A Mackenzie Clan Christmas

by Jennifer Ashley

  Ian would have chosen a better cave for concealment. Not far from where the kidnappers had chosen to shelter was a narrow fissure that exited into a tunnel that opened to a stretch of shingle on the other side of the outcropping. These men, however, didn’t know this shoreline like Ian did.

  Ian also knew that if he rushed in with nothing but the knife he’d picked up in Cameron’s rooms, a sgian dubh, he’d be surrounded, beaten down, possibly shot. None of that would help Jamie.

  What Ian needed to do was flush them out, drive the kidnappers into a place of his choosing. Then he could separate them from one another and Jamie, and rescue his son.

  Ian rarely debated with himself once he chose a course of action. He made a decision and carried it out.

  He faded into the shadows and moved to the most hidden cave in this cluster, one that in the old smuggling days on this coast had been stocked with ample supplies. Not that smuggling had ceased altogether, which was why this cave still had a stash.

  Ian gathered what he needed into a canvas bag, which he slung to his back. He picked up a few other useful items then climbed out past the concealing scrub, all the way back up the path to the top of the low cliffs.

  He walked along the cliff to the spot he knew was just above the cave the abductors had chosen. Here Ian dropped to his belly and crawled a few yards forward on the sharp rocks. Tufts of grass and heather grew here, the plants as resilient as the Highlanders who’d inhabited these glens forever.

  A crack in the cliff rocks formed a natural chimney for the cave below, which was likely why the villains had chosen it. The night was cold—they’d want a fire to keep warm. Indeed, Ian saw a small campfire through the fissure, the flames straining against the draft.

  Ian pulled out the wad of oil-drenched rags he’d taken from the stores, opened the small jar of kerosene he’d found, and soaked the rags with the liquid. He struck a match against a black rock, and lit one tip of the cloth. Jamie, if he were conscious, would know what to do. If he weren’t conscious, Ian would storm down and grab him after the men boiled out.

  Ian quickly shoved the burning rags through the hole, to land right on top of the campfire.

  The small fire faded for a second as the wet bundle choked it, then the rags exploded in a glare of blue and yellow light. Black smoke streamed to fill the cave as the oil under the kerosene caught and smoldered.

  Men coughed, swore, shouted. They fled the cave, choking, drawing weapons, searching frantically for the source of attack.

  A small white streak darted among them and then past. Jamie.

  Ian’s body went slack, his heart pounding until his head throbbed. His relief was so complete, he almost forgot the next part of his mission.

  One of the men saw Jamie. “Get after ’im!” the thug yelled, with a cadence that spoke of London backstreets. They were far from their element. “Grab ’im!”

  Jamie ran, his bare legs flashing, straight to the path that led to the cliff tops. Jamie’s hands were bound before him, but he didn’t let that slow him down.

  Five burly men chased him. Likely they’d catch Jamie before he reached safety. Ian, however, wanted them up that path, which led straight to where he needed them to go.

  Ian lifted another item he’d brought, the Winchester rifle that had been locked, unloaded, into a crate, along with a box of shells. Ian cocked the now-loaded rifle, sighted well away from Jamie, and shot down into the cove behind the men.

  More bellowing, swearing, chaos. Ian recocked and shot, recocked and shot, the repeating action of the Winchester letting him fire several rounds without stopping. The final shot had the last of the five men scrambling desperately for the cliffs.

  The path emerged about twenty yards from where Ian lay. Jamie reached the top just ahead of the thugs, and started running, not toward home, but across a field, heading for the woods on the other side of open land.

  “Good lad,” Ian said under his breath. He got his feet under him but remained in a crouch, not wanting his silhouette to show against the night sky.

  Jamie had darted under the trees when his abductors, with their longer stride, caught up to him. One scooped up Jamie—who swore like the best of them—and continued into the woods.

  Ian slung the rifle and pack to his back, rose, and ran silently after them.

  Ian caught up to the man bringing up the rear just outside the line of trees. This man was a little more portly than the others, a little more out of breath.

  Ian had his arm around the thug’s throat, hand across his mouth before he could cry out. A fist across the man’s temple made him sag, but he struggled, still conscious, so Ian banged him back into the nearest tree. Ian was gone before the unfortunate man landed in a heap on the damp ground.

