A Mackenzie Clan Christmas

by Jennifer Ashley

  The cave had a low ceiling—they had to bend double to follow Ian inside—but it opened up after a few yards to a tall tunnel, carved out by water and wind. Long ago, human beings had shored up parts of it with bricks and stones like those used to build the original castle. The bricks had crumbled into red-brown dust, but the quarried stones remained.

  Ian was moving down this tunnel like a freight train on its way to its final delivery. Hart, uttering colorful phrases in English and Gaelic, hurried after him. Fellows brought up the rear in silence.

  “I’ll be buggered.” The voice of Curry, who’d followed, echoed in the darkness. “Who’d steal a houseful of artwork and dump it in a hole?”

  The lantern light fell on a mess. Paintings were strewn about, some ripped from frames and folded in half, lesser paintings piled haphazardly on those that were priceless. The sculptures by Mr. Degas lay in a ruined heap, the horses’ legs entwined. Two other sculptures—the head of a young lady and a Chinese bronze, lay nearby, scratched and half buried in stones.

  Fellows’s breath caught. Not only did the destruction of the valuable and beautiful things kick him in the gut, but the scenario was familiar. Memories of a long-ago day, when he’d been a very young man, just admitted to CID, flitted into his head. Not his first case, but an early one. He hadn’t thought about it in a long time, but the crime was the same. A house robbed of famous artwork, but the pieces then broken and found in a drained pond nearby.

  One of the villagers suggested, “Maybe they stashed it to return later, after they found somewhere to sell it.”

  Ian shook his head. “They’d have taken care. Bundled it up to keep it safe. This was abandoned.”

  “Why the hell—” Hart broke off, flushed with rage. “This is a man who wants to punch me in the face. Maybe my whole family.” He swung around to look at Fellows. “Who?”

  Ian was watching Fellows, seeing him realize things. “Sedgwick,” Ian said. “Remember?”

  “I remember,” Fellows said sharply. “How do you? That was nearly twenty years ago.”

  “I read of it.” Ian rubbed a hand over his face, smearing it more with grime. “Look into it.”

  Fellows had planned to, but Ian’s high-handedness, after they’d all feared him gone to an early grave, was irritating. “Sedgwick is dead. And Radcliffe. All of them.”

  Ian fixed Fellows with his unwavering golden gaze, as though all the players in an old case being deceased was of no moment. “You will have written things down.”

  “I know that.” Fellows’s case notes had been meticulous throughout his career. “But they are in London.”

  A foolish statement, Fellows knew, as soon as it left his mouth.

  “Then go to London,” Ian said, and turned away, back to Hart and the paintings.

  * * *

  Ian’s interest in the artwork and why it had been abandoned in the tunnels fled when he saw Beth running toward him from the house. Her skirts rippled and her feet skimmed the ground, as she hurtled herself at Ian. He caught her in his arms and let her drag her down to him, their mouths meeting in a fierce kiss.

  Beth was Ian’s world. His life. Her warmth came to him now, cutting the chill of the tunnels and the night. Her lips moved beneath his, her body pliant under his hands as she held him.

  The hunger in his heart had been satisfied when he’d met her. Pain and fear eased, light and heat taking its place. Beth clung to him, deepening the kiss, holding him close.

  “Ian.” The harsh sound of Hart’s voice cut through the bubble of comfort Beth wrapped around him.

  Ian ignored him. Hart was hard about the edges, gruff sounding, and smelled like he’d been traveling for hours. Beth was softness and sweetness, her scents water and soap. Much more pleasant.

  “Ian.” Hart’s hand landed on Ian’s shoulder.

  Beth stepped back. “You must forgive me, Hart,” she said, voice shaking. “Only I’ve just learned that my husband is alive and well.”

  “You took us on a merry chase, Ian,” Hart growled. “What the devil were you—”

  Beth stepped in front of Hart. “Kindly do not lash into him,” she said coolly. “Ian has had an ordeal. Let him rest and calm, and then you may ask your questions. Politely.”

  Ian suppressed a smile. Beth liked to defend Ian against Hart—against the world—with well-bred snarls and kitten claws.

