Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift

Chapter Three

Laugher tinged Hart's voice. "You don't waddle."

"Mac said I looked like a mother duck. And he is right, blast the man."

"I'll speak to Mac."

"Don't bother. I shook my finger at him. But the comparison was apt. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Still, 'twill be a nice Hogmanay gift, do you not think? A little boy to dandle on your knee?"

"Or a girl."

"We've had this argument many a time. He will be a boy."

"Mackenzies do as they please. So do Ramsays." Hart ran his hand across her lower abdomen and around her navel.

"I know they do. Which is how I know he is a boy. Did you wager on a girl in Daniel's pool?"

Hart sent her a glance laced with heat. "Do you think I would wager on the outcome of my own child?"

"Danny's become quite the little bookmaker, has he not? I of course put down twenty pounds on boy."

"Only twenty? I thought you were so sure of the outcome."

"It's a frivolous wager, and one should not set a bad example. Besides, Daniel is drawing a large commission. I asked what he needed the money for, and he said he was building things. I shudder to imagine his flat in Edinburgh--loaded to the brim with mechanical parts and gears and oddities, I shouldn't wonder."

"I don't know. He lets no one in." Hart skimmed his hand down to her thigh, his fingers gentle but skilled. He moved to the foot of the bed and knelt there, kilt spreading over his large thighs. "Lie back. I'll rub your feet."

"Mmm." Eleanor wriggled her toes as Hart took her heel in his hand. "Every princess wants this in her Prince Charming. He rides up to the castle, kisses her awake, and rubs her aching feet."

Hart pressed soothing circles into the ball of Eleanor's foot, and she hummed in pleasure. Even more so when Hart leaned down and licked across her arch.

Hart had taught Eleanor pleasures she had never heard of, and she knew he'd only touched upon his vast knowledge. He feared to shock her or hurt her, but Eleanor was teaching him that she was made of stern stuff.

He'd continued to make love to Eleanor as she'd been increasing, up until the last month, when everything, including walking, had become painful. Even then, Hart had known how to make her feel good.

She'd learned this year about the erotic touch of silk or feathers on skin, how a blindfold could heighten those feelings, how the whisper of Hart's breath in intimate places could render her body open and ready for him. He'd touched every inch of her with light strokes or with the weight and pressure of his hands, until she was coming apart in pleasure.

He hadn't done much with restraints once her body had begun thickening, but Hart had continued stirring her excitement by brushing her with the tethers of silk and leather. Eleanor shivered now, thinking on it.

"Lie still," Hart said in a low voice, but one that held steel. "Let me look after you."

Eleanor forced her body to relax. She really shouldn't--she had a million things to do to prepare the house for the holiday celebrations, and she couldn't expect Ainsley, Isabella, and Beth do everything for her.

But Hart's touch, his voice, made her sink down among the pillows. He lifted away, and she heard a clink of glass on glass, smelled the warm perfume of oil. Hart ordered oils from Paris, and he'd made her choose her favorite scents from a very discreet shop when they'd traveled to France in the summer.

Mmm, vanilla and a touch of spice. Eleanor kept her eyes closed and inhaled as Hart smoothed his hand around her ankle. He slid his fingers up her calf and behind her knee, kneading a little, before he returned his attention to her right foot.

He pressed his thumbs into her arch and onto the ball of her foot, the oil and his touch easing tension.

He gave pleasure to each of her toes, smoothing them, rubbing, pinching the slightest bit.

He pressed her heel against his bare chest and gently rotated her foot, holding her toes while he eased her swollen ankle. Lowering her foot to the mattress, Hart held it lightly with one hand while he slid his other hand up her leg to her inner thigh.

His fingers lingered just below the join of her legs, his eyes warm as he watched her. He stroked his thumb over the inside of her thigh, not touching her more intimate places, but coming very close. The whisper of air he stirred, the stroke of his oiled fingers, made Eleanor let out a slow breath.

She started to move, lifting to his touch, but Hart pressed her firmly back to the mattress. "No, love.

Stay still. I'll do everything."

Eleanor let herself sag again. Difficult when Hart's touch, light yet confident, sent ripples of hot pleasure through her body.

She'd learned not to fight him. To fight him brought out his wicked side--the feral smile, the look in his eyes that would frighten a lesser woman. Sometime, when she was feeling brave, Eleanor deliberately disobeyed him, to see what he'd do.

