A Mackenzie Clan Christmas

by Jennifer Ashley

  It was a pencil drawing, in detailed color, of a necklace. Fine gold links held droplets of blue and emerald, the setting beautiful and appearing ancient.

  “Ian?”

  “Damnation.” Ian tried to hold Magill and reach for the paper at the same time, and it was David who plucked the sheet from Beth’s grasp.

  “I am trying to buy this piece,” David said smoothly. “Mr. Magill knows where I can obtain it. That is what Mr. Pemberton told us.”

  Ian’s mouth was set in a grim line, and Magill only spluttered.

  Beth gave David a glare. “Cease your lies, please, and tell me what is going on.”

  David heaved a sigh. “Nothing for it, Ian. Your wife, if it is possible, seems to be even more stubborn than mine.” He turned to Beth. “It was meant as a surprise for you. But it is proving to be more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “Shut your gob, Fleming,” Ian growled.

  “For heaven’s sake, the pair of you.” Beth took the drawing from David. “This is a Christmas gift for me?” Her heart softened. “Oh, Ian.”

  “Hogmanay,” Ian said. “Not Christmas.”

  “It is quite beautiful.” Beth touched the paper, the glory of the necklace incredible. “But I hardly need such a thing. You’ve already given me plenty.” She looked up to see Magill’s worried gaze on the drawing. “And you both must tell my why this necklace upsets Mr. Magill so much.”

  “He stole it,” Ian rumbled. “It was already stolen, I mean, but Magill took it again. I want him to tell me where it is.”

  “Good heavens.” Beth stared at the picture, then at the three men. Ian was adamant, Magill terrified, David hovering between amusement and shame.

  “This man is a thief?” Beth asked, assessing Mr. Magill once more. “He hardly looks like a criminal.”

  “I am not!” Magill protested. “Dear lady, you are correct. I am no villain.”

  “Yet you took this piece from Pemberton,” David said. “So Ian tells me. Popped it in a box and absconded. The look on your face screams your guilt.”

  “Of course I took it from Pemberton!” Magill shouted. “The man is a philistine. This piece was taken illegally from a dig, dropped in a museum far from its home, and sold off to the first collector who bid for it. And then Pemberton sends in a wily thief to bring it to him. The necklace belongs to none of them.” Magill drew himself up. “It should go to a museum in East Anglia, properly labeled as to where it came from and when. It is invaluable for the information it provides, a window to the past. But collectors care nothing for that. They only want a pretty trinket to put on a shelf, or in this case, to hang around a wife’s neck.” His face went still more red. “Begging your pardon, your ladyship.”

  “Brave words from a thief,” David began.

  Beth held up her hand. “No, no, he makes a good point. Mr. Magill, please enjoy our hospitality. There is a bad storm coming, and you will likely be here over Christmas. Being snowed in at Kilmorgan is no terrible thing, I assure you. I will be interested in conversing with you. I am so fascinated by archaeology.”

  She felt Ian’s grim stare on her, but he did not contradict her. Ian had long ago learned to let Beth handle people and confusing situations, while he dealt with things.

  “David,” Beth continued, “will you please show Mr. Magill the house? The duke has many fine paintings and sculptures to enjoy—all purchased legitimately, I assure you.”

  David did not trust the man, Beth could see, but David knew when it was time to make an exit. He gave Beth a gallant bow.

  “Of course, my lady. Mr. Magill, wonders await you.”

  Mr. Magill, who had wound himself up to defend his actions, looked a little bewildered. He allowed David to usher him out, babbling thanks to Beth and continuing to protest his innocence. David winked at Beth as he closed the door behind him.

  Beth knew Ian would explode the moment they were alone, and she held up her hand to forestall him. “David dragged the poor man here in the middle of darkest winter. The least we can do is give him a meal and a bed.”

  Ian started for the door, but halted before he reached it. “We must take the necklace from him. David doesn’t believe him, and David is usually right.”

  “Perhaps, but we can argue about it later. A heavy snow is coming, and it’s Christmas. I agree with Mr. Magill’s sentiment anyway—something this beautiful should be given back to the museum from which it came, put on display to anyone interested.”

