Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage

Chapter 22

Delicious rumor puts the Scottish Lord having moved in with his Lady in North Audley Street. The Lord’s Mount Street house was sadly burned, but observers say the Lady welcomed him with open arms. They have been seen about Town together in a most friendly fashion. —September 1881

Time ceased to have meaning. The room gently spun around him, the women who were not Isabella staring down at him in their garish, erotic glory. The artist in Mac whispered that the pictures were quite well done—Payne was exactly the sort of man Mac would have taken under his wing once upon a time, and helped build his career.

No chance of that now, Mac thought dryly.

Darkness came and went, though there was no change in the level of gaslight. The fading was his own vision sliding in and out. Mac had no more feeling in his legs and feet. Payne was going to let him die here.

Mac heard his own voice issue from between his cracked lips. In bonny town, where I was born.

There was a fair maid dwellin’.

Made every youth cry, “well-away!”

Her name was Iiiis-a-bella.

The last time he’d sung that, Isabella had slammed open the door of the bathroom and fixed him with an outraged stare. His skin had prickled as her gaze had roved his body spread in her bathtub, and he’d had the absurd fear that she’d not be impressed by what she saw.

Will she still want me? he’d wondered. Will I still be the man whose body she likes to admire? To touch? He hadn’t been timid with a woman since age fifteen, but Mac had worried that Isabella would sneer at him and turn away.

Her name was Iiiis-a-bella.

“Mac?”

I’m here, love. Come to bed, my sweet, I’m cold.

“Mac? Oh, Mac.”

Mac forced his eyes open, wishing the blackness would clear. He felt a silken touch on his skin, smelled the faint odor of roses. Her beautiful face hovered above his, eyes burning beneath red curls.

“Isabella,” he whispered. “Love you.”

“You’re bleeding. Mac, what happened?”

The world went black for a moment, and when it became light again, he felt a towel or blanket or something being pressed hard into his side. It hurt like hell, but that was good, because the pain meant that he was still alive.

Awareness cut through the fog. Then fear. “No,” he croaked. “Isabella. Run. Go!”

“Don’t be stupid. Cam’s here. And Inspector Fellows.”

“Payne?”

“They’re looking for him. Mac, don’t fall asleep. Keep looking at me.”

“My pleasure.” It hurt to smile, but his beautiful wife was by his side, her scent overriding the terrible coppery smell of blood. “I need to bare my soul, my love. Will you let me bare my soul to you?”

She leaned closer. “Hush, darling. We’ll take you home, and everything will be all right.”

“No, it won’t. I’ve been lying to you. I haven’t bared my soul.”

Her hot tears fell on his face. “Mac, don’t die. Please.”

“I’ll do my damnedest.”

Mac heard his words come out a slurred mumble. Isabella wouldn’t be able to understand him. He had to make her understand him.

“I can’t lose you.” Isabella stroked his hair, her touch so dear to him. “I don’t want to live without you, Mac. I never was a whole person until I met you.”

Whole. That’s what Isabella had made him. She’d been the best part of him, and when Mac had lost her, he’d had nothing left of himself. That was what Ian had been trying to tell him.

Mac reached for her hand, relief flooding him when she took it. “Need you, love.”

“Don’t leave me.” Isabella’s voice was becoming desperate.

“Isabella.”

Mac blinked, because the word hadn’t come from him. Rage flooded him again as a shadow fell over them, cast by the tall form of Payne.

“Run,” Mac tried to say. “Get away.”

Instead, his beautiful lady rose to her feet to confront him. “You shot him. Damn you.” She struck out with her fists, and Payne suddenly found himself having to fend off a hundred and twenty pounds of enraged female. Mac was torn between panic and laughter. Isabella was strong, he had cause to know.

But not strong enough. She got one shout out of her mouth before Payne clapped a hand over it and lifted her from her feet. Isabella fought, her eyes wild.

All of Mac’s rage focused on one single point. He heard the cries of his ancestors ringing in his head, urging him to take his enemy, to kill him. If he’d had a claymore in his hand, Mac would have sliced off the bloody Sassenach’s head with it.

As it was, he had to make do. The wild strength let him haul himself to his feet. He was cold, his vision blurred, but Mac would perform this one last act to save the woman he loved. If he died of the deed, so be it.