And the things he'd do . . . He'd become firm, no longer tender, tie her wrists with a cravat, or fasten her hands to the bed, or roll her over and chastise her backside. It would start as a game, and then Eleanor, who prided herself on her presence of mind, would become a begging pile of emotion. She'd dissolve into pure pleasure, crying his name, pleading for him, hearing his dark laughter, the bite of his teeth in her flesh, the sting of his hand.

He'd been kind to her, Hart said, during her pregnancy, but he promised he was storing up all kinds of things for later.

For now, his touch was light, warm, tracing pleasure onto her skin. He circled his thumbs over her inner thigh, just brushing the curls at the join of her legs. One finger flicked her opening, so sensitive now.

She dragged in a breath, then another even more sharp as Hart leaned down and kissed where he'd touched.

His breath tickled her skin, hotter than his hands. The cool of the wedding ring on his left hand contrasted the heat, making her remember the intoxicating moment when she'd slid it onto his finger.

A knock at the door made Hart's body tighten, but he never roughened his touch on Eleanor.

"Your Grace," a faint voice came through the wood. "It is Wilfred."

Hart said nothing, but the soft light left his eyes, angry hardness filling them. No one, but no one, disturbed the duke when he was alone with his wife.

"Poor Wilfred," Eleanor said. "You'd better see what he wants. He would never dream of bothering you if the matter weren't terribly important."

Hart heaved a long sigh. He pressed a kiss to the inside of Eleanor's knee, got himself off the bed without jostling her, snatched up his shirt, and dragged it on as he went to the door in it and his kilt.

He jerked the door open only enough to slide out and close it again, never letting Wilfred catch a glimpse of Eleanor in the bed.

Eleanor rested her hand on her abdomen as she waited impatiently. Drat her uncooperative body. She was dying to know what Wilfred had to say, but she couldn't rise from the bed to find out.

A long time passed before Hart returned, keeping the door partway closed as he entered. He turned the key in the lock, then paused to skim off his shirt and unpin his kilt, letting the plaid fall to the floor.

Naked, gloriously so, Hart climbed back onto the bed, again not disturbing Eleanor, and snuggled down in the covers next to her.

"Well?" Eleanor asked when he remained silent. "Tell me at once, before I go mad."

Hart deliberately settled the covers around both of them, ending up resting his elbow on Eleanor's pillow, his hand on hers on her abdomen. He took another minute or so after that, simply looking at her, before he spoke.

"Beth broke the bowl."

"Oh, no." Eleanor sat up, or as upright as she could. Hart didn't have to explain which bowl. "What happened? Is Ian all right? Is Beth?"

"Apparently, Ian took it in stride. Beth is more upset, from Curry's reports."

"Well, she would be. How awful." Eleanor started to push back the sheets. "We must make sure she's all right."

Hart stilled her with a strong hand. " You must stay here and rest. Beth and Curry have things in hand, and Ian is with his children."

"And he's not . . ."

"He hasn't done anything at all, Wilfred said. Don't worry, love." Hart pressed a kiss to her lips, his body curving around hers protectively. "We'll watch him, and make sure all is well."

"We must find him a new bowl. One just like it."

"So Beth says." Hart softened enough to give Eleanor a smile. "She already told Wilfred I am to assist.

I hear and obey."

"Because you're worried about Ian too."

"Yes." His smile vanished. "I am. The last time this happened it was a bloody disaster, and I was no help at all." He closed his eyes, shutting out remembered pain. "I hated that Ian wouldn't respond to me.

I'm one of the most powerful men in Britain, I have foreign princes afraid to cross me, and I couldn't reach my own brother."

Eleanor stroked her hand through his hair, the warm silk of it soothing. She'd seen his frustration and hurt when he looked at Ian, great worry, and love.

"Ian's much better now. He has Beth."

"I know." Hart opened his eyes again, trying to hide his pain, but Eleanor always saw it.

"You'll find another bowl," Eleanor said with confidence. "You know so many people, and I'm certain they all owe you favors."

"They do. And I will."

" After you finish my foot rub."

Hart's smile returned, and with it, a glint of wickedness. "You're a demanding thing."

"Greedy." Eleanor ran her finger down his nose and tapped its tip. "Hungry for you. And sore."

