"He . . . fetched a broom and swept up the pieces. But I could see he was upset."
"That's all?"
"I wouldn't say that was all. He had trouble looking at me, and I know I've hurt him. He wanted that bowl so much."
Curry turned away, laid the dustpan next to the opened box, and propped the broom against the table. "'E broke another bowl once," he said in a slow voice, "about a year before 'e first clapped eyes on you. It were 'orrible, m'lady. Screaming like . . . I've never 'eard a sound like that come out of a 'uman throat. Me and Lords Mac and Cameron had to sit on 'im to keep 'im from 'urting 'isself. 'Is Grace wasn't 'ere--off politicking at the time--but 'Is Grace had to come back from wherever 'e was to calm Lord Ian down. It were days to get 'im to quiet, and none of us slept a wink."
Beth listened, disquieted. She'd seen Ian in what he called his "muddles," when he lost control of his rage or performed an action over and over, desperately trying to make sense of whatever had happened to set him off. But he'd not done that in years, not since their marriage ceremony in their cozy house not far from here. Beth's domestic life so far had been nothing short of blissful.
Ian had broken Beth's heart the night she'd met him, when he'd explained that he had no ability to love, had no idea what love felt like.
He'd since proven he did know how to love--he proved it every day.
"Ian's become quite good at controlling his rages," Beth said, but the words didn't come out with the conviction she'd hoped they would.
"Aye, and we all breathe a sigh of relief, we do, knowing you're looking after 'im. But this were a Ming bowl. Maybe 'e's just 'olding it in."
"He'd never let himself go into one of his muddles in the nursery. He'd never do anything to hurt the babies." Her conviction was firmer now.
"If ye recall, 'e didn't actually say 'e were going to the nursery. 'E only said the kiddies were finishing their naps."
Beth and Curry shared a worried look, then both of them rushed to the door. At the last minute, Curry stepped back to let Beth exit first, then they hurried down the hall and up the long staircase to the huge nursery the cousins shared when the family gathered.
Nanny Westlock, who considered herself in charge of the rest of the nannies, looked up from her darning in surprise as Beth and Curry ran inside the sunny room.
Near one of the wide windows, Ian was just lifting Belle out of her cot. Two-and-a-half year-old Jamie had already headed for the large wooden rocking horse he'd received from Cameron for his second birthday.
Ian set Belle on the floor and held her little hands while she walked eagerly toward Beth. "Mama!" she said brightly. Ian slowed his giant steps for her, his boots alongside her chubby legs.
"Look at me, Mama!" Jamie yelled from the horse. "Like Uncle Cam."
"Excellent, Jamie," Beth said. "Uncle Cameron says you have a good horseman's seat." She lifted Belle as Belle dropped Ian's hands and raised her arms for her mother.
Ian put his hand on Belle's back, Ian always worried that the little girl would fall. Beth hugged her close, determined to prove she wouldn't drop this precious package at least.
Ian met Beth's gaze and gave her one of his rare, full smiles. No pain lingered in his eyes, only the warmth he showed when he was in the nursery. The bowl might never have been broken.
"Yes, Mr. Curry?" Nanny Westlock said as Curry lingered in the doorway. "May I be of assistance?"
"Just going, Miss Westlock. Ye run your kingdom to your 'eart's content."
Miss Westlock only gave him a look, but Curry grinned at Beth and shut the door behind him.
Ian moved to Jamie and started showing him how to hold the reins between his small fingers. Jamie was already tall for his age and robust. He'd be a towering Mackenzie before long.
Beth cuddled Belle in her arms and watched her husband become absorbed in his children. She hoped Curry would take the broken pieces downstairs, but she'd have to worry about the bowl and what to do about it later.
*** *** ***
The at least twenty people in the servants' hall listened in horror and then surprise as Curry related his tale. John Bellamy, his blunt fingers working a needle to repair the lining of one of Lord Mac's riding coats, listened while Curry spoke with his usual flair for dramatics. Curry finished by dumping the contents of the dustpan across the table, what was left of a very expensive Ming bowl.
"'Er ladyship wants it put together again," Curry finished. "So 'ow 'bout it?"
The servants around the table leaned forward, white caps and dark and light heads bent as hands reached for the pieces and started sorting.
Bellamy stayed out of it, his hands with their ill-healed broken fingers not good for lifting delicate things like shards of porcelain. A needle and thread was about as nimble as he could get. He usually asked a maid to help him with mending Lord Mac's clothes, but there was so much to do to ready the house for Christmas that he didn't feel it right to bother them.
As he watched the others start fitting pieces together and arguing about what went where, he again thought about his decision to retire. Lord Mac should have a younger man, one more like the suave Marcel who waited on the duke, instead of a broken-down former pugilist.