Snarling, he threw himself at Payne. Payne had to release Isabella, who stumbled back and wasted no time screaming at the top of her lungs.

Payne brought his pistol around and pointed it at her.

No! Mac grabbed the man’s arm, striking him on the hand so that his grip went slack. Payne fought hard, seizing the pistol again even as he dropped it, shoving the barrel into Mac’s ribs. Isabella shouted something, running at the pair of them as they grappled.

The pistol’s barrel scraped away from Mac’s body, but now it pointed at Isabella. Mac wrenched himself into her, sending Isabella to the floor as the pistol went off. A second roar followed.

Mac expected oblivion. Or excruciating pain. Maybe one first then the other.

Instead, Payne crumpled on the floor, a stunned look on his face. Blood spouted from a wound in the exact center of his forehead.

What the hell?

He saw through a haze of smoke the cold eyes of Inspector Fellows over the barrel of another Webley. Behind him was his brother Cameron, a hulking brute of a man, also with pistol in hand. Cameron’s eyes reflected the rage Mac felt.

A family affair. Nice shooting, Inspector.

Isabella was on the carpet, her black skirts spread around her, eyes wide with fear. Mac rocked on his weak legs, Payne’s pistol somehow still in his hand. He dropped it.

“Mac!” Isabella scrambled to her feet, her arms coming around him even as Mac crumpled.

He turned on her a look of fury. “What th’ bloody hell were ye playing at, woman?” he roared. “When a man has a pistol, ye run t’other way. That could be you shot daed on the floor, not him.”

“Mac, shut up.” Tears were streaming down her face. “Cease talking and stay alive for me. Please.”

Mac sank into the warmth of her body, even as Cameron’s strong arm supported him on his other side.

“Anything for you, Isabella, love,” Mac said. “Anything at all. You just ask me.”

“I love you, Mac.”

Mac turned his head and kissed her smooth cheek. Did anything smell better than this woman, so warm and sweet? “I love you, my Isabella.” He sighed. “I do believe I will lose consciousness now.”

The last thing he remembered was Isabella’s lips in his hair, her soft voice saying over and over that she loved him.

THREE WEEKS LATER

Isabella sat in Mac’s studio in her black dress with her hands in her lap. A bowl of yellow hothouse roses rested on a table next to her, a mix of rosebuds, full-blown flowers, and those that had already started dropping petals.

Mac was half-hidden behind his large easel, his painting boots and strong legs showing below the canvas, his formidable frown and red kerchief above it. He held the palette against his bare, tight arm, and scowled at the canvas as he slapped on paint. He still wore a bandage on his side where the bullet had barreled through his flesh, but he was healing well. A strong constitution, he’d said with a shrug. That was Mac, careless about the most important things.

Isabella’s limbs had grown at bit stiff with the sitting, but she knew better than to move. Mac might be focusing on one crook of her finger, and if she shifted, it would break his concentration. A petal fell from a flower, and she silently admonished it.

Mac lowered his brush and stepped back. He studied the painting for a long time, so long, frozen in place, that worry gnawed at her. She jumped up, damn the pose.

“Mac, what is it? Is it the pain?” She knew he hadn’t quite finished healing, no matter how robust he pretended to be.

Mac didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the painting. Isabella glanced at it in curiosity, but she could see nothing wrong with it. It was a Mac Mackenzie painting, muted browns and blacks highlighted with brilliant tones of red and yellow. Isabella sat a bit primly, her coppery curls piled high on her head, one ringlet drooping down her cheek. A little smile hovered about her mouth, and her eyes sparkled with good humor. The painting wasn’t finished, but already it glowed with life.

“It’s lovely,” she said. “What is the matter? Do you not like it?”

Mac turned to her, a strange look in his eyes. “Not like it? It’s bloody wonderful. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Isabella made her voice light. “What, even more than the erotic pictures?”

“Those were different. This . . .” Mac pointed at the painting with the handle of his brush. “This is beauty.”

“I’m pleased that your high opinion of yourself has returned.”

Mac dropped the brush and caught her shoulders, never mind that he smeared yellow paint on her black gabardine. He studied her intently, the strange look still in his eyes.

“My love, Ian told me right after your father died that I needed to bare my soul to you. Well, here it is, the good and the bad of it.” He pointed to the portrait. “That’s my soul right there, crying out for you.”