  The next thug did manage a shout before Ian could silence him. Ian dragged him aside into deep shadow, hearing the others call worriedly after him.

  Ian’s blow with the hilt of the sgian dubh quieted this man right away—or else, the thug decided that folding up and lying still was a good idea. Ian left him and ducked under the trees as one of the man’s colleagues came running back to see what was the matter.

  This man approached cautiously, but from the way he blundered about, his lantern obviously night-blinded him. Ian was beside him before the man registered his presence, his soft grunt of surprise lost as Ian’s fist put him on the ground.

  The floor of the woods was muddy, marsh waters oozing through. Ian knew the dry paths and quickly skirted more treacherous footing. He heard the remaining two men snarling as they slipped or stepped knee-deep into mud. Jamie didn’t make a sound.

  If they’d hurt Jamie—if they’d so much as frightened him . . .

  Ian’s breath suddenly left him, his feet ceasing to move. He needed to continue, to find his son, but against his will, black panic from the past rose inside him, blotting out all coherent thought.

  Ian hated that his mind could do this to him. He’d be perfectly fine, living his day-to-day life, then something would trigger terrible visions—sights as well as sounds and smells, memories he’d hoped he’d never encounter again. Ian’s blasted mind forgot nothing.

  He remembered how he’d run through these very woods as a lad, terrified of the will-o’-the-wisps that glowed deep between the trees. Ian would run from his father, knowing the man would snatch him up and throw him to the ground if he were caught.

  Ian’s only refuge had been to find a place as far from home as his legs would take him, which often meant these woods. His father refused to follow him there—whether from fear or because the old duke simply didn’t want his boots dirty, Ian had never learned.

  Ian would run until his strength gave out, and he ended up facedown, panting and sobbing, in the mud. After a long time, Hart would find him. Hart would help him up, and they’d sit together on a boulder at the edge of the trees, simply watching the world. Hart never admonished Ian, never derided him for his fear, his need to escape. The two brothers would sit in silence, Hart understanding. Until Beth, Hart was the only one who had.

  One night, when Ian had been about seven years old, as he and Hart had waited for Ian to calm enough to walk home, the sky had suddenly burst with color. Waving bands of green had rippled into the heavens, flowing among the stars.

  Ian jerked himself to the present. The sky above the trees was glowing with the same bright green, bands of it flaring high into the atmosphere.

  He heard the astonishment of the two men who still had Jamie.

  “’Struth!” one said loudly. “What the bleeding ’ell?”

  “This place ain’t right,” the other said. “It ain’t worth the pay. Kill the lad, and let’s be gone.”

  The raging cry of a Highland warrior ripped from Ian’s throat as he barreled through the woods at full speed, rifle in one hand, sgian dubh in the other.

  The two men had pistols. Green light gleamed on the barrels as they were aimed at Ian, and Ian heard Jamie’s shout.

  “Dad!”


  A pistol went off. Ian wasn’t there to receive the bullet—he’d already spun aside in the darkness.

  “Dad!”

  Jamie’s yell came from Ian’s left. The shot had come from the right. Ian lifted his rifle and fired at the man on the right. The thug screamed and collapsed.

  Ian levered the rifle and advanced rapidly until he stood six feet from the man who held Jamie.

  Jamie hung from the crook of the man’s arm, hands bound. The last man standing pointed his pistol at Ian, and Ian aimed the rifle directly at his head.

  “Put m’ son down,” Ian said, making every word slow and clear.

  Jamie hung still, not fighting. Not from fear for himself, Ian knew. Jamie worried that a sudden move would make the man shoot, and Ian might die.

  “Put m’ son down,” Ian repeated.

  The pistol wavered. Above them, the lights continued to soar, the man’s eyes shining in their glow.

  A sudden burst of red among the green made the thug jump. In that instant, he fired, and so did Ian.

  Hot pain brushed Ian’s side as he threw himself out of the way. Ian swung in a full circle, kilt moving, until he faced the man again, rifle raised.

