A MacKenzie Clan Gathering

by Jennifer Ashley

  “What are you doing, Ian?” Beth asked, her beautiful smile in place. “You aren’t teasing my brother-in-law something awful, are you?”

  “Aye,” Ian said. “I am.”

  “What was that?” Ackerley cut in. “Whom are you speaking to, Lord Ian? Whom do you see?”

  Beth’s laughter wound around him. “You are a rogue, Ian Mackenzie. You pretend to be cryptic and locked away, and all the time you are laughing at us.” She nudged him with a bare foot. If Ian had been able to move, he would have caressed it.

  Beth looked up at the portrait of Hermes. “He looks far too smug. Like you.”

  She floated upward, back to the painting. Hermes was Ian, his expressionless face and golden eyes softening as Beth went to him. She kissed the god’s cheek, winked, and settled on his lap.

  Unfair. “Come back,” Ian said. “It’s nice here.”

  “Whom do you see?” Ackerley repeated.

  “Beth,” Ian said. “I always see Beth.”

  “And your mother?”

  Ian’s brows drew together. The man was a simpleton. “No. My mother is dead.”

  “That made you very sad, didn’t it?” Ackerley said. “How did you feel when they told you your mother had died?”

  Fool, slow-top, bloody ass. Ian had been in the room when . . .

  He was there now. Ian froze in growing horror as his father’s study formed around him, every piece of furniture placed exactly as he remembered it. The painting of Kilmorgan and portraits of Mackenzie ancestors marched up the walls, and the windows, open, had no curtains, because his father disliked dusty brocade drapes and had ordered them pulled down.

  Ian saw himself, a small boy, come alert as he heard voices in the hall. He crawled quickly under the huge desk, where he folded himself into a terrified ball.

  His father burst into the room, shouting—he always shouted—and Ian paid no attention to the words. Only the duke’s voice, filling the space, vibrated Ian’s bones.

  His mother came after her husband, weeping, pleading. “I never did. You are mistaken.”

  “I’m a liar, now, am I?” the duke demanded, his Scots voice flowing in Ian’s memory. “I didn’t see ye fluttering your eyes, twitching your skirts, making sure your bosom rose high? He’s my friend. Was. He’ll be denied the house now.”

  “I’ve never betrayed you.” Ian’s mother had been a frail creature, but he heard now the desperate steel in her voice, the sincerity. “Never.”

  The duke rounded on her, shouting into her face. “I saw. I saw the looks passing between the pair of ye, the way ye dote on him, making sure the servants tend to his every need.”

  “He is our guest.” Tears streamed down the duchess’s thin, ethereal face. “I do such things for all our guests.”

  “No!” The duke had his hands on her arms. “Do not mock me, wife. Wife—ye make the word a travesty. I know what I see. I see a woman lusting after a man in me own house. How many of my good-for-nothing sons are truly mine? Is this why Mac fills his copybooks with drawings of flowers? He’s no Mackenzie. I’ll break his fingers, all of them. Hart defies me to my face, and Ian . . . a dolt and backward fool, can’t even understand a simple word ye say to him . . .”

  “They’re your sons.” His mother’s voice broke with her sobs. “All of them. I love them so.”

  The duke shook her. “What did I tell ye about making them soft? The only one who’s mine is Cam—the others, by-blows of your lovers.”

  Ian’s mother couldn’t speak anymore, and her eyes squeezed tight against her tears. She was so much smaller than her husband, her dark hair soft, her arms too thin, but they’d felt just right when she’d put them around Ian.

  “Why are ye doing this to me?” The duke’s words rang against the ceiling. Ian watched himself draw into a tighter ball, but he was not crying. His eyes had been dry and burning.

  His father had released the duchess for a moment, but only to slam the door and turn the key in the lock.

  “Now, woman, you’re going to tell me th’ truth!”

  “You used to love me,” Ian’s mother sobbed. “Why, why did you stop?”

  “Stop?” The duke gave her an incredulous look. “I never stopped. What is the matter with ye? Ye’re a weak fool, ye always were, but I gave you everything. Ye repay me by making soft eyes at that bloody Carmichael. I’ll kill him!”

  “No.” The duchess’s eyes widened, shining with fear. “No, leave him be, for God’s sake.”