Isabella looked at it again. The woman who was herself through and through smiled out at Mac.

“I don’t understand. It’s just a picture of me.”

“Just a picture.” Mac laughed, but tears wet his eyes. “It is just a picture. Of you. Painted by me, with love in every stroke.” He drew a breath. “That’s what I didn’t understand before. This is why my talent went away and now has come bursting back.”

He looked so joyous that Isabella wanted to kiss him, but she still didn’t understand. “Explain?”

“I can’t, love. I always thought my ability came from astonishing luck, or a drunken stupor, or lust for you. When I painted the erotic pictures, I assumed they came out well because I wanted you so much.”

She shot him a sly look. “But you discovered you didn’t want me so much?”

“No, I want you all the damn time.” His fingers went to the nape of her neck, caressing, warming, loosening her.

“You were explaining.”

He smiled. “It wasn’t the lack of drink that took away my ability, love; it was my own bitterness. I know that now. Once I sobered up I couldn’t shut out my anger at you for leaving me, and at myself for causing it. I buried my love, because it hurt me too damn much to feel it. And my paintings were awful. When I decided to let myself love you—just love you, what you are, no matter what you thought of me, it came flooding back.” Mac drew another shaking breath. “I think I can paint anything now.”

Isabella’s heart squeezed with sudden happiness, but she said, “There’s a flaw in your reasoning.”

“Can’t be. It’s what I feel.”

She shook her head. “You painted beautifully before you ever met me. I’ve seen your paintings from that time. They are excellent. Don’t pretend they’re not.”

“I think then I was in love with life itself. I was young, out from under my father’s fist, finally free of him. I could do anything I pleased. But then I met you, and my world came crashing down.”

Isabella wished she could fix this moment in time, with Mac’s body hard against hers, his eyes filled with naked emotion.

“Why did we make ourselves so unhappy?” she asked, half to herself.

“You were an innocent, and I was a debauched rake. I think it was inevitable that it wouldn’t work.”

Isabella slid her hands across his bare shoulders. His skin was warm and firm, muscles solid beneath it. “You make yourself out to be such a bad man, but you’re not. You took care of me from the night you met me, and you’ve never stopped. You take care of everyone you love.”

Mac looked affronted. “I am a debauched rake, my darling. I’ve spent years cultivating my disreputable reputation. Remember how I taught you to take whiskey neat and sit on my lap and kiss me in front of my friends?” He deflated, the humor leaving him. “I wanted to make you bad like me, because I knew I’d never be good enough for you.”

“You were always good enough for me,” Isabella said, her heart in every word.

“Sweetheart, you wound me. A rake has his pride.” Mac slid her hands from him and held them in his. “I’m busy baring my soul to you, Isabella. Let me continue.”

“If you wish.”

Mac took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sank to his knees. The movement hurt him, she could tell from the way his grip tightened on her hands.

“Look at me.” Mac spread his arms, still holding her hands so that their arms moved out to the sides together. “What do you see?”

Her blood heated. “A very handsome man I happen to be married to.”

“A wasted man. I am nothing. I can make pictures come out of my hands when I’m not feeling sorry for myself. That is all there is, what you see here at your feet.”

“No . . .”

Mac’s voice went hard. “All there is, Isabella. Everything else—the joker, the wild bohemian, even the debauched rake—is what I’ve pasted on to keep the world from overrunning me. But it’s all fake. I use that façade to keep you from seeing and despising me.”

She smiled. “If I believed that, I never would have married you.”

“I didn’t give you much bloody choice, did I? You were right to leave me, because I took what you gave me and threw it carelessly away. And now here I am, charging in and telling you that you’ll take me back, whether you like it or not.”

Mac released her, letting his hands fall to his sides. His eyes held undisguised fear and love, and a pain she’d never seen before. “But this time, it is your choice,” he said. “If you don’t want me back, I’ll go. I’ll take care of you as I did before, without obligation, without you having to bother with me and my obsession for you.”

Obsession. Isabella had seen the paintings in Payne’s hideaway in the rookery in Marylebone, the pictures of herself that had made her ill to look upon. They were destroyed now, but they’d been painted from obsession.