Hart pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her lips. "I'll give you your foot rub. But my way."

He ran his hand down to her thigh, fingers doing their dance on her sensitive skin. Eleanor leaned back on the pillows and gave herself over to the very talented ministrations of her husband.

*** *** *** Isabella Mackenzie finished writing yet another letter the next evening, and stretched her aching fingers. The windows in her private sitting room were dark, and the air had turned frigid, though the coal stove kept her toasty warm.

Planning the large holiday festivities was a long and tedious process, but she, Ainsley, and Beth were determined to make Hart and Eleanor's first Christmas together memorable. The Scots, Isabella had learned from years of being married to one, didn't pay as much attention to Christmas Eve and Day as they did Hogmanay--New Year's. However, Hart had two English sisters-in-law and often had a houseful of English guests who expected Christmas crackers, plum pudding, and feasting on Christmas Day.

Therefore, they had to plan two large celebrations, one at Christmas, one for Hogmanay, and yet another for Twelfth Night.

Isabella wanted this Christmas to be memorable for Eleanor in a good way. Some past Mackenzie Christmases had been out-and-out disasters, most of which had been caused by Mac's drunken debauches and his and Cameron's equally debauched friends. Half of these friends had ceased to be welcome at Kilmorgan--any Mackenzie household--after they'd decided it amusing one year to lock Ian into an attic room.

Isabella shuddered at the memory. Hart had been livid, and he and Cameron had had a punch-up, Hart blaming Mac for the friends' antics, Cameron defending Mac, who could barely stand up from a hangover.

Only Isabella's persuasion had kept Hart from slinging his two brothers out into the snowy night.

This year, the house would be full of rejoicing. Babes filled the nursery, more family and friends would pour in on them soon, and the Mackenzie men were . . . well, not exactly tamed. But at peace with themselves, no longer fighting life.

Ian's broken bowl was on everyone's mind, however. He'd said not a word about it, appearing at breakfast with Beth as composed as ever. Beth's flushed face and little smile told Isabella how Beth might have been soothing him, but the brothers were still worried.

She felt Mac's presence behind her before two strong arms came around her, and Mac's lips brushed a warm kiss to the curve between her neck and shoulder. The scarf that he wore over his hair when he painted touched her cheek.

"What are you doing out of your studio?" Isabella asked. Mac had retreated there after breakfast and hadn't been seen since. He still wore his painting kilt and boots, though he'd donned a shirt. Most of the time when painting, he didn't bother with the shirt. "Has something happened?' "Yes, Nanny Westlock. Time for the children's tea. I was taken to task for not returning them to the nursery, and I came to you for comfort."

"And as you can see, I'm swimming in plans for Hart's Christmas ball and New Year's celebration."

"Isn't that what Wilfred is for?"

Isabella reached for another sheet of paper, Mac's arms still around her. "Wilfred is a man and what I have in mind needs a woman's touch. Eleanor is fragile, and I like doing this for her."

"I know you do, love. You have a generous heart."

He kissed her again, and Isabella closed her eyes, momentarily consigning plans for Christmas, Hogmanay, and the coming year to oblivion. She'd fought long and hard to reconcile with Mac. She wanted to savor every moment she had with him, to erase the years she'd had to do without him.

"Daniel telegraphed," Mac said. "Cam's out, so the majordomo handed the telegram to me. He'll be arriving tonight."

"Excellent." Isabella opened her eyes, smiling in true enjoyment. "I miss having him underfoot. He's all grown up now."

"He's quick-witted, resourceful, inventive, and as stubbornly obsessive as any of us. Very dangerous."

"And yet, he'll still be the little boy who mistook me for your fancy lady the day after we married.

Poor thing. He wasn't to know you'd brought an innocent miss into your house."

Mac's arms tightened around her. "Love, you'll never know how hard I fell for you, my haughty debutant, when I saw you in the middle of that ballroom, all lace and fineness. You looked at me, the great Mac Mackenzie, and I knew I was lower than worms."

"I was an arrogant little thing, so certain I was the catch of the Season. You brought me down a peg or two. I needed it."

"I never meant to bring you as far down as I did." Mac's arms tightened around her, and Isabella remembered the pain and heartache of the first years of their hasty marriage.