  Ian turned, his golden eyes filled with the intense light she’d come to love. “I wanted it for you, my Beth.” He moved to her, one solid step at a time, until he stood before her, tall and hard-bodied, his kilt brushing her gown. “It will look beautiful on you.” He traced her bodice over her collarbone, where the necklace would lie.

  Beth’s heart beat faster as Ian’s touch ignited all kinds of fires inside her. “It is a kind thought, Ian, but I’d be just as happy to see it displayed in a case along with other antiquities.”

  “The museum couldn’t afford it.” Ian’s voice softened, his gaze following his fingers. “That is why they sold it.”

  “I believe you.” Beth’s thoughts began to scatter as Ian moved still closer. “I have it—we can give the museum an endowment to keep this necklace and all the things found with it. They can call it the Ian Mackenzie Collection.”

  Ian leaned to her, his warmth as enticing as the desire in his eyes. “The Beth Mackenzie Collection.”

  Beth’s heart fluttered. “Would a museum put a woman’s name on an archaeological collection?” She asked it half in jest, not really caring at the moment.

  “They will if they want the endowment.”

  “Mmm.” Beth laced her arms around her husband’s neck. “Perhaps we could speak of this later.”

  “Aye,” Ian whispered. His lips went to her neck, her mouth, his kisses heated.

  The carpet in the Ming room was very soft, as Beth had come to know. It cradled her now as Ian took her down to it, his eyes a golden light in the gathering darkness.

  * * *

  Snow stung the windows of David Fleming’s suite of rooms, the usual ones he was given when he stayed at Kilmorgan. So many years he’d been coming here, he thought as he opened the door to warmth. But the last five had been far different.

  The reason was the lovely dark-haired woman with green eyes who turned as he entered.

  Sophie Tierney, now Sophie Fleming, had saved David’s life. The day he’d opened his eyes in a hungover stupor and seen her measuring gaze, he’d been reborn.

  Sophie touched a finger to her lips as David entered, gesturing to the door that led from sitting room to bedroom. “I finally persuaded him to nap,” she said softly, and let out a relieved sigh. “I should not wonder at his persistence. Lucas is your son.”

  “And yours.” David came to Sophie, touched her cheek, and brushed a kiss to her lips. “Stubborn as his mother.”

  Sophie widened her eyes. “Good heavens, then we are both doomed.”

  “We are indeed.” David kissed her again, the taste of her filling his soul. “Magill was almost as stubborn. I had to lead him all over the house up and down before he finally grew tired and adjourned to his bedchamber. Wore myself to the bone.”

  David had a good idea how he’d like to take his rest from his labors, and kissed Sophie again. He slid his hand beneath her hair and let the kiss turn deep.

  Sophie rested her hands on David’s chest. “Love?” she whispered. “You did find out what Mr. Magill did with the necklace, didn’t you?”

  David brushed the corner of her mouth, letting her green eyes fill his vision. “We’ll let him sleep the sleep of the just for now and pry it out of him tomorrow. It turns out that his motives are pure if his methods are questionable. Beth will let him return it to the museum and be a hero.”

  At the moment, David
was more interested in Sophie’s taste, her heat, and the empty bedchamber through the door opposite the one their son lay behind.

  “Oh dear.” Sophie pushed at his chest, and David straightened, his need turning to trepidation.

  “‘Oh dear’ what?”

  “Did you not speak with Uncle Lucas about Mr. Magill? I thought he told you all about him.”

  “We sent telegrams. I did not have time to travel to see your uncle’s estimable self.”

  When Ian had demanded David’s help, David had contacted Dr. Pierson, his mentor and uncle of the beautiful woman in his arms. Pierson had known Magill and told David where to put his hands on him.

  Magill hadn’t proved a very practiced criminal. He’d been exactly where Pierson had said he’d be—in the Reading Room of the British Museum.

  Sophie had been busy preparing for the journey here, which included quite a lot of shopping. The overnight train, during which they mostly made certain young Lucas did not open every door including one into the foggy darkness, did not leave them much time to chat.

