The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Page 93
Tears poured from Bern’s eyes at the same time her body wrenched into hot waves of joy. “I love you, Ian Mackenzie.” One more thrust, two, and he threw his head back, the cords of his neck tight. His seed burst out of him into her, and then they were twined together, arms and legs, lips and tongues.
“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.
Epilogue
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 lan’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.
“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.
Epilogue
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 lan’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.
