The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

Chapter Fifteen

Beth stared up at him, her blue eyes wet. “Tell me how.” He held her face between his hands, her beautiful face that had jolted through the clamor in his head at the Covent Garden Opera House. She’d been the only thing real to him in Lyndon Mather’s box; everything else had been shadowy and wrong.

“Stay with me.”

“We’re married,” she whispered. “Of course I’ll stay.” “You could decide to leave me.” He leaned his forehead to hers, remembering the horrible day that he’d gone to Mac’s house with the farewell letter Isabella had written. Ian had never forgotten Mac’s devastation when he’d realized that Isabella was gone.

“I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

“I have promised. I do promise.”

Her voice rang with sincerity, her eyes wide and lovely. He kissed her lips so she wouldn’t keep giving him reassuring lies. Isabella had loved Mac desperately, and yet she’d left him.

“Stay with me,” he repeated.

She nodded into his kiss. He drew her body against his, fingers finding the buttons of her bodice. Her chest came into view, and he leaned down and kissed it. She made a soft noise, and he suckled her skin, branding her yet again.

He felt her hands parting his clothes, burrowing past the layers of fabric to find him. She put her mouth to his chest just below the hollow of his throat, and he inhaled sharply. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, driving him a little bit mad.

Ian pulled her up to him and kissed her, parting her lips, pressing his thumbs to the corners of her mouth. She was his wife, and he wanted her. For now, for always. He swiftly unbuttoned the rest of her bodice, then untied her stays in little jerks. He pushed them from her body, then unfastened her chemise, catching her bare breasts as they tumbled out. She arched back as he kissed her again, pressing her nipples tight against his palms.

Unlacing and pushing away her skirts and bustle and petticoats took some time, and he became impatient, tearing fabric while she squeaked a protest. He lifted her and carried her to the bed, then pulled off his own clothes with the same impatience. He climbed up with her, not bothering to pull back the bedclothes. When she started to speak, he silenced her with a deep kiss.

He pushed her legs apart and entered her, finding her plenty wet for him. Beth lifted her hips and met him thrust for thrust, already used to what felt best to her. He rode her quickly, then slowly, his arms braced on either side of her. He kissed her with swollen lips, put love bites on her neck, licked her sweating skin.

Once his initial frenzy was over, he became gender, more playful. He draped her long hair over his body, stroking it, fisting it, kissing it.

He kissed her and loved her in utter silence. Nothing else existed but this twilit room with Beth under him—not Hart, not Fellows, not the murders.

He sensed her trying to make him look straight into her eyes, but he evaded her. If Ian looked directly at her, he’d get lost, and he didn’t want to distract himself from the physical reality of thrusting into her.

He loved her until the sky brightened, the short night rushing past. She smiled sleepily at him as he withdrew the final time, and he kissed her before dropping onto the bed beside her.

He slid his arm around her warm abdomen and spooned her back against him. Her shapely backside fit nicely against his hips, giving him ideas for the next round of loving. He looked at his large, strong hand covering her slim waist, his arm brown against her white skin. Ian would keep her safe with him here, so safe she’d never, ever want to leave. When Beth woke, she found the covers pulled around her and Ian still with her. Before she could ask about breakfast, his smile turned predatory. He pressed her back into the pillows and made love to her again, swift and hard, until she was breathless with it.

“We should get up now,” she whispered when he lay still again, on top of her, idly kissing her neck. “Why?”

“Won’t your brother expect us for breakfast?”

“I told Curry to serve us in here.”

Beth stroked his cheek. “I certainly hope you pay Curry high wages.”

“He doesn’t complain.”

“He stayed in the asylum with you?”

“Cameron sent him to look after me when I was fifteen. Cam decided I needed someone to shave me and look after my clothes. He was right. I was a mess.”

Curry came in at that moment bearing a tray heavy with silver and porcelain. Ian didn’t get up, but made sure Beth was covered while Curry pulled a table to the bed and set the tray on it.

As he had in Paris, Curry pretended he couldn’t see Beth as he set out the breakfast and poured fragrant tea into the waiting cups. He’d even brought newspapers from both London and Edinburgh, which he folded beside the plates.

He also deposited a few letters.