  Magill had shut himself into his compartment and slept. David had made sure he did not come out during the journey, which again, had not left him time to be with his wife.

  Now David was weary, snappish, and ready to curl up around her in bed.

  Sophie eyed him with uneasiness. “I was certain Uncle Lucas would have told you. Mr. Magill has done this sort of thing before. ‘Rescued’ antiquities from ruthless collectors, I mean.”

  “Indeed. He seems adamant.” David’s foreboding rose. “But you look very worried, which worries me, because you are no fool.”

  Sophie drew a breath. “He rescues the things, yes, proclaiming that he is saving them for research and for the public to enjoy. And often he does. Other times . . .”

  “Other times? My love, you are filling me with dread. Pray, douse me with the horrible news at once.”

  “The things disappear, and Mr. Magill seems to be flush with money. He has quite a lot, you see, and then suddenly has nothing at all. Uncle Lucas believes he bets on the horse races, but isn’t certain. He’s asked him, but Magill always has an evasive answer.”

  David groaned. “You mean our virtuous archaeologist lifts a few choice antiquities and sells them to pay off his gambling debts? Scheming little toad. I didn’t quite believe him when he came all over pious to Beth.”

  “He doesn’t sell them all the time,” Sophie said. “Many of the things he takes from collectors he really does give to museums. That is why I say we need to find the necklace and lock it up if he has it with him. In case.”

  Snow slapped at the windows, and a glance that way showed David that the panes were white, with little visible in the stygian darkness of late afternoon beyond.

  This chamber was cozy and warm, a fire crackling. David’s son slept in peace, and Sophie was soft against him.

  “The man is going nowhere in this gale, love,” David said, leaning down to nip her earlobe. “I will procure the necklace from him in the morning. I’ll go through his bags if I have to.”

  Sophie looked indecisive, but she nodded. “He did look exhausted. As do you.” She traced his cheek.

  David’s thoughts fled at her touch, at least the ones that weren’t decadent. “Is our bedchamber as warm as this one?” he murmured as he pressed a kiss to her temple, inhaling her scent.

  “I believe so.”

  “Then let us adjourn to our bower, my love.”

  Sophie’s answering smile made his heart turn over, and as always filled him with astonishment that he was actually married to her.

  David clasped her hands, pressed a long kiss to her lips, and allowed her to lead him to their empty chamber, and so to bed.

  * * *

  That night in Jamie’s bedchamber, Gavina and Jamie regaled Gavina’s cousin Andrew McBride with the story of the ghost and the hunt for the necklace—Jamie including all the pranks he and his cousins had played on the ghost hunters.

  Andrew laughed with enjoyment. Gavina was a bit smug that Andrew, quite grown-up and at university, conceded that the “children” had a good story to tell. He clapped Jamie on the back, and said he was sorry he’d missed the excitement.

  They sat in a circle of lamplight. A fire flickered at one end of the chamber, and the shadows outside the reach of the candlelight were deep.

  “We still haven’t found the ghost,” Gavina said. “Daniel and Violet looked over the camp at the folly, but she didn’t return.” She glanced at the window, which shook from the wind, and shivered. “I hope whoever it is isn’t out in this.”

  “I don’t think she is, lass.” Jamie’s voice became hushed.

  Andrew, who sat facing the fire, drew a sharp breath, and Gavina swung around to see what had startled them.

  In the corner near the fireplace, a woman in a white dress floated. Uncle Mac had been right about her having no hands or feet, because none showed as she hovered there, the gossamer white of her gown fluttering in a sudden draft.

  Jamie and Andrew sat transfixed. They looked like gaping fish, Gavina thought.

  It could not be a ghost, she told herself. Whoever had been living in the folly was flesh and blood, needing food, drink, and blankets.

  Gavina sprang to her feet. The draft, she realized, came from the panel that had opened near the fireplace.