  Except the thug was no longer there. He was on the ground, Jamie under him. Ian laid the rifle on the ground and approached, his knife held ready.

  Jamie crawled out from under his unmoving captor, struggling with his bonds. “Dad, did he get you?” He was shivering, his words shaky. “Dad—ye all right? Speak t’ me!”

  Ian swept up Jamie, holding him in strong arms while he swiftly cut away the thin rope around Jamie’s wrists.

  “He missed,” Ian said. “Grazed me. I’m not s’ old I can’t duck a bullet.”

  Jamie laughed out loud, then he flung his arms around Ian, his body trembling.

  Jamie would never, ever break down and cry before his sisters, or his young cousins, or even his mother, but here in the privacy of the woods, he clung to Ian and wept.

  Ian held him close, his own eyes wet, rejoicing that his son was warm and alive and safe in his arms. Nothing else mattered, only this now.

  Jamie’s cries died into sniffles, and he scrubbed a hand across his dirty face. Ian went on holding him, father and son taking comfort in each other, as the aurora spun in its green and red dance in the heavens.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Under the last flares of the aurora borealis, Beth saw Ian silhouetted on a hill against the sky, a rifle across his back, and a boy in his arms. Beth shook off the well-meaning holds of John and Eleanor and raced up the path, making straight for her husband and son.

  Ian stopped and waited for her. Beth, her heart pounding, reached them, sobbing in relief when she saw that Jamie was whole and unhurt.

  No words would come as she took Jamie into her arms, holding him tight. He was heavy, her boy, growing so swiftly. At the moment, he was only her firstborn son, the babe the midwife had laid into her arms so long ago. That faraway morning, Ian had put his hand on Jamie’s back while the lad lay on Beth’s chest, completing the circle.

  They completed it again, Ian, Beth, and Jamie. The girls, guarded by Eleanor, came running to them next, crying and overjoyed.

  Ian lifted Megan, and Belle flung her arms around her mother and father at the same time. They were a family, whole and together.

  The household surged forward to bring them home, everyone talking at once. Fellows and his men headed for the woods where Ian directed, Fellows giving orders to arrest all they could find. He sent others to the cove, to wait for the ship that had been coming to take away the villains.

  Jamie, once he’d recovered his composure, struggled to get down. Beth released him with reluctance, but Jamie was fine, she had to admit. Excited and exhausted, but whole.

  Surrounded by family, friends, and protectors, they made for the house, which was fully lit. Beth noticed Ian walking somewhat stiffly, but he said nothing, only carried Megan in silence.

  Jamie refused to return to bed. Beth allowed him to sit up in the drawing room to tell his story and fortify himself with hot, milky tea. The girls and wee Malcolm declared they wouldn’t go to bed if Jamie didn’t. They, and Alec, who was at last awake and furious he’d missed the adventure, sat bundled in blankets and plaids, surrounded by parents, friends, retainers.

  “They wanted Alec,” Jamie was saying as Curry handed him his cup. Curry had lingered to serve the tea Eleanor poured out, and whisky for the adults, and he made no pretense of not listening avidly.

  “I heard the men whispering to each other when they came in,” Jamie went on. “They were after the heir to Kilmorgan. So I sat up and told them I was Alec Mackenzie, the duke’s son. They didn’t waste any time sticking a cloth full of chloroform over Alec’s face, and mine. I smelled it and held my breath as long as I could. I drifted off a little, but was awake soon enough.”

  As Jamie spoke, his voice grew stronger, more confident. “They first wanted to hide out in the distillery until morning. Then they decided it was too risky—ye might come and find them. So they stole a few things and left again. They couldn’t see well in the dark, even with the lanterns, but they made me tell them the way to the cove where they could wait for a ship. I guided them to the cave they hid in—I decided it was a good place for Dad to corner them. I was right.” Jamie paused to take a sip of tea, his face flushed with heat and triumph. “You should have seen Dad drive them out of there. They ran like their backsides were on fire.” He hooted with laughter, proud and happy.

  Eleanor leaned down and kissed his cheek, her eyes full of relief. “You are a brave, wonderful lad, my nephew. What made you declare you were Alec and go in his place?”