Beth felt like a decadent lady, lolling about in bed while a servant brought her food and drink. Mrs. Barrington never held with breakfast in bed, even in her last, weak days. Curry left them with a quick grin at Ian, and Ian decided he’d rather feed Beth in bed than have them rise and sit at the table.

He was quite good at it, giving her bits of bread and butter and feeding her eggs from a fork. She tried to take the fork from him and started laughing when he refused to give it to her.

Ian smiled, too, and then let Beth feed him. He liked her straddling his lap while she did it.

The whole day was like this—Ian making love to her, then the two of them lounging in the bed reading the newspapers while Curry brought them meals and drink and took away the remains.

“I like being an aristocratic lady,” Beth said as the afternoon wore on. “I’m still getting used to not having to rise at dawn and wait on someone else.”

“My servants will wait on you now.”

“They seem very cheerful about it.” The red-haired maids who’d come in to lay a fire and straighten the room had smiled broadly when Beth thanked them. Sunny, happy smiles, not sneering ones.

“They like you,” Ian said.

“They don’t know anything about me. I might be a termagant and scold them all hours of the day and night.” “Would you?”

“Of course not, but how do they know? Unless Curry has read them my dossier.”

“They trust Curry’s opinion.”

“Everyone does, it seems.”

“The family has served the Mackenzies forever. They’re clan Mackenzie themselves and have always worked on our land. Fought beside us and looked after us for generations.” “There is so much I must get used to.”

Ian said nothing, distracting her from chatter by sliding his hands under her breasts and kissing her.

Later that afternoon, Ian took her to his collection room. Beth had the feeling of being ushered into a shrine. Shallow shelves with glass fronts had been built around the walls of the huge room, and more glass-shielded shelves ran through the middle. Ming bowls of all sizes and colors rested on small pedestals on the shelves, all labeled as to approximate year, maker, and other details. Some of the shelves were empty, waiting for the collection to grow.

“It’s like a museum.” Beth wandered the room in wonder.

“Where are the ones you bought in London?”

The shelves all looked the same to her, but Ian walked unerringly to one and extracted the red-painted bowl he’d bought from Mather.

She thought all the bowls pretty, but she wasn’t quite sure what it was about them that made Ian want to have a hundred. And he kept them so lovingly. Ian replaced the piece, walked to another seemingly random shelf, and removed another bowl. This one was flushed jade green and had three green-gray dragons around the outside. Beth clasped her hands. “How lovely.”

“It is yours.”

She stilled. “What?”

His gaze moved away, though his hands were rock steady.

“I give it to you. A wedding present.”

Beth stared at the bowl, a fragile piece of the past, such a delicate object in Ian’s large, blunt ringers. “Are you certain?” “Of course I’m certain.” His frown returned. “Do you not want it?”

“1 do want it,” Beth said hastily. She held her hands out for it. “I’m honored.”

The frown faded, to be replaced by a slight quirk of his lips. “Is it better than a new carriage and horses and a dozen frocks?”

“What are you talking about? It’s a hundred times better.”

“It’s only a bowl.”

“It’s special to you, and you gave it to me.” Beth took it carefully and smiled at the dragons chasing one another in eternal determination. “It’s the best gift in the world.” Ian took it gently back from her and replaced it in its slot.

That made sense; in here it would stay safe and unbroken.

But the kiss Ian gave her after that was anything but sensible. It was wicked and bruising, and she had no idea why he smiled so triumphantly.

“Cam is here.”

Ian saw his brother out of the window a few days later as he buttoned the shirt he’d just shrugged on. Behind him, Curry prepared the rest of Ian’s clothes, while Beth, looking pretty bundled in a red silk wrapper, drank her morning tea at the little table.

Three days he and Beth had been here, and they’d spent all three days in Ian’s apartments making love. They’d made forays through the house or garden so he could show them to Beth, but mostly they’d stayed in the bedroom. Ian knew they had to leave his wing eventually and return to Hart and the real world, but he’d never forget the joy of this cocoon. Whenever times got bad, and he had no doubt they would, he could remember this.

Cameron had brought a new filly, the horse about a year old; and Ian took Beth down to greet them both. Cam was watching the unloading of the horse from its special cart as they approached. He cursed the handlers soundly, and then waded in and did the job himself.