  The woman’s eyes widened as Gavina ran at her, pools of black that resolved into the eyes of a living, breathing woman. Her feet were covered by folds of her sweeping skirt, her hands by black gloves and the too-long sleeves of her gown.

  Gavina seized her. Warm limbs moved under her grasp, and Gavina’s elation soared. She’d been right. She’d been right.

  The young woman had a lovely oval face and a quantity of red hair that tumbled from beneath a battered hat. She collapsed into Gavina, her lips pale with cold.

  “Please, you must help,” she declared in a flat accent Gavina couldn’t place. “He’ll die out there. You must help him.”

  Chapter 10

  Mac Mackenzie responded to the pounding on the studio door with ill grace. He did not often have a chance to paint these days, what with Eleanor recruiting him to help with her mad decorating or to make certain the younger children did not destroy said decorations or themselves.

  Isabella, reposing on the chaise in diaphanous draperies, quickly snatched up her dressing gown.

  Mac hadn’t had much time to enjoy her either. He yanked open the door, his paintbrush dripping on the scrubbed floor.

  When he saw what awaited him, he took a few steps back, nearly slipping on the paint.

  The ghost stood before him. At least—the ghost transformed into a frightened-looking young woman with a dust-streaked face and wide hazel eyes. She was flanked by Jamie, Gavina, and Andrew McBride.

  “Uncle Mac,” Jamie said breathlessly. “You’re the only one awake.”

  “I already wish I weren’t. What the devil?”

  Isabella was next to Mac in an instant, gazing at the young woman with great interest. “Good heavens. Is this your ghost?”

  “Yes,” Mac and Jamie answered at the same time.

  “Her name is Magdala,” Gavina said swiftly. “But we’ll tell you about her later. She says the archaeologist fellow has run off into the night, straight into the storm.”

  “With Mum’s necklace!” Jamie said in anguish.

  The wind echoed Jamie’s wail. Mac had barely met the little bearded fellow David had brought with him before he’d been whisked away to Ian. Mac wasn’t quite certain why the man was here—to consult with Ian about Ming whatnots, Mac had assumed.

  “He rushed out in this?” Mac demanded as the wind continued shrieking and snow battered the panes behind him. “Where does he hope to go? The train doesn’t run until morning even on the sunniest days.”

  “If he’s
unfamiliar with Scotland, he might not know this,” Isabella said. “We’d better go after him.”

  Mac’s attention remained on the young woman hovering behind Jamie and Gavina. “What the devil were you doing, rushing around up here in the dark? What were you doing in the house at all?”

  “Perhaps we should interrogate her later, Mac,” Isabella said sliding her hand to his arm.

  “I don’t think the man will last long in this weather,” Magdala said. Her accent was curious—flat but with a bit of a lilt and a full stop of consonants. Almost Irish, but that wasn’t quite right.

  Mac snapped from his speculations to the present. Anyone outside right now would freeze to death.

  “You are right, love,” Mac said. “Jamie, wake Bellamy and have him rouse the house. Once we find Magill and drag him home safe and sound, we will all have a long talk.”

  * * *

  Ian pulled on his greatcoat, readying himself with Daniel, his brothers, and Mackenzie retainers to rush into a storm to save a thief.

  The men arrayed around him looked grim. Storms in the Highlands were no joke. A man could die quickly if he did not know how to find shelter, or he could blunder into the loch or off a cliff.

  The ladies hovered nearby, ready to shove their menfolk outside to rescue a complete stranger. Beth helped Ian button his coat and don thick gloves. Though Ian did not need the help, he didn’t mind Beth’s touch, or her whispered, “Be careful.”

  He kissed her, absorbing her warmth. He’d go out, find Magill, bring him home and lock him in his chamber, and then take Beth to bed, where he’d been lying in great contentment before Curry had banged on the door.

  Curry elected to stay behind to coordinate a wider search if needed. Violet, on the other hand, bundled up to accompany Daniel. She donned her helmet as she argued with Daniel as to who would drive the motorized cycle.

  Ian kissed Beth once more. He wanted nothing more than to return to their chamber with her, but he had no intention of leaving Magill to die in the storm.