"We were both young, impatient, and selfish," she said softly. "It was bound to go wrong."

"Whereas now we are old, wise, and staid?" He nibbled her neck. "I hope we have some wickedness still in us. How about I send Bellamy for some scones and tea?"

Isabella flushed bright red, remembering one afternoon in her London house, when she'd shared scones and clotted cream with Mac for the first time since their separation. Her behavior had been decidedly un- ladylike.

"Perhaps," she said, the word demure, her gaze cast down.

Mac growled. "My little Sassenach. Do ye know how much I love you?"

Small footsteps interrupted Isabella's intended answer. They turned to see Aimee, their adopted daughter, five going on six, watching them solemnly from the carpet.

Isabella rose, her love for Aimee flooding her. They'd rescued the poor girl from a madman, and she'd brought Isabella and Mac closer again.

Isabella went to Aimee and lifted her, reflecting sadly that she was getting too big for such things. She planted a kiss on Aimee's pink face. Mac joined them, his arms going around his wife and daughter.

"Why are you out of the nursery?" Isabella asked.

"Yes," Mac said. "You'll have Nanny Westlock hunting me, ready to put buckshot into my backside."

"Papa," Aimee said reproachfully. "Don't be so silly. Nanny wants to find Gavina. I told her I'd ask her what you've done with her."

"Gavina?" Mac blinked. "She belongs to Cam. Why should I have done anything with her?"

"Because she likes to play in the studio with us, and Aunt Ainsley didn't return her to the nursery for tea. Nanny thinks you might have forgotten where you left her."

"I didn't leave her anywhere," Mac said. "If she's not with Ainsley, she must be with Cam somewhere."

"Uncle Cameron has gone to the pub. Would Uncle Cameron have taken her to the pub?"

"No . . ." Isabella began, then she stopped. With Cameron, anything was possible. She glanced out the dark window. "I'm sure she's only followed one of the dogs or fallen asleep." Isabella set Aimee on her feet and took her hand. Mac took Aimee's other hand, his wink at Isabella telling her they'd continue their discussion about scones later. "Come along, Aimee. Let's find her."

*** *** *** Daniel Mackenzie stepped off the last train of the night to Kilmorgan, settling his hat as the train puffed steam then chugged slowly up the track to its next destination.

"Master Daniel," the stationmaster said. "Welcome back. If you wait a few moments, my son will drive you up to Kilmorgan Castle."

"I'll walk," Daniel said. "I've been sittin' on trains since Edinburgh, and my legs, they need some stretching. Have the lad take my case, but I'll take a stroll through the village."

"Powerful cold night for a stroll, lad."

"Aye, but the warm pub is between here and there." Daniel grinned at the stationmaster, who'd been stationmaster for more than the entire eighteen years of Daniel's life.

The stationmaster chuckled, snatched up Daniel's one bag, said good night, and disappeared into the station. Daniel pulled his greatcoat closer and walked swiftly to the road that led to the village.

Coming home was always a mixed blessing. Christmases at Kilmorgan had become much better since Ian had married Beth, even better with Mac and Isabella now back to loving each other, and the best since his father had done the sensible thing and married Ainsley.

Now that Eleanor was Duchess of Kilmorgan, maybe Uncle Hart would stop behaving like a snarling bear. From what Cameron had said, since the marriage Hart had regained the more playful, lighthearted side of his youth-- God help us all, Daniel's father had concluded.

This homecoming would be more interesting than others, that was certain.

On the other hand, Daniel was restless, tired of waiting for life to begin. He liked his studies at Edinburgh, but they didn't move quickly enough for him. He'd taken to slipping away to spend time with a middle-aged man who built crazy gadgets in his house, which had led to a few scrapes that Daniel hoped had not come to the attention of his father.

The one street through Kilmorgan was deserted, not surprisingly, because a cold wind cut through the huddle of houses and back out again. No snow yet lay on the ground, but it clung to the mountains and waited to pounce on the valleys.

With relief, Daniel opened the door of the pub and stepped into its welcoming warmth.

A large man holding a glass of ale in one hand and a lit cigar in the other lounged at a table between fireplace and door. He sat alone, though he'd cut off a conversation he'd been having with two men playing cards at a nearby table.

The man took several long drags of the cigar, blew out the smoke, and said, "Hello, son."

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