“I’ve never seen a horse in its own carriage before,” Beth said as the spirited filly emerged. “Being pulled instead of pulling.”

The horse’s conformation was dainty, the pink edges of her nostrils sharp. She was a bay, and her black mane and tail flowed in falls of sable. She turned an interested brown eye to Beth.

“She’s not a cart horse,” Cameron said, his gruff voice even more gravelly from the dust on the road. “She’s a fine beauty and will win dozens of races, won’t you, love? Then she’ll breed more racers.” Cameron fondly stroked her nose. “Why don’t you marry her, Father?” Daniel asked, leaning against the van. “He’s been crooning to the damn beastie all the way up. It’s disgusting.”

Cameron ignored his son and went to Beth. He leaned to kiss her cheek, then clapped Ian on the shoulder, the scents of horse and sweat clinging to him. “Welcome to the family, Beth. Cuff my son when he’s rude. He’s had no upbringing.” “That’s because you brought me up, Father.”

“Everything all right?” Cameron asked casually of Ian. He was wondering how Hart had taken the news. “He’ll come around,” Ian said.

“We haven’t seen much of Hart in the last few days,” Beth said.

“Oh, no? Hiding from him, are you?”

“No, we—“ Beth broke off and went bright red. Cam looked from her to Ian, who couldn’t help grinning, and then Cam burst out laughing. Cameron’s laugh could ring to the skies. The filly jerked her head back in irritation. “What are you laughing at?” Daniel asked, frowning. “Oh, you mean you were in bed. Good on you, Ian. I’ll have a little cousin soon, will I?”

“Unmitigated brat,” Cameron growled in good humor.

“You don’t say such things to a lady.”

“But laughing at them is all right?” Daniel countered. “You see what I mean?” Cameron said to Beth. “He has a foul, impertinent mouth, and it’s all my fault. Ignore him. Have you taken her riding, Ian? Got a good horse for her?”

Beth’s face lost its color. “Oh, I don’t ride.”

All three Mackenzies stared at her. “You don’t ride?”

Daniel asked in shock.

Beth slipped her hand into Ian’s. “Not much opportunity to prance down the Rotten Row as a poor vicar’s wife. And Mrs. Barrington was beyond her riding years. I did hire a pony cart in Paris.”

Both Cameron and Daniel gave her pitying looks. “You are in luck,” Cam said. “The compensation for marrying a Mackenzie is that your brother-in-law is the best horse master in the British Isles. I’ll pick you out a horse and begin your instruction tomorrow.”

Beth squeezed Ian’s fingers tighter. “An elderly, placid nag, please. And really, I don’t need to ride. I’m happy using my own two feet.”

“Tell her, Ian.”

Beth turned to him, her eyes wide. Ian forgot all about the conversation and didn’t much care whether Beth rode like a master or stayed on the ground. He only wanted to put his arms around her, to hold her, to continue what they’d been doing before Cameron interrupted. He bent down and kissed her.

“I won’t let him hurt you,” he said.

“How reassuring,” Beth answered faintly.

The horse Cameron chose for her wasn’t exactly an elderly nag, but she was a gentle mare who had left her sporting days far behind. She was much larger than the sweet little pony Beth had pictured, towering above even Cameron, her feet like platters.

“She’s half draft horse,” Cameron said. “I breed them like that sometimes for jumping and stamina. She’s a sweetheart. Up you go.”

The saddle looked the size of a doily on the horse’s great back. It had one stirrup and a groove that was to hold Bern’s right leg.

“Why can’t ladies ride like men?” Beth complained as Cameron boosted her up. She overbalanced and gave a little shriek as she went off the other side—to be caught in Ian’s arms.

“With a horse between your legs?” Cameron’s goldflecked eyes went wide, and he touched his fingers to his mouth like a shocked, elderly maiden. “What kind of woman did you marry, Ian?”

“A practical one,” Beth said. She fought the skirt of her new riding habit and flailed for the stirrup. Ian’s strong hand supported her back like a rock. Cameron grabbed Beth’s ankle and pressed her foot into the stirrup. “There. Ready?”

“Oh, of course. Let’s be off to the Derby.” She reached for the reins, but Cameron wouldn’t hand them to her. “No reins today. I’ll lead.”