  Jamie gave a shrug that was so like Ian’s Beth’s heart ached. “Alec’s littler than me, in’t he? They might have hurt him. I’m bigger and older—I could take it.”

  “I’m not that little,” seven-year-old Alec said with indignation.

  The fact that Alec was Lord Hart Alec Graham Mackenzie, heir to the Duke of Kilmorgan, and Jamie was the son of the youngest son, thus at the bottom of the line of succession, did not keep Jamie from sending Alec a severe look.

  “You’re little enough,” Jamie said. “Those men would have carried ye off like a sack of potatoes. I was protecting ye, lad. That’s what cousins are for.”

  Alec’s look, while still petulant, held admiration. “Well, thank ye,” Alec said. “’Twas well done.”

  “It certainly was,” John Ackerley put in. “A toast to Jamie Mackenzie, a brave, brave lad.”

  Jamie only shrugged again as they raised their glasses and cups, his cheekbones red. “Dad was very brave too. He fought them all, single-handed, and put down every one of the bas—er, thugs.”

  Ian, who had said very little from where he sat next to Jamie, now spoke. “The lights.”

  Jamie frowned at him, then gave a conceding nod. “Aye, th’ aurora distracted them a just a little, I suppose. We were lucky the lights showed themselves tonight.”

  Ackerley gave him a wise look. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, young man.”

  “Aye,” Jamie answered gravely. “So do Mackenzies.”

  * * *

  After an hour or so of celebrating, Jamie began to droop. Beth declared that the children must rest to face the day tomorrow, and that Ian needed his sleep too. Both the younger and older generations made their way to their beds, no longer reluctant.

  Ian insisted he tuck the children in, and Beth didn’t have the heart to stop him. This time, however, the boys slept in the nursery, the room now guarded not only by the nanny but by two sturdy policemen, who declared no kidnappers would get past them.

  Not until Ian and Beth were safely shut into their own bedroom did Beth let herself collapse.

  Ian caught her, her tall, strong husband cradling her in his arms. The firmness of his body against hers, his warmth, his solidity, let her finally break down. Ian, the man so many people dismissed as mad, had gone alone into the night, be
sted five men, and brought Beth’s son home to her, alive and unscathed.

  “Thank you, love,” she whispered, her face buried in his shoulder. Tears wet his shirt. “Thank you.”

  Ian wordlessly pulled her close. He kissed the line of her hair, warm lips on her skin.

  Beth pulled back, taking in Ian’s loose shirt, his plaid sagging around his hips. He was delectable.

  When she slid her arms around him again, Ian winced, and grunted.

  “You are hurt,” Beth said with conviction. She pushed aside his protesting hands and dragged up his shirt. A thin but deep gash laced the hard muscles of his side, dried blood caking the wound. “Good heavens, what happened?”

  “He had a pistol,” Ian said, his tone as matter-of-fact as Jamie’s had been. “Didn’t go in.”

  “Oh, Ian.” Beth rested her head against Ian’s chest, feeling his even heartbeat. The injury brought home to her how easily she could have lost him tonight. “Ian,” she whispered.

  “I’m all right,” Ian said, sounding puzzled at her concern.

  Beth made herself let go of him. She ordered Ian to sit down, then she fetched a basin of water and a cloth and bathed the wound.

  Ian let her, though he didn’t hold back his swearing when she dug too deep. As Beth wrapped the final bandage around him, Ian stopped growling, cupped his hand around her hip, and pulled her down to his kilt-clad lap.

  The cloth Beth had used to clean the last of the blood fell to the carpet with a wet slap. Ian’s bare, tanned torso moved against the pale bandages as he slid his hands up her waist, pulling her close.

  His kiss was fierce, savage, all his fears, rage, and joy coming to Beth. His hands found her curves and warmed them.

  When he eased the kiss to its close, Beth touched his face, her heart full. “I might have had to say good-bye to you forever tonight, you and Jamie.”

  Ian skimmed his thumb across her cheek. He studied her with eyes of amber-gold, the eyes that had arrested Beth when she’d seen him for the first time. She’d known, when his gaze had swept over her, that Ian Mackenzie was an extraordinary man indeed.