The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie (36 page)

“My Beth,” he whispered, his breath hot on her swollen lips. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Beth couldn’t stop crying, but she smiled, her face aching with it.

“Setting me free.”

Beth knew he didn’t mean from the asylum. He kissed her again, his mouth rough, bruising, then sank down to her. Their bodies fit together, hot and spent, hands caressing, cradling, touching.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

One month later

Ian and Beth had another wedding at Ian’s home in Scotland, a house ten miles north of Kilmorgan, under the shadow of the mountain. Ian called it a “modest” house, but it was a mansion in Beth’s opinion, though it was only a quarter the size of Kilmorgan. The wedding was held at the village church, and there Ian slid a wide band covered with sapphires onto Beth’s left hand. He smiled in triumph when he kissed her. The bride and groom and family returned to the house and garden to a wedding banquet that Curry had worked on for weeks. Everything had to be exactly right, from the flowers threaded through the arbor to the pate to the champagne and whiskey that flowed freely to all guests. Friends from Edinburgh and London arrived, although Beth noticed that they were Hart’s, Mac’s, and Cameron’s friends, not Ian’s. Beth, however, invited the young man called Arden Weston she’d met in the gambling hall in Paris. He arrived accompanied by his friend Graves and Miss Weston, his sister. They enjoyed themselves, drinking and making new friends, though Graves jealously regarded any gentleman Arden spoke to.

Inspector Fellows had come and brought his mother. They still looked startled to be embraced by the family, still skittish like cats that had gone too long without a human touch. But they ate and drank with the other guests, the gulf between Fellows and the Mackenzies starting to narrow.

The family—Hart, Cameron and Daniel, Mac, and Isabella—squeezed Beth in so many hugs she thought her corset would bend and she’d never breathe again. She noted that Mac drank only lemonade and Isabella was careful never to be in the same room with him. Beth watched them, her mind whirling with plans.

Ian took Beth’s hand as she watched Isabella leave a room Mac had just walked into. Ian pulled her out of the house and through the garden and walked swiftly with her until they reached a little summerhouse on a rise. “Leave them be,” he said.

Beth blinked, contriving to look innocent. “Who?”

“Mac and Isabella. They must come together themselves.”

“Perhaps with a gentle nudge?”

“No.” Ian leaned against the rail and pulled her to face him. Her white taffeta gown crushed the front of his formal black suit. The suit couldn’t hide his fine body, the strength of his shoulders stretching the black cashmere, the hard planes of his chest behind the white shirt. Ian looked good in anything he wore, from the well-fitted suit to the frayed kilt and shirt in which he fished.

“Leave them be, Beth,” Ian repeated, his voice gentle.

She sighed. “I suppose I want everyone to be as happy as I am.”

Beth slid her arms around him and looked past him at the brick house and the sloping green lawn where the family and friends gathered. She loved the house already. She liked the way morning sunshine slanted into the gallery. She loved the small room Ian had chosen as his bedroom, which was hers now, too. She loved the way the stairs squeaked, and the flagstone passage to the kitchens echoed, and how the rear doors opened to a cluttered garden filled with birds, flowers, and Ian’s dogs, Ruby and Fergus, who’d come to live with them.

She tasted happiness here that she’d had only a glimpse of with Thomas. Thomas had taught the lonely, frightened Beth Villiers that she was allowed to be happy. Ian was letting her imbibe all the happiness she wanted.

“Do you like it?” Ian asked. “Up here in the wilds with me?”

“Of course I do. I believe you heard me raving about the view of the mountains, and the nice chill the butter gets in the dairy.”

“It’s harsh in the winter.”

“I will grow used to it. I’m good at it, getting used to things. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was always stingy with the coal fires. Living with her was very much like surviving a Scottish winter.”

He peered at her, then decided not to bother deciphering what she meant. He lifted his gaze to the nearby thicket of trees that smelled of pine and cool air. “Do you mind my madness? Even if you’re right that I can contain the rages, I will always be mad. I won’t get better.”

“I know.” Beth snuggled against his chest. “It’s part of the very intriguing package that is Ian Mackenzie.”

“It comes and goes. Sometimes I am perfectly fine. And then a muddle comes.”

“And goes away again. Curry helps you. I’ll help you.”

Ian cupped her chin and turned her face up to his. Then he did what he’d been practicing since the night on the train—he looked her fully in the eyes.

He couldn’t always do it. Sometimes his gaze simply refused to obey, and he’d turn away with a growl. But more and more he’d been able to focus directly on her. Ian’s eyes were beautiful, even more so when his pupils widened with desire. “Have I told you today that I love you?” he asked.

“A few dozen times. Not that I mind.”

As a young woman who’d been starved for love much of her life, Beth lapped up Ian’s generous outpouring of the words. He’d surprise her with them, catching her as she walked down the hall, pushing her against a wall, breathing, “I love you.”

Or he’d tickle her awake and tell her he loved her while she tried to hit him with a pillow. The best was when he lay against her in the dark, fingers tracing her body. She treasured his whispered, “I love you.”

“I need to tell you something, Ian.”

Ian blinked. His gaze tried to slide away, but he pulled it determinedly back. “Hmm?”

“I didn’t want to say until I was absolutely certain, but I’ve seen a doctor now.” She drew a breath. “Ian, you’re going to be a father.”

Ian kept staring at her, his gaze unmoving. He blinked again, then lightly rubbed his temple. “What did you say?”

“You’re going to be a father.” Beth laced her fingers through his, pulling his hand down. “I’m going to have a child. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.” Ian slid his fingers down her smooth gown to rest on her abdomen. “A child.” His eyes widened. “Oh, God. Will it be like me?”

“I hope so.”

“Why?” He closed his fingers over the fabric, crushing the taffeta. “Why would you hope he’d be like me?”

“Well,
he
might be a
she.
And I can’t think of anything better than a child who’s just like his father.” She let her voice go low, seductive. “Especially when that father is you.”

Ian didn’t look reassured. “He’s a Mackenzie. He’ll be mad.”

“But he’ll have an advantage. He’ll have a father and uncles who understand.” She smiled. “Or she. If it’s a girl, of course, she will be perfect.”

“I agree,” Ian said gravely.

Beth started to explain her jest, then looked up at him in surprise. “Was that a joke, Ian Mackenzie?”

“You are teaching me. He leaned down to her. “With your spicy tongue.”

Beth darted out the tongue in question. “Does it taste spicy?”

“Yes.” He slid his thumb in a slow caress across her bottom lip. “But let me taste it again.”

He crushed her up to him, his hands cupping her bottom. Down the hill, Isabella laughed and the Mackenzie brothers and Daniel broke, into a rousing cheer. Then sound swirled and became meaningless as Ian’s mouth covered hers, and his body curved over her. She felt the firm, hard ridge of his arousal through their layers of clothes, and her heart beat with sudden heat. Carnal pleasure, indeed, offered by the maddening Lord Ian Mackenzie.

Beth took it.