  The duke stopped. Ian, watching now with adult understanding, saw that until this moment his father had not truly believed his wife had fallen in love with another. He’d been blustering as usual, wanting to bring the duchess to heel, to make her tell him he was the most important thing in her life—more so than her sons, herself, her own happiness.

  In the moment the duke had threatened the hapless Lord Carmichael, and Ian’s mother begged him to leave Carmichael alone, he’d realized. She’d not pleaded because she feared what would happen to the duke if he committed murder, but because Carmichael’s life was precious to her.

  That moment changed everything. The duke’s berserker rage burst out of him, a bellow that shook the walls, smothering the duchess’s cries and Ian’s small moan of distress.

  “Lying, filthy bitch!”

  He seized her. The duchess screamed in terror, but the duke’s violence seemed to unleash something inside her.

  “Yes!” she choked out. “I love him. I’m leaving with him. Divorce me if you please, ruin me, but leave him alone!”

  “Bloody, stinking, dirty whore . . .”

  “Let me go!”

  The duke’s eyes brightened with fury. He shook her, shook her, hard, harder, while Ian’s mother pleaded, and her husband called her terrible names.

  And then came the sound Ian had never forgotten. The duke’s strength had overwhelmed the smaller, weaker body of the duchess. Her head had rocked back on her neck as he shook her.

  One audible snap, and the duchess’s head rolled to the side, her cries cutting off, her eyes becoming wide and staring.

  The duke had kept on shaking her until he realized that he held a limp bundle of limbs. Then he dropped her. “Elspeth.” He fell to his knees beside her, his eyes wide in shock. “Elspeth.”

  He put his hand on her chest and jostled her, rolling her body back and forth. The movement came faster as he couldn’t make her respond.

  “Elspeth!”

  A cry of anguish jerked from deep within him, and the boy Ian couldn’t contain his faint sound of despair.

  That tiny gasp sealed Ian’s fate. His father rose like a terrible god, gaze going unerringly to the shadow under the desk. The duke reached in and pulled out Ian, who struggled futilely against the grip that had just killed his mother.

  “Ye tell no one.” His father’s eyes had been wide, mad, filled with a horror so deep it had pierced into Ian and nestled there. “No one! Answer me, boy. Promise!”

  Ian could only hang in his grasp, terrified, grief-stricken, knowing in the next moment, he would die.

  The duke strode to the door on the opposite side of the room, opened it, and threw Ian face-first into the corridor. He slammed the door, and locked it.

  Ian’s perspective switched to that barren hall, as he hauled himself to his feet and ran. Run, run, run. Down through the house, out into the day, keep running. Ian sped far over the Kilmorgan lands, unaware of which direction he’d headed, until his legs gave out, and he had to stop. His breath came in shuddering gasps, his head spinning with lack of air.

  Finally, Ian fell to the mud and grass, at last his throat opened, and the roar of anguish came out.

  “Nooooo!”

  Ian heard it even now, echoing around him, the word turning to a wordless keening. He felt carpet at his back instead of earth, heard his deep voice tearing through the room.

  He opened his eyes, which had flooded with tears. Through the blur, Ian saw John Ackerley gazing down at him in concern, the
coin frozen in his hand.

  “What did you see?” Ackerley asked breathlessly. “What is it? Have we found the trigger?”

  “He killed her, ye gobshite!” Ian thrust himself up on his elbows, his face wet, his throat raw. “Killed her in front of me.”

  “Who?” Ackerley asked, fearful. “Your brother . . . ?”

  “No, ye pox-rotted simpleton. M’ dad. He killed m’ mum as I sat and watched. And I did nothing. Nothing!” Ian scrambled to his feet, his berserker rage, the curse of the Mackenzies, flooding him. “Do ye think that drove me mad? It didn’t. I was mad before that. I have always been. I couldn’t stop him, because I was too small and too insane to know what t’ do.”

  Ackerley could only stare, opening and closing his mouth. He clutched the coin, which glinted in his hand as though satisfied.

  The door banged open with a jarring noise, but the rustle of skirts that accompanied it was like gentle rain on Ian’s soul.

  Beth was in front of Ian in an instant, facing Ackerley. The scent of her hair put paid to Ian’s remembered stench of fear.