  Ian knew exactly how to divert Hart’s attention from berating him for being found, unhurt. “Someone dug a hole at the top of the hill, near the keep. Hid it with a plug of sod. Board it up. Keep the children from falling in.”

  Hart stared at him with his golden eyes for half a moment, then he turned around and started bellowing orders at the men who’d been on the search.

  While he did so, Ian, no longer interested in stashes of art and tunnels under the old castle, let Beth take him into the house. She ordered Curry to draw him a bath then shooed Curry away and took up the sponge to Ian’s body herself.

  That led to some interesting kisses, water all over the bathroom floor, and Ian making hard love to his wife on the damp carpet.

  * * *

  Ian went in search of John Ackerley the next morning, after Hart and Fellows at last ceased interrogating him. Ian had repeated his story several times, though he told the same tale again and again. He was beginning to think them mad when he finally turned and stalked out of the gallery where Hart and his staff were sifting through the art to see what they could save.

  Neither Fellows nor Hart tried to stop him. Not that Ian would let them.

  Ian spied Curry hurrying across staircase hall and beckoned to him. “Ackerley?”

  “No, me lord.” Curry pressed his hands to his chest. “Curry.”

  Ian gave him an impatient look. “Where is he?”

  “You’re in a mood, ain’t ye? Mr. Ackerley, brother-in-law to your lady wife, is strolling in the gardens. Saw him heading to the far end. Probably off to do some exploring.”

  Without a word, Ian stepped past Curry and headed for the garden door.

  “You’re welcome, me lord,” Curry’s voice drifted after him. “What I put up with . . . Should ’ave stuck to the streets and avoiding the ’angman.”

  Ian took no notice. Curry loved to drone on about the hell his life had become since he’d begun working with Ian. Since Curry had never once taken the opportunity to leave, Ian had ceased listening.

  Ackerley was indeed at the far end of the garden, making for the gate that led to the wild lands beyond. The gardeners Malcolm Mackenzie had hired years ago had only tamed the land inside the gate. On the other side of it, the glen dropped into crags and rivers, beautiful and rugged. Fine for a Highlander born to it, not so much for a soft Englishman, never mind he’d survived India and Africa. Scotland had a mind of its own.

  Ian put his hand on the low iron gate, an artwork in itself, brought over from Italy by Hart when he inherited the place.

  “Aye,” Ian said when Ackerley looked at him in surprise. “I will try your cure. What do I have to do?”

  Chapter Ten

  Ackerley’s cure seemed to mostly involve talking. Of course it would, Ian thought as Ackerley faced Ian across a table in one of Kilmorgan’s lavish sitting rooms.

  The ceiling soared high above them, artwork that depicted the Trojan War, from Paris presenting the apple to Aphrodite to Helen’s abduction to the fall of the great city, marching across it. Achilles died in agony in one panel, a reminder to all that every man was vulnerable.

  Ian had spent hours in this room as a child, lying on the carpet, taking in the pictures, while Hart had explained the story to him. Hart had been a youth then, angry and in sometimes violent conflict with their father, but had always taken time to be kind to Ian.

  Ian remembered every word of the stories Hart had told even now. He also remembered thinking that Helen had an oddly shaped face, the spears wielded by the fighters were out of proportion, and Paris looked like a sour-faced footman.

  �
�My lord?” Ackerley cut through Ian’s memories.

  “Mmm?” Ian dragged his gaze from the ceiling and settled it on Ackerley. He didn’t look sour faced; more like a happy pieman who’d already sold plenty of pies that morning.

  “Are you ready to begin?”

  Ian gave him a nod, not bothering to answer. If he weren’t ready, why would he be sitting here?

  “I will ask you a series of questions, taking you back into the past,” Ackerley said, excitement edging his voice. “Deep into the past. The idea, you see, is to find what triggered your . . . er . . . malady. If we can deal with that memory, break its power, it will free you.”

  Sounded unlikely. Ian leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and stretched out his long legs. His socks over his firm calves were thick, woolen, and patterned with Mackenzie plaid, his shoes sturdy leather.

