "Tell me before I go mad."

  Cameron answered before Ainsley could. "Barclay eloped," he said, syllables blunt. "He's married."

  The arches and the courtyard, solid Edinburgh stone, spun around and around her, but no, Juliana was standing upright, staring at Cameron Mackenzie, Ainsley's warmth at her side.

  "Married." Juliana's lips were stiff. "But he's marrying me."

  She knew that the last thing in the world Lord Cameron Mackenzie had wanted to do this day was hunt down Juliana's groom and then tell Juliana that the man had run off with another woman. But she kept staring at Cameron, as though if she looked at him hard enough, he'd change the story and tell her a different one.