  “What the devil are you doing?” Beth snapped at Ackerley. “What have you been saying to him?”

  “I . . .” Ackerley’s face had gone red, his eyes moistening. “I never meant . . . I was trying to help.”

  Ian closed his arms around Beth. “He’s making me remember,” he said, his voice hoarse and broken. “But you make me forget. My Beth, help me forget.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Beth’s heart wrenched as she felt her husband’s arms around her, his strong embrace one of need.

  John Ackerley stood before them both, looking thoroughly ashamed of himself, and sorry too. He was a kind man underneath, Beth knew, as Thomas had been, though a bit naïve. Well, Thomas had been naïve as well, hadn’t he?

  “What on earth have you done, John?” Beth asked. Naivety was no excuse for bedeviling her husband.

  “I . . .” John glanced at the coin in his hand as though it were to blame. He held it up, sheepish. “Trying a bit of mesmerism. It works wonders.”

  “I have also heard of its dangers,” Beth said tightly. “Why would you try such a thing on Ian? I do not recall you mentioning you were an expert on the technique.”

  “Well, no¸” John said in a small voice. “I’ve only done it once before. But with good results—the young man remembered things he’d buried long ago.”

  Beth held out her hand. “Give me that.”

  John gave the coin another bewildered look. “This?”

  “Yes.” Beth reached out and took it from him. “No more of this nonsense.”

  She closed her fist around the coin at the same moment Hart decided to storm in.

  “What the devil is happening?” Hart was every inch the duke, forbidding, hard-faced, staring down Ackerley, who looked as though he wanted to crawl under the table.

  Ian leaned over Beth, burying his face in her neck. She felt dampness on her skin, Ian’s tears.

  “Never mind, Hart,” Beth said. “It is finished.”

  Hart ignored her. “Tell me, man,” he snapped at Ackerley.

  Ackerley buckled under Hart’s stare. “I was . . . I was . . . It is a very sound, scientific technique, being tested in Vienna. Quite well accepted.” Ackerley gave both Hart and Beth a defiant look.

  “Scientific shite.” Hart’s snarl held his deep fear for and protectiveness of Ian, which always came out in Mackenzie anger.

  Ian raised his head. Beth felt Ian’s body strengthening, the muddle he’d been sinking into easing away. “Leave him be, Hart.”

  “I heard you yelling all the way downstairs, Ian.” Hart returned his stare to Ackerley. “It’s best you take yourself elsewhere for a time.” His rumble grew louder. “Now.”

  “Oh¸ for heaven’s sake,” Beth began, when Ian gently pressed her aside.

  Ian’s eyes were red-rimmed and wet, his face mottled, his breath ragged. He clenched his large fists, the hands rough from wind and weather. “Hart, I said leave him be.”

  “Not until you tell me exactly what is going on. Who is this charlatan?”

  The brothers faced each other, so alike, yet with ten years’ difference between the two. Their hair was a few shades of red apart, but their eyes held the same golden intensity, neither giving way to the other.

  “Ian,” Hart said, impatient.

  “He’s curin’ me,” Ian said. “Leave him alone.”

  Beth drew a sharp breath. “Curing?” She looked at Ackerley, who opened his mouth to explain. Beth held up one finger, and Ackerley popped his mouth closed again.

  Hart had gone dark red. “What the hell kind of shite has he filled your head with, Ian? If he said that, he is a charlatan, a quack. Beth, I know he’s your acquaintance, but this needs to cease.”

  Ian took yet another step to Hart, forcing Hart’s attention solely to him. Ian was looking into Hart’s eyes, a natural act for most people, but one Ian had struggled to master. Hart fell silent, quelled by the gaze of the little brother who’d taken so long to learn even this simple feat.

  “He’s family,” Ian said. The rawness had left his voice, and control returned. “He is Beth’s family, which makes him my family.”

  Hart could look at nothing but Ian.

  Beth realized Hart no longer noticed Ackerley or even Beth, or the curious servants peering into the room—one of which was Curry. Beth heard Curry saying, “Let me in there, ye daft cove. I need to look after ’im.”

  Hart was caught in the moment of Ian standing straight and strong, no longer the terrified, confused youth or the quieter man who’d withdrawn inside a shell his brothers couldn’t breach.

