Alec gave her a slow smile. “Prim and proper you are not, my wife. I suppose I could be your subject. Shall I fetch you paper now?”
“I believe I’d prefer to do it in the studio in the morning, with all the sunshine.”
Alec flushed, and Celia’s heartbeat quickened. She imagined Alec lounging on the chaise, his body bare, one leg dangling over the chaise’s edge as he bathed her in a sinful smile. It was enough to make her wish the night would speed through and the sun rise swiftly.
“Have I embarrassed you, husband?” she asked.
“Not I. I’m looking forward to it. You’ll draw me in the morning, and we’ll work on Jenny’s portrait in the afternoon. That is, if we have any strength left.”
Celia gave him a mock astonished look. “Are you proposing we do something unseemly in the studio?”
“We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
He moved to kiss Celia, but she put a hand out to stop him. “Alec,” she said. “I’d also like to do a portrait of both you and Jenny, for the family.”
Alec nodded. “We’ll do one with all three of us. We’ll take it in turns.”
He said it offhand as he rolled Celia down into the bed.
“All four of us,” Celia said. “Sometime soon.”
Alec kissed her lips as she spoke, then he froze, his mouth fused to hers. After a moment, he carefully raised his head. “Four?”
“Yes, indeed. I talked it over with Mary, and we have decided that I am increasing. The child will probably arrive in early spring.”
Alec’s lips parted as he stared down at her, his freckles standing out on his paling cheeks.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered.
“It is the sort of thing that happens when a husband and wife enjoy each other as much as we do.”
“Bloody hell,” Alec repeated. His voice grew louder and more hoarse. “Celia.”
“Yes?”
His arms came around her, and he lifted her to him, pressing his face to the curve of her neck. “Celia, if I lose ye …”
Jenny’s mother had passed bringing her in. She sensed that worry in Alec take shape.
“I am quite robust,” Celia assured him. “And I have the determination of my mother. I will be fine, I have decided.”
Alec lifted his head. Tears stood in his eyes, which shone with hope and fear. “I’ll look after ye. Every day and every hour. You’ll have your portrait of the four of us, I swear it.”
“Excellent.” Celia drew him to her. “Until then …?”
Alec growled. He came down on her, kissing her hard, but he was gentleness itself as he slid inside her.
“I love you, my Celia,” he groaned.
Celia’s heart sang as she let him fill her, reveling in the beauty of her husband. “I love you too, my Highlander.”
Alec kissed her lips, her face. “My beautiful lady, my light. Thank ye for saving my life.”
“I always will, my love.” The words were meant to be tender, but as Alec’s thrusts began, Celia’s desires rose in a sweeping wave, and they came out a cry.
She gave up on words, and wrapped herself around her husband, the two of them entwined in heat and love as the twilight slid away and moonlight bathed them.
Kilmorgan Castle, 1892
Beth Mackenzie gave a contented sigh as her husband fell silent, the story finished.
“I love a happy ending,” Beth said. She and Ian were on the floor now, on a pile of worn rugs that had adorned Kilmorgan in one decade or another. Ian leaned against the desk, Beth lounging with her head on his shoulder, her plaid skirts billowing around them.
“Aye,” Ian said, his voice quiet.
“But don’t stop there,” Beth said. “What happened to Will? Did he marry? Was it Josette? Alec and Celia wouldn’t have mentioned her if she weren’t important, would he?”
Ian waited patiently until Beth’s questions faded. “None of that was in Alec’s or Celia’s journals that I found.” He caressed her arm with his thumb. “Though it might be in their papers I still haven’t decoded.”
“Decoded?” Beth sat up, her interest caught. “Some of them were in code? What sort of code?”
“A simple number and letter substitution. Many of the letters Will wrote after they settled in Paris are in this code. He couldn’t risk the letters the family sent to England or Scotland being intercepted.”
Beth’s fascination increased. “How intriguing. And you broke it?” She laughed and sank back to Ian and the comfort of his arm around her. “A foolish question to ask a man who uses Fibonacci sequences to send me notes.”