  Ackerley pulled a notebook out of the worn satchel he’d brought with him, picked up the pen Curry had provided, and dipped it into the inkwell Curry had also brought. Ackerley smoothed a page of the notebook, and let the pen hover over the paper.

  “Now then, let us begin with your school days—what school did you attend? What did you like to study there? Were your brothers with you, and how did you feel about them watching over you? Tell me everything you can remember.”

  Ackerley asked nothing about the asylum, Ian noticed. Fair enough. Ian didn’t want to talk about his years there in any case.

  “I never went to school,” Ian said.

  Ackerley stopped. “Never? But you are so learned—a brilliant mathematician, Beth says.”

  “I taught myself. They tried to put me inside a school, but I ran out again.”

  Ian remembered it perfectly—the boys at Harrow, where all the Mackenzies attended, staring at Ian as he’d tried to take his place among them. They’d heard of his madness, he’d supposed.

  At the time Ian had not understood how different he was—he only knew the weight of all those stares had caused rage to well up inside him, and terror. In the classroom, under the Latin tutor’s nose, Ian had launched himself into two other boys, leaving them bloody and with broken limbs before Mac had rushed in to pull Ian away and carry him out. Ian had fought his way from Mac and had run, run, run . . .

  “My lord?” Ackerley’s polite voice again shattered the memories.

  Ian snapped his gaze to him. “I read books.”

  “Ah. What sort of books?”

  Was he a slow-wit? “All sorts. Books on language, art, science, mathematics—Chaussier, Darwin, Lamont, Lavoisier, Lucas, Maxwell—”

  Ackerley held up his hand to halt the flow of words. “Perhaps you could give me a list later.”

  Ian gave him a nod. “I’ll have Curry write one.”

  “Curry.” Ackerley’s eyes took on a bright light. “He has been with you for many years.”

  “Aye.”

  “A pickpocket, I believe he was.”

  Many people were interested in Curry’s history. “Cameron caught him trying to pick his pocket. Curry begged for mercy, and Cam liked him.” Charmed me, the blackguard, Cameron had said. When Curry proved himself efficient and un-spookable—Cam’s word—he’d sent the man to attend Ian in the asylum.

  “Curry wasn’t afraid of me,” Ian said. “He made sure I was looked after, helped me hide things from my keepers—books, pictures, cheroots. Did everything for me.”

  “Still does, I gather.”

  “He looks after Beth now too.”

  “It never worried you that he was a criminal?” Ackerley asked as he made notes.

  Ian drew himself closer to the table and pressed his palms to it. “No. He never stole from me.”

  “How did you know you could trust him?”

  Ian watched Ackerley write in a slow, careful hand. Ian could read the words upside down. Curry becomes a father figure? Delivering the care a parent could not?

  Ian had never thought of Curry as a father. A friend, yes, a conjurer sometimes, the way he was able to almost magically make things happen. But never a father. That was different.

  Ackerley stopped writing and held his pen both hands. “I would like to know about your father.”

  “He was an unpleasant man, and he’s dead.” The words came out in a staccato monotone. “He beat us. Hated us, Hart says, because we took our mother’s love from him. Hart says he was mad and didn’t know it.”

  “What is your opinion, Ian?”

  Ian didn’t have to ponder. “That we should leave him in the past. He was a madman; he’s gone now, and Hart is duke.”

  “I am curious to know.” Ackerley dipped his pen in the ink once more. “What is your first memory of him?”

  “Beating me.” Ian’s lips were tight. “My mother had swept me into her arms. My father took me away from her and backhanded me. He shouted at her—They’ll become soft and weak, like women, if ye touch ’em in that disgusting manner. Leave off, ye daft bitch.”

  Ian’s voice had taken on the cant of his father. The words rose in his head, every one imprinted on his damnable, unrelenting brain.

  “Do you know how old you were then?” Ackerley seemed to be speaking from far away, behind thick glass.

  “Three. It was m’ birthday.”

  The pen stilled, and Ackerley looked up. “Three? Are you certain?”

  Of course Ian was certain. He forgot nothing. “Aye.”

  “Do you remember what you did? Your response?”