Her gaze slid to the painting Mac had just finished, and beyond that to the stack of the nude paintings he’d turned to the wall so that no servant who chanced up here would see them.

Mac had painted all of those pictures of her from love. Payne had painted from crazed jealousy and a strange need. There was a difference, and it was plain to see from the picture that now rested on Mac’s easel.

Mac loved Isabella, truly loved her.

It was obvious in everything he did.

“Mac,” she said in a quiet voice. “Being with you has always been my choice.”

Mac looked up at her with such stark astonishment that her eyes brimmed with tears. “No, I forced the choice upon you,” he said.

She smiled, feeling her mouth shake. “No. You never did. I chose.”

Isabella touched Mac’s face, loving the hardness of his jaw, the rough of his whiskers.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered.

“Poor Mac. You are on your knees for nothing.”

A sudden, rakish smile split his face. “Not for nothing, my sweet. I’ve decided to do it properly this time.”

He was decadent, which made Isabella adore him. He was also half-naked with a gypsy scarf on his head, which made her crave him. She suddenly wanted more than anything to fall against him and have the pair of them land in a happy tangle on the floor.

“Do what properly?” she made herself ask.

“Court you. I’m supposed to be the model gentleman courting a lady, remember? Spilling out my heart in my studio is not the way.”

“I like it,” Isabella said. “It’s perfect.”

Mac’s eyes darkened. “Do not tempt me to ravish you until I’ve done this properly. I’ve never done anything properly with you.”

“Very well, if you must.”

“Isabella Mackenzie.” Mac took her hands again, still on his knees. “There is something important I would like to ask you.”

Isabella’s heart beat swiftly. “Yes?”

“I’ve asked some friends to help me. Will you walk with me over to the window?”

“As you wish.”

It was difficult to be calm while he was being so mysterious. He rose with some difficulty, and Isabella pretended she didn’t notice the soft grunt as he got to his feet. She followed him across the room to the window, whose curtains had been pulled back to let in the light.

Mac flung open the window, and early November air poured into the room. He leaned out and shouted, “Now!”

A band struck up a tune. Isabella peered around Mac and saw the little Salvation Army band, directed by the lady sergeant, pumping away enthusiastically. Next to it stood Cam and Daniel and Mac’s club friends.

They were holding something. At Mac’s bellow, they unrolled and held up a banner that read: “Will You Marry Me?—Again.”

Isabella burst into tears. She turned around to find Mac next to her on one knee, something clutched in his hand.

“The first time I had no engagement ring,” he was saying. “I made you wear one of my rings, remember? It was so big you had to hold it on.” Mac opened his hand, which contained a thin gold ring encrusted with sapphires and one large diamond. “Marry me, Isabella Mackenzie. Make me the happiest man in the world.”

“Yes,” Isabella whispered, and then she turned and shouted it out of the window. “Yes!”

The crowd below cheered. Daniel whooped and punched the air, and Cam was laughing as he dropped the banner, drew out his flask of whiskey, and toasted them.

Mac got to his feet and crushed Isabella against him. “Thank you, my love.”

“I love you,” Isabella said, her heart in every word.

He nuzzled her. “Now, about that baby we were trying to conceive.”

Isabella went hot with excitement. She’d kept the secret for a week now, wanting to make certain Mac was fully healed before she sprang the news on him. “I don’t think it will be necessary to try any longer.”

Mac jerked back, a frown on his face. “I don’t under—” He stopped, not smiling, not angry, just still. “What exactly do you mean?”

“I mean what you suppose I mean.”

The tears that flooded Mac’s eyes were echoed by her own. “Oh, God.” Mac clasped her face between his hands and pressed a hard kiss to her lips.

He released her, turned back to the window, and shouted out of it, “I’m going to be a father!”

Daniel started dancing around, using the banner like a matador’s cape. Bertram Clark cupped his hands around his mouth. “Quick work, old man!”

Mac slammed down the window. He pointedly snapped the curtains across it, shutting off the view, though Isabella could still hear the happy sounds of the brass band.

Mac scooped her to him in strong, strong arms. “I love you, Isabella Mackenzie. You are my life.”

She simply looked at him, beyond words.

They never made it to the bedroom. The paint-smeared gown and Mac’s kilt came off, and he slipped the ring onto her finger as he kissed her on their way down to the floor.