  Ian regarded Hart with an anger as sharp as Hart’s own, speaking in a commanding tone that came as naturally as breathing.

  Hart’s eyes glistened, and something like a shudder went through him. “I don’t want him to hurt you, Ian.”

  “He’s an old man,” Ian said, jerking a thumb at Ackerley. “He can’t hurt me. I won’t let him. The past can’t hurt me. It’s gone.”

  Hart went quiet again for another long stretch. Beth could almost see the thoughts in Hart’s head, his arguments, his pain.

  Finally, Hart gave Ian a nod and cupped his shoulder with a big hand. “You’re right, Ian. The past, it’s gone. Forever. Now is what’s important.”

  Ian gave Hart the look he got when he was impatient at another person’s slowness. “I know. Trust me.”

  Hart let out his breath. “All right then. I ask your pardon, Beth. And Ackerley.”

  He said the last awkwardly, as though the apology came out with the greatest reluctance. He didn’t trust Ackerley an inch, it was clear. Of course, Beth, at the moment, didn’t trust him much either.

  The awkwardness shattered when another voice, clear and feminine, came down the hall.

  “Good heavens, what is all the ruckus? Is there a circus performance?” Eleanor pushed through the servants who had stepped backward in hasty deference and also relief. The duchess was here, and all would be well.

  Eleanor took in the situation with quick, shrewd eyes as her tongue rattled on. “Hart, why is all our artwork in a jumbled pile in the hall, ready to be trodden on? It must be sorted through, cleaned, restored. Ian, so clever of you to have found it. Hart, darling, since the frame is ruined, can we send that Raphael to a museum? I know art critics like to come here and coo over the thing, but it gives me the shivers every time I look at it. Let them coo over it in a museum far from here. Now, Mr. Ackerley, we will have a lovely tea out on the terrace—such a nice afternoon. Beth, come along and help me arrange it. You know I get into sixes and sevens about everything.”

  Her stream of chatter continuing, the duchess swept out, servants hastening to obey her scattered commands. Hart, his face like thunder, moved at a quick pace in her wake.

  Beth turned to the bewildered Ackerley. “What Eleanor really means is that we should all leave you alone and cease interfering. Just be careful
.” She gave Ackerley a stern look. “We love him.”

  “I only want you to love me, Beth,” Ian rumbled behind her. A hand landed on her shoulder, warm, strong, caressing. “Hart can lose himself.” Ian leaned down and pressed a kiss to Beth’s cheek.

  The kiss sent fire through her blood, which would warm her until she could be alone with him again. Beth kissed Ian’s cheek in return, then rustled away to leave Ian to do what he felt he must.

  As she closed the door, she heard Ian rumble, his timbre restored to normal, “All right, then, what do we do next?”

  * * *

  Beth had little time to speak to John alone until after tea. Eleanor could send the household scurrying in all directions when she set her mind to it. She kept Beth plenty busy, which Beth understood was Eleanor’s way of making sure Ian was left in peace.

  Beth worried, however. The past ten years had taught her that Ian had resilience, and plenty of it. And yet, small things could trouble him, like tiny sparks from a firework, seeking to burn away that resiliency.

  Ian seemed calm enough during tea—that is to say he inhaled an entire plate of cakes and downed several dainty cups of steaming Oolong as though it were cool water. Beth pretended not to notice Curry dribbling a tiny amount of whisky into Ian’s cup.

  Afterward, Ian went to the children, but Beth lingered and cornered Ackerley in an empty hall.

  “I know you mean well,” Beth began. “At least, I trust you do.”

  Ackerley regarded her with eyes so like Thomas’s. “Of course I mean well, dearest sister-in-law. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Beth held on to her patience. “It is just . . . Too many people have been interested in Ian. The doctors at the asylum used him as a showpiece. When we travel, everyone from learned physicians to outright confidence men want a look at him. Ian is excellent at ignoring these people, but now you are telling him you can cure him? That might be rather cruel, do you not think?”

  Ackerley’s bewilderment was true. “Gracious, I would never do anything to hurt you. Or your husband. Thomas was a saint, as you know, and I’d never attempt to harm anyone he loved. I truly believe I can help.”