Lord Mac's lady wife was looking after him fine now. No more did Bellamy need to lift a limp and drunken Lord Mac, undress him like a child, and put him to bed.
Bellamy was nearing forty, and he'd been in one too many fights. He'd worked for a crooked fight manager who'd staged every one of Bellamy's matches, but that didn't mean the punches hadn't been real.
Time for him to move on. He'd run a pub, or he'd train young boxers and teach them how to avoid working for outright thieves.
Wouldn't be easy to tell Lord Mac, though. Lord Mac's feelings would be hurt, but Bellamy knew that his lordship didn't truly need him anymore.
Feeling slightly sad, Bellamy laid aside his mending and left the hall, seeking the back door. He heard the others' exclamations of surprise when Curry explained that Lord Ian hadn't had one of his fits when the bowl broke, but Bellamy was not amazed. Lord Ian had been a changed man since he'd married little Mrs. Ackerley.
There was another reason Bellamy wanted to go. He was lonely.
Outside, all was dark, and freezing. The sun had gone, night coming swiftly this far north. Bellamy's breath fogged out, and his feet crunched on the frozen ground. No snow at the moment, but it was coming.
He walked around the corner of the kitchen wing, out of the wind. He heard a gasp, saw another fog of breath, and stopped. At his feet crouched a bundle of clothes. Not rags--the person inside had piled on as many layers as possible against the cold.
A face inside a hood stared up at Bellamy, terror in her eyes flaring as she took in his height and breadth.
"Please," she said. "Don't make me move on yet. Just a while longer, out o' the wind."
Her accent wasn't broad, but it put her from right here in the Highlands. Bellamy had never seen her before.
"Who are you?"
Bellamy's voice came out harsh and scratched. His east London accent couldn't be reassuring either.
The woman flinched, but she held on to her courage. "I'm no one. But please, if you could spare a bit of bread before I go."
Bellamy reached for her. She cringed away, as though expecting a blow, but Bellamy held his hand to her, palm out. "Come with me."
The woman started to scramble to her feet. "No, I'll move on. I know he's a duke and all. I never meant no harm."
Bellamy seized her by the arm, clamping down when she made to jerk away. "Don't be daft, woman. I meant ye need to come inside and get warm."
She stared up at him in more fear, then resignation. This poor lass probably hadn't had a word of kindness in a long while, and when she had, she'd likely had to pay for it.
Bellamy felt a bite of anger at whoever had made her pay in the past. Well, she'd understand soon enough that not all was darkness. He led her into the echoing hall behind the kitchens and closed t
he door against the night, all thoughts of retiring pushed aside for the moment.
*** *** ***
Eleanor, the Duchess of Kilmorgan, lay in the warm bliss of her bed, while her husband placed another slow kiss on her swollen abdomen.
This had been one of the difficult days, when she'd only been able to rise to toddle to the necessary and back again. And she had to use the necessary so often these days. Her three sisters-in-law assured her this was normal, but Eleanor worried. She was thirty and having her first child. She knew there was danger, and Hart did too.
The duke kissed her again, adding a brush of tongue. He lifted his head, Hart's eyes deep golden in the shadows.
"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said in his low, rich voice.
Eight months of marriage hadn't dimmed Hart's passion. In fact, their marriage was awakening desires he'd kept long buried. Eleanor learned more about Hart every day she lived with him.
Eleanor smiled as she laid her hand on her belly, feeling a tiny movement within. "I am very rotund."
"Beautiful," Hart repeated firmly, a spark lighting his eyes. He liked to be commanding.
"Carrying your child," she said. "I'm very happy to."
Hart slid a little way up the bed and touched a kiss to her equally swollen breasts. They ached, but his kiss soothed.
Eleanor was naked, surrounded by blankets and pillows, and the fire in the white and gold stove was stoked full of coal. She must be the warmest person in the house.
Hart had returned from the funeral a little bit ago and come to her--cold, disgruntled, his face hard. He'd undressed near the stove, boots, coat, and cravat coming off impatiently, shirt following them to the floor. He'd stripped out of his underbreeches, leaving his kilt in place, then climbed up on the bed with her, laying Eleanor down and kissing her before he'd spoken a word.
Seeking comfort. Eleanor was happy to give it. Hart had suffered much loss in his life, had sacrificed so much, more than anyone but Eleanor understood.
Hart told her about the funeral while he lay against her, having skimmed off her nightrail. He touched her with the possessiveness of a husband, the tenderness of a lover. They'd talked, voices low, until his bleak look had gone. Hart hadn't been great friends with Mrs. McCray or her husband--far from it--but the funeral had stirred memories of his father and the rather horrible man he'd been.
"Not long now," Eleanor said, her chubby fingers tracing the movement on her abdomen. "Thank heavens. I look forward to walking about my own house again. Without the waddling."
* * * * *
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.