A hint of amusement glinted in Ian’s eyes. He enjoyed writing out the messages as much as Beth enjoyed receiving and untangling them.
“Will Mackenzie came up with the codes,” Ian said. “His personal ones are complex, but he also invented one his brothers, sisters-in-law, and father could use for their correspondence. I broke them using much hard work and patience.” Something like a twinkle entered Ian’s eyes. “And the key Will left for them.”
“Rogue.” Beth studied him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were teasing me.”
Ian gazed down at her, his golden eyes intense. Beth loved it when he looked directly at her, which grew easier for him each year. She knew he saw only her, not anything else around him or what called to him inside his head.
“Aye,” Ian said. “Have I done it right?”
Beth snuggled into him. “You’ve done it marvelously. You know jolly well what happened to Will, and Alec and Celia’s children, and everything else I want to know, don’t you?”
Ian nodded. “But it isn’t in Alec’s story. It’s in Will’s.”
“Well then …”
Ian glanced at the skylight, which had darkened. Beth had lit lamps as Ian had told his tale into the dusk of the summer night.
“It’s late,” Ian said. “Another time. We’ll tell it all to our children—both stories.”
Beth nodded against him, his strength beneath his coat intoxicating. “Yes, you are right. That will be better.” She made no move to rise though. Leaning against Ian was not only comfortable but desirable.
Then she heaved a sigh. “I suppose we’d better go downstairs before your brothers begin searching for us.”
“Hart knows where we are.” Ian’s voice rumbled beneath her. “He knows to leave us be.”
“Of course.” Ian would have told his oldest brother not to let anyone up to the attic if Beth came to find him—and Ian had known she would come.
“You planned this in advance,” she said with sudden clarity. “Luring me into the attic, keeping me here with your fascinating tales of your family.”
Ian’s slow smile spread across his face. “Maybe.”
“You’re incorrigible, Ian Mackenzie.”
“Incorrigible.” Ian’s brows drew together. “You think I’m un-reformable? Irredeemable? That’s what incorrigible means.”
“Exactly.” Beth slid her arms around him. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
Puzzlement flickered on Ian’s face, then it cleared as all interest in the past fled. He focused on Beth alone, his golden eyes darkening, the passion in him as strong as when they’d first met.
Beth found herself on the rugs, Ian’s warmth coming down on her, his hands loosening buttons, hooks, and laces, his kilt spreading to cover them both.
Beth welcomed Ian into her, holding the husband who was her life and breath, as they joined together under candle flames that flickered as golden as his eyes.
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading! I am thrilled to be able to return to the Mackenzie family, and tell more stories about Ian Mackenzie’s ancestors. I had planned to write only Malcolm’s story (The Stolen Mackenzie Bride), but as I learned more about Alec and Will, I knew I needed to tell their tales as well. Will’s book (The Devilish Lord Will) is next—follow and see what trouble Will Mackenzie can get himself into.
As you might g
uess, the Mackenzie family is very special to me. They walked into my head a long time ago, Ian demanding my attention, his brothers there to protect him. I knew everything about Ian, Mac, Cameron, and Hart before I ever put pen to paper.
From there, the series grew as I included the story of Daniel (Cameron’s son, The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie), and the McBrides, who intrigued me when Cameron’s heroine, Ainsley, talked with such fondness about her brothers.
I hope to do more Mackenzies as time permits. There are Mackenzies of other eras, including Old Dan, the original Duke of Kilmorgan, back in the 1300s. The Mackenzie children will be adults in the Edwardian age, and then there are other characters who pop up (David Fleming and Cameron’s Romany groom) who might want tales as well. (Please see the Mackenzie Family Tree at the end of this book to keep everyone straight!)
Historical notes: I love writing about the eighteenth century, which was a period of great change, from the growth of travel and tourism, to wars that reshaped countries and empires all over the globe, to new discoveries in science that forever changed our understanding of the physical world. Art, music, and architecture became the light and airy style called rococo, and discoveries of Herculaneum and Pompeii revived interest in history and classical design. It was an exuberant, vibrant, dangerous, volatile age I have long had interest in, and very much enjoy exploring this amazing century.