Beth looked at him in terror. Ian was on her other side, his bulk reassuring, but she sat at a heart-stopping height above him.

“I’ll fall off without the reins,” she protested. “Won’t I?” “You can’t hold on by dragging at the horse’s face,” Ian explained. “You balance.”

“Something I’ve never been good at.”

“You’ll be good at it now,” Cameron said. Without further ado, Cameron led the horse off at a very slow walk. Beth immediately slid off the horse’s right side, but Ian caught her and pushed her back up into the saddle. He was smiling broadly. Laughing at his poor wife.

The stable hands and many of the mansion’s staff gravitated out to watch. They either pretended to pass by the patch of park on their way somewhere else or blatantly hung on the fence that separated park from stable yard. They weren’t above giving the new lady of the house words of advice or applauding when she managed to stay on when the mare broke into a trot.

By the end of the lesson, Beth had at least learned how to balance on the saddle and use her legs for support. The staff gave her a cheer when Ian lifted her down. Their warm encouragement was a stark contrast to the chill of the dining table that evening. Hart sat in frigid silence. The footmen who’d shouted for Beth with Scots enthusiasm now looked subdued and chastised.

Beth’s legs hurt, the muscles unused to such exercise. When she plopped into the dining room chair Ian held out for her, she jumped up again with a little cry.

Ian’s strong hands closed around her. “Are you all right?” “Perfectly fine.” She bit her lip. “I believe Cameron needs to find me a softer horse.”

Ian grinned, then burst out laughing. His laughter was warm and velvety, so fine she paused to drink it in. Beth smiled at him and made a show of gingerly sitting down. “You may cease laughing at me, Ian Mackenzie. It was only my first lesson.”

He leaned toward her. “You already have a very good seat, my Beth.”

“Shall I take it you are referring to how I sit on a horse?” Ian kissed her cheek and moved to his own chair, still smiling. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sat down. “Beth likes to joke,” he said without looking at the others.

Beth felt the frost of Hart’s rigid stare. Daniel’s mouth was open in surprise, and Cameron sat very still. Something had happened, and Beth wasn’t certain what.

The rest of the meal was tense, though Ian didn’t notice.

He ate calmly, oblivious. Occasionally he’d look up at Beth, his smile hot, and once, when the others weren’t looking, he curled his tongue at her. Beth turned beet red and stared down at her plate.

When the footmen finally cleared the last course, Hart rose and tossed down his napkin.

“Ian, I need you,” he said, and stalked from the room.

Cameron reached for the humidor on the sideboard. Daniel joined him, neither of them acting surprised at Hart’s abrupt departure. When Ian went to them, Beth leapt from her chair and sped out of the room.

“Beth . . . “ she heard Ian say, and then she was down the hall and inside Hart’s private study. Hart swung around in the middle of the room.

“Ian is not your servant,” Beth burst out.

Hart pinned her with his eagle’s gaze. “What the devil?” “You summon Ian the same way you’d summon a footman for your boots.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Mrs. Ackerley, you have been one of this family barely a week. Ian and I hammered out an understanding long before you appeared on the horizon.” “He is your brother, not your secretary.”

“Don’t try my patience.”

“You love him. Why don’t you show him?”

Hart came to her, lips tight, and gripped her shoulders. He was abominably strong. “Mrs. Ackerley—“ “My name is Beth.”

The door banged open, and Ian stormed inside. He caught Hart and shoved him away from Beth. “Don’t touch her.”

Hart shook him off. “What is the matter with you?”

“Beth, get away from him.”

Beth’s heart thumped. “Ian, I’m sorry, I was just—“ Ian swung his head to her but wouldn’t look at her.

“Now!”

Beth stood for one more stunned instant, then sped out of the room.

Cameron looked startled as she passed him in the hall, then he said, “Hell,” and marched to Hart’s study. The slam of the door thundered down the passage.

Beth made it to the main stairs before she collapsed, lungs burning. She could barely breathe, her dratted corset too tight.

Someone thumped down next to her. “You all right, Auntie Beth? Want a drink or something?” She wanted to laugh hysterically at “Auntie Beth,” but she held herself together. “Yes, thank you, Daniel, a drink would be lovely.”