  “Wept,” Ian said without shame. “I was a child. He cuffed me for that, and the nanny was sent for to take me back to the nursery. Mac tried to console me. Hart went downstairs and shouted and swore at our father, and our father broke his arm.”

  That memory was admittedly dim—Ian remembered only the significant points of the day. Hart’s screams, which cut off, then the pure hatred in Hart’s eyes while the doctor was setting his arm. Hart had been about thirteen at the time. The overt battle between Hart and his father had commenced that day. The house had not known peace since.

  “I don’t want to talk about m’ father,” Ian said abruptly.

  “Hmm.” Ackerley scribbled. “Very well. I don’t wish to distress you.”

  The man had not thought it through if he hadn’t realized speaking about Ian’s father would be distressful. Ian drummed his fingers on the table. If Beth were here, she’d soothe him with a warm touch, a light joke that she’d have to explain to him later.

  But no, Ian didn’t want Beth there. Not if they would dredge up horrors of the past. Ian wanted Ackerley to cure him. After that, he’d find Beth, tell her he wasn’t mad anymore, and then let her soothe him, in many interesting, and possibly sticky, ways.

  “Now.” Ackerley caught Ian’s eye, turned a bright shade of red, and flicked his gaze to his notebook. People did that when they were uncomfortable, Beth had told Ian. What did Ackerley have to be uncomfortable about?

  “I do not wish to embarrass you, Lord Ian,” Ackerley said, his tanned face going redder. “But it is important to this treatment to discuss, er, the ladies.”

  Fine with Ian. He liked women, and discussing them gave him no qualm. “What about them?”

  Ackerley cleared his throat. “Your first. Can you tell me about that? Not in great detail, of course,” he added quickly. “But who was the lady, and why did you decide . . . ?”

  “A maidservant at the asylum. She was kind to me, and very pretty. I was seventeen; she was nineteen. She taught me well. I decided . . . because I wanted to.”

  Ackerley kept his gaze on his paper. “You fell in love with her? Was it difficult to learn it would not be a permanent thing?”

  “No,” Ian answered. “And, no.”

  “She seduced you?” Ackerley looked up, his expression going indignant. “She must have, older than you, more experienced, you vulnerable as a patient. That is simply not on.”

  “I seduced her,” Ian said. “I gave her many presents. I wanted her, and I had her. Cam had told me what to do, as did the books
he lent me. I was very pleased with myself. I did not know then that it was called seduction.”

  “I see.” Ackerley was back to embarrassment. “I am sorry to speak so indelicately, but it is important to the process. I was under the impression that this encounter caused you to seek women who were . . . shall we say . . . not those you would marry. Once out of the asylum and back in your brother’s home, you did not court a respectable woman of your class.”

  Ian shrugged. “I was a madman. They did not want me. The ladies I paid would look the other way at my oddities.”

  “I’m certain that was upsetting,” Ackerley said, sadness in his eyes. “To know you could only have softer company if you paid . . .”

  “The house Hart’s mistress owned was very comfortable,” Ian said. “The women were kind to me. I didn’t love them; they didn’t love me. It was an agreeable arrangement.”

  Ian had no interest in talking about women of the past. He’d relieved his physical needs, and that was an end to it. Hart and Cam had enjoyed the ladies’ company—they would talk with the ladies and laugh, play cards, and drink, while Ian read a newspaper and waited until they were ready to leave.

  “There was a terrible tragedy at that house, I believe,” Ackerley began.

  “Aye.” Ian’s quick mind ran through the events from beginning to end. “I feared my brother had murdered a woman. I was mistaken.” That too was in the past and didn’t worry Ian anymore. “Hart and I and Fellows have long since reconciled. What has this to do with curing my madness?”

  Ackerley laid down his pen. “The idea, you see, is to sift through your memories and find the key. Once we discover that, we can begin there and repair your mind, as it were.”

  Again, Ian wasn’t certain he agreed, but he spread his hands, ready to go on. If this was what it took to cure him, he’d put up with it.

  “Now,” Ackerley said. “I . . . ah . . . have heard that some of the things you did at the . . . er . . . houses such as the one of your brother’s mistress were not quite, shall we say . . . straightforward.”