Clara, the rhinoceros, is a true historical figure. She was orphaned in India as a baby, and rescued by the director of the Dutch East India Company, who raised her. He gave her in turn to a Dutch captain (Douwe van der Meer), who took her back with him to Europe and showed her off to fascinated artists and monarchs. Very tame, Clara traveled with van der Meer all over Europe, did visit France and Louis XV, and ended her days in England, looked after by her Dutch sea captain until her death. I found the beguiling Clara so fascinating I had to include her in the book!
I hope you enjoyed Alec and Celia’s tale, and I hope to be writing Mackenzies for a long time to come.
For announcements about when more Mackenzies will be released, please sign up for my newsletter:
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All my best,
Jennifer Ashley
Mackenzie Family Tree
Ferdinand Daniel Mackenzie (Old Dan) 1330-1395
First Duke of Kilmorgan
= m. Lady Margaret Duncannon
|
Fourteen generations
|
Daniel William Mackenzie 1685-1746(?)
(9th Duke of Kilmorgan)
= m. Allison MacNab
|
6 sons
Daniel Duncannon Mackenzie (1710-1746)
William Ferdinand Mackenzie (1714-1746?)
Magnus Ian Mackenzie (1715-1734)
Angus William Mackenzie (1716-1746)
Alec William Mackenzie (1716-1746?)
m.= Lady Celia Fotheringhay
Malcolm Daniel Mackenzie (1720-1802)
(10th Duke of Kilmorgan from 1746)
= m. Lady Mary Lennox
|
Angus Roland Mackenzie 1747-1822
(11th Duke of Kilmorgan)
= m. Donnag Fleming
|
William Ian Mackenzie (The Rake) 1780-1850
(12th Duke of Kilmorgan)
= m. Lady Elizabeth Ross
|
Daniel Mackenzie, 13th Duke of Kilmorgan (1824-1874)
(1st Duke of Kilmorgan, English from 1855)
= m. Elspeth Cameron (d. 1864)
|
Hart Mackenzie (b. 1844)
14th Duke of Kilmorgan from 1874
(2nd Duke of Kilmorgan, English)
= m1. Lady Sarah Graham (d. 1876)
|
(Hart Graham Mackenzie, d. 1876)
Hart Mackenzie = m2. Lady Eleanor Ramsay
|
Hart Alec Graham Mackenzie (b. 1885)
Malcolm Ian Mackenzie (b. 1887)
Cameron Mackenzie
= m1. Lady Elizabeth Cavendish (d. 1866)
|
Daniel Mackenzie = m. Violet Devereaux
Cameron Mackenzie = m2. Ainsley Douglas
|
Gavina Mackenzie (b. 1883)
Stuart Mackenzie (b. 1885)
“Mac” (Roland Ferdinand) Mackenzie
= m. Lady Isabella Scranton
|
Aimee Mackenzie (b. 1879, adopted 1881)
Eileen Mackenzie (b. 1882)
Robert Mackenzie (b. 1883)
Ian Mackenzie = m. Beth Ackerley
|
Jamie Mackenzie (b. 1882)
Isabella Elizabeth Mackenzie (Belle) (b. 1883)
Megan Mackenzie (b. 1885)
Lloyd Fellows = m. Lady Louisa Scranton
|
Elizabeth Fellows (b. 1886)
William Fellows (b. 1888)
Matthew Fellows (b. 1889)
McBride Family
Patrick McBride = m. Rona McDougal
Sinclair McBride = m.1 Margaret Davies (d. 1878)
|
Caitriona (b. 1875)
Andrew (b. 1877)
Sinclair McBride = m.2 Roberta “Bertie” Frasier
Elliot McBride= m. Juliana St. John
Ainsley McBride = m.1 John Douglas (d. 1879)
|
Gavina Douglas (d.)