“Oy,” Daniel shouted over the banisters. “Angus. Bring a dram o’ whiskey.”

The burly footman who’d been passing through the hall turned on his heel and went back into the dining room. “Are they always like this?” Beth asked, breathing carefully. “At each other’s throats? Oh, aye. Always shouting about something. You’ll get used to it.”

“Will I?”

“You’ll have to, won’t you? But they’ve been unhappy.” Beth blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “What about you? Are you unhappy?”

Daniel shrugged his lanky shoulders. “You mean because my mum tried to murder me and my dad and then offed herself? I never knew her, and Dad’s done his best.” His matter-of-fact acceptance of his mother’s violence twisted Beth’s heart. It had been the same in the East End, ten-year-old girls whose prostitute mothers had been beaten by their men shrugged shoulders and said tightly, “She were a whore. What’d she expect?”

Unaware of her pity, Daniel took the cut-crystal glass that Angus brought and thrust it into her hand. Beth sipped, the smooth taste of whiskey curling pleasantly on her tongue. Ladies don’t drink spirits, she heard Mrs. Barrington say. This despite the secret brandy bottle stashed in Mrs. Barrington’s bedside table.

“Tell me something, Daniel,” Beth said tiredly. “In the dining room, when Ian laughed at me, you all stared like the ceiling had come down. Why?”

Daniel wrinkled his forehead. “Why? ‘Twas because Ian laughed. I don’t think any of us have ever heard Uncle Ian laugh out loud before. At least not since he got sprung from the asylum.”

Beth progressed on her riding lessons until, by the end of the week, she could ride unassisted as long as Cameron or Ian rode alongside her. She learned to use her legs to guide the horse and not flail or grab the reins to keep her balance. The soreness began to slacken as her muscles became accustomed to the exercise. By the beginning of her second week of lessons, she could climb into bed with only a soft moan of pain. Ian proved amazingly capable at massaging the stiffness out of her.

Beth became fond of the old horse she rode. The mare had a mile-long pedigree name, but her nickname among the stable lads was Emmie. While Beth and Emmie plodded across the vast lands of Kilmorgan, Ian and Cameron raced or put their horses over fences. Ian was an excellent rider, but Cameron seemed to become part of his horse. When he wasn’t giving Beth lessons, he worked at training the filly he’d brought, letting her run on a long line he held in competent hands.

“It’s his gift,” Ian said to Beth as they watched him one morning. “He can do anything with horses. They love him.” With people Cameron was harsh and often rude, and his language colored the air. At first he apologized to Beth, but after a while he forgot to. Beth remembered what Isabella had told her, that the Mackenzies had lived as bachelors for so long, they didn’t think to soften their manners around ladies. Beth, used to East End toughs, decided she could bear it. As she’d told Inspector Fellows, she was not a wilting weed.

She learned to treasure Ian’s conversations with her, like this one about Cameron, because she never saw him much outside of bed. Over the next two weeks, he closeted himself with Hart, or the two went riding alone, and neither would say where.

Cameron kept on with Beth’s lessons without indicating that anything was unusual. Beth tried to ask Ian once what he and Hart were doing, and Ian answered laconically, “Business,” before looking off into the distance. It maddened her to not understand, but she hated to poke and pry. Hart had been right; she barely knew Ian, and perhaps this was what they always did.

I can’t expect them to change their entire lives for me, she chided herself. Another part of her would respond, But he’s my husband. . . .

Things went on like this until one afternoon when Cameron took her riding beyond the park up into the hills.

It was a beautiful day, with a fine summer breeze dancing through the trees. Patches of snow lingered on the highest peaks of the mountains, the sun never quite warming it enough to melt it.

“There’s a folly in the woods out here,” Cameron said, riding beside her. His own horse was a glossy black stallion. The stable lads were afraid of the beast, but he obeyed Cam without fuss. “My father built it for my mother. There weren’t enough ruined castles in the Highlands for him, so he decided to build a fake one.”

The brothers never spoke much about their mother, or their father either, for that matter. The portrait of their much-bearded father glared at her every day from the top of the second-floor staircase, but she’d never seen a picture of their mother. She nudged Emmie to move faster, interested. Behind her Cameron’s horse stumbled. Beth turned in alarm to find Cameron already dismounted and anxiously examining the stallion’s hoof.

“Is he hurt?”

She spoke to Cameron’s broad back. “No, he’s all right. Threw a shoe, didn’t you, old lad?” He patted the horse’s neck. “Go on up to the folly. Emmie knows the way.” Beth swallowed, never having ventured out by herself, but she decided she had to sometime. She nudged Emmie onward, and the old mare plodded up the path toward the higher hill.

The day had turned hot, the air close among the trees. Beth wiped her face as she rode, hoping the folly would hold a cooler breeze.

She saw it before long, a picturesque stone building with moss on it. The flat sides had tiny windows and artfully crumbling brick. She could see why the folly had been built in that particular place, however. The view was breathtaking. Fold after fold of land rolled away toward the flat gray sea far away. A creek gushed in a gorge that dropped from the folly’s front edge.

“You’re certain Fellows has nothing new?” Hart’s voice rolled out of the folly, and Beth froze.

“I’ve said,” Ian answered him.

“You haven’t said anything at all. We have to talk about this. Why didn’t you tell me about Lily Martin?” “I wanted to keep her safe.” There was a silence. “I didn’t help her at all.”

Lily Martin was the name of the woman killed in Coven Garden, Beth remembered, the night Ian had left for Paris. Fellows was convinced Ian killed her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hart repeated.

“To keep her safe,” Ian answered with emphasis.

“From Fellows?”

“Partly.”

“From whoever killed Sally Tate?” Hart asked sharply. There was another silence, while the creek chuckled merrily away below.

“Ian, do you know?” Hart’s voice went quieter, flatter.

“I know what I saw.”

“Which was?” Hart asked impatiently.

“Blood. She was covered in blood; it was all over my hands. I tried to wipe it off on the walls, on the bedding. It was like paint... .”

“Ian. Focus on me.”

Ian trailed off, the words dying away. “I know what I saw,” he said quietly.

“But does Fellows know?”

Ian paused again, and when he spoke, his voice was steadier. “No.”

“Then why does he want Beth?”

“I don’t know. But he does, and I won’t let him have her.”

“Very noble of you.” Hart’s voice was dry.

“If she’s married to me, your name protects her, too. The family of the Duke of Kilmorgan is not to be bothered by Lloyd Fellows.”

“I remember.”

“He tried to get her to spy against me,” Ian continued.

Hart’s voice turned sharp. “Did he?”

“Beth refused.” Ian sounded pleased. “She saw him off. My Beth’s not afraid of him.”

“Are you certain she refused him?”

“I was there. But just in case . . .” Another pause, and Beth held her breath.

“Just in case?” Hart prompted.

“A wife can’t go into the witness box against her husband, can she?”

Hart was silent a moment. “I apologize, Ian. Sometimes I forget how intelligent you are.”

Ian didn’t respond.

Hart continued. “You’re right, Ian. It’s best that she’s on our side. But the moment she makes you unhappy, the marriage is annulled. She can be made to keep quiet for a large enough sum of money. Everyone has their price.”

Beth’s breath hurt, and the world seemed to ripple around her. She turned and blindly nudged Emmie forward, thankful the mare’s hooves made little sound on the damp leaves. Nausea bit her stomach. She clung to Emmie’s red-brown mane, letting the mare find her way back home. Beth barely remembered the ride to Kilmorgan. She knew only that suddenly it was before her, the long mansion crouching in the valley, its windows glittering like watchful eyes. Cameron was nowhere in sight, likely engrossed with his stallion’s lost shoe, which was fine with Beth. A tall, redhaired groom appeared and took Emmie’s reins, and Beth heard herself thanking him politely. The dogs ran up for her attention, but she couldn’t see to pet them, and they turned and trotted back to the stables.

Somehow Beth made it into the house and up to the chamber she shared with Ian. She closed the door on the maid who’d hurried to assist her, and then she numbly undressed to her chemise and lay down on the bed.

It was late afternoon, and the sun shone through the windows with all its strength. Beth lay still, her arm across her abdomen, the absence of the corset at last allowing her to breathe. A few tears trickled down her face, then dried, leaving her eyes burning. She thought she could hear the echo of Mrs. Barrington’s derisive cackle. Beth lay still until she heard Ian coming. Then she closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him.