= m.2 Lord Cameron Mackenzie
|
Gavina Mackenzie (b. 1883)
Stuart Mackenzie (b. 1885)
Steven McBride (Captain, Army)
= m. Rose Barclay
(Dowager Duchess of Southdown)
Note: Names in bold indicate main characters in the Mackenzies / McBrides series
Excerpt: Death Below Stairs
Kat Holloway Below Stairs Mysteries, Book 1
Read on for a look at the new historical mystery series by Jennifer Ashley!
London, March 1881
I had not been long at my post in Mount Street, Mayfair, when my employer’s sister came to some calamity.
I must say I was not shocked that such a thing happened, because when a woman takes on the dress and bad habits of a man, she cannot be surprised at the disapprobation of others when she is found out. Lady Cynthia’s difficulties, however, turned out to be only the beginning of a vast tangle and a long, dangerous business.
But I am ahead of myself. I am a cook, one of the finest in London if I do say it, and also one of the youngest to be made head cook in a lavish household. I worked some time in the winter at a house in Richmond, and it was a good position, but the family desired to sell up and move to the Lake District, and I was loath to leave the environs of London for my own rather private reasons.
Back went my name on the books, and the agency at last wrote to my new lodgings in Tottenham Court Road to say they had found a place that might suit. Taking their letter with me, I went along to the house of one Lord Rankin in Mount Street, descending from the omnibus at South Audley Street and walking the rest of the way.
I expected to speak to the housekeeper, but upon arrival, the butler, a tall, handsome specimen who rather preened himself, took me up the stairs to meet the lady of the house in her small study.
She was Lady Rankin, wife of the prodigiously wealthy baron who owned this abode. The baron’s wealth came not from the fact that he was an aristocrat, the butler, Mr. Davis, had already confided in me—the estate had been nearly bankrupt when Lord Rankin had inherited it. Rather, Lord Rankin was a deft dabbler in the City and had earned money by wise investment long before the cousin who’d held the title had died, conveniently childless.
When I first beheld Lady Rankin, I was surprised she’d asked for me, because she seemed too frail to hold up her head, let alone conduct an interview with a new cook.
“Mrs. Holloway, ma’am,” Mr. Davis said. He ushered me in, bowed, and withdrew.
The study in which I found myself was small and overtly feminine. The walls were covered in yellow moiré; the curtains at the windows were white lace. Framed mirrors and paintings of gardens and picturesque country lanes adorned the walls. A delicate, gilt-legged table from the last century reposed in the middle of the room, with an equally graceful chair behind it. A scroll-backed chaise covered with shawls sat near the desk.
Lady Rankin was in the act of rising from the chaise as we entered, as though she had grown weary waiting for me and retired to it. She moved listlessly to the chair behind her desk, sat upon it, and pulled a paper in front of her with a languid hand.
“Mrs. Holloway?” she asked.
Mr. Davis had just announced me, so there was no doubt who I was, but I nodded. Lady Rankin looked me over. I remained standing in the exact center of the carpet in my second-best frock, a brown wool jacket buttoned to my throat, and my second-best hat of light brown straw perching on my thick coil of dark hair.
Lady Rankin’s garment was white, filmy, and high necked, its bodice lined with seed pearls. Her hair was pale gold, her cheeks thin and bloodless. She could hardly be thirty summers, but rather than being childlike, she was ethereal, as though a gust of wind could puff her away.
She glanced at whatever paper was in front of her—presumably a letter from my agency—and then over the desk at me. Her eyes were a very light blue and, in contrast to her angel-like appearance, were rather hard.
“You are very young,” she observed. Her voice was light, as thin as her bones.
“I am nearly thirty,” I answered stiffly.
When a person thought of a cook, they pictured an older woman who was either a shrew in the kitchen or kindhearted and a bit slow. The truth was that cooks came in all ages, shapes, and temperaments. I happened to be nine and twenty, plump and brown haired, and kind enough, I hoped, but I brooked no nonsense.
“I meant for a cook,” Lady Rankin said. “Our last cook was nearly eighty. She is . . . gone. Living with her daughter.” She added the last quickly, as though fearing I’d take gone to mean to heaven.
Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction Page 28