He started to lift the book from Beth's lap, kissing her cheek at the same time. Beth grabbed the book and pulled it back.
"Wait. I wanted to show you." She pointed to a picture, a colored illustration, protected by a leaf of thin paper. "What do you think of this one? It's very like the one I broke, isn't it? Same sort of vines and dragons, but in green and gray, instead of blue. The book says it's owned by a gentleman in France. I could write him."
Ian glanced at the picture, taking in every nuance of the bowl in two seconds flat. How could she think it was like the one the Russian had? Clearly it was not, or Ian would have purchased this bowl in the first place.
But he'd learned, to his amazement, that most people couldn't tell one Ming bowl from the other. The fanatics who shared his passion could, and they were the few human beings with whom Ian could speak at length and understand in return--at least, as long as they remained on the topic of Ming pottery. Hart had explained that a person either had the gift or did not, and Ian needed to show compassion toward those who didn't.
"No," Ian said, trying to soften the word. It sounded harsh all the same, falling flat against the thick velvet drapes at the windows. "It's not the same."
"But look." Beth traced the line of vine with her finger. "Surely the pattern is identical. I checked it against the book in which you found the first one . . ."
Ian lifted the tome away again, and this time, Beth let him. "It isn't blue," he said.
"Well, I know it isn't exactly the same, but . . ."
Ian closed the book and carried it to a table, taking a moment to line up its edges exactly with those of the wood. Once he was satisfied that the symmetry was perfect, he returned to the ugly sofa and sank down next to Beth. He sat shoulder to shoulder with her, hip to hip.
"I started collecting the bowls a year and four months after I came home from the asylum," he said.
Beth looked at him to listen, her gaze catching his. Her eyes were such a lovely color, blue with flecks of gold, like sunshine on a pond. Ian got lost in looking at her eyes a moment, forgetting what he'd been saying.
"You began collecting a year or so after you came home . . ." Beth prompted.
Ian's mind picked up the thought and returned to that gear. "I went into an antiques shop with Isabella, in Paris."
Ian stopped again, remembering how terrified he'd been to leave Mac's hired townhouse, how soothing Isabella's presence had been when she'd persuaded him to accompany her. His sister-in-law had known how to speak into Ian's panicked silences, how to calm him with a smile, how to ask his opinion and then give it for him, so that strangers wouldn't think him odder than he was.
He remembered that his brothers had been puzzled and angry that Ian had let Isabella lay a hand on his arm or give him a quick kiss on the cheek, when he refused to let the rest of his family touch him.
Ian had thought his brothers fools about that. If they couldn't understand the difference between three overbearing Scotsmen who smelled of smoke and whiskey, and a lovely young woman scented with of attar of roses, he couldn't help them.
"Ian?"
Ian had lost track again. He looked into Beth's face--the woman who'd saved him from himself and who loved him in spite of his many, many shortcomings--and the words went out of Ian's head. Nothing he'd been saying could be as important.
"Isabella likes to shop, yes," Beth said, watching him expectantly. "And she took you into an antiques shop. Did you see a Ming bowl there?"
Beth always insisted Ian tell the end of a story, no matter that, in his head, he'd finished with the subject and moved on.
"It was beautiful." Ian forced the memories to return. "Translucent white and brilliant blue. The lines were perfect. Chrysanthemums and dragons, a lotus flower on its bottom. I couldn't stop looking at it."
He remembered his younger self standing in the center of the shop, staring at the bowl, riveted in place. Isabella telling him it was time to leave, and Ian refusing to go. His world had been so heavily gray, and the incandescent colors of the bowl had stood out like a beacon of hope.
"Isabella told me not to buy it, but she didn't understand." Ian wanted to laugh at the memory. Isabella had been bewildered, so sure Hart would shout at her for letting Ian spend so much. "I had my own money. Curry wrote out the cheque for me, and I took the bowl home. I was only at ease in my mind when looking at it. So Isabella found another one for me. That one wasn't right, but the next one she showed me was. After that, I looked for them myself."
"Only bowls." Beth smiled the warm smile that had crashed over him like a wave of sunshine the first time he'd seen it. "I remember when you told me that."
Ian looked away and studied the floor about a foot in front of his boot, unable to concentrate with her beauty flooding him. "I like the shape." He didn't buy the bowls for their value, though he knew to the farthing what each was worth. He would completely ignore a perfect specimen that cost a fortune if he didn't like it. "When I saw the one from Russia, I knew it was special."
Beth's fingers curled into her palms. "Ian, you are breaking my heart. I didn't mean to drop it."
Ian, pulled back to her, put his hand on her small ones and looked up into her face. "That bowl was special because of the blue. It exactly matched your eyes."
* * * * *
Chapter Seven
Beth stopped. Her lips parted and a tear dropped to her cheek. "Oh, Ian."
Ian stared at her in surprise, pain touching his heart. He hadn't meant to make her cry. He'd intended to explain why she shouldn't bother trying to replace the bowl for him, so she would stop worrying about it.
As he watched the tears streak her cheeks, old dark anger built inside him, the one that manifested when Ian couldn't understand what he'd done. The angry beast told Ian that he was mad, unworthy of her, and would lose her in the end.
Ian kicked at the darkness, which he hadn't felt in a long time, willing it to recede. He cupped his hands around Beth's face, brushing away her tears.
"Why are you crying?" He felt the desperation rise, the need to understand.
"Because it was special to you. And I ruined it."
Words deserted him. He saw only Beth's tears, her blue eyes wet. He couldn't find the way to explain, to stop her weeping.
He growled in frustration as he tilted her face to his and kissed her lips.
The touch of her mouth was like a balm, soothing hurt. Ian let himself be lost in the warmth of her mouth, the taste of her breath.
He needed to touch her, to be surrounded by her warmth. He'd take her to bed and kiss away her tears, give her pleasure so deep she'd forget about the confounded bowl.
Ian had learned all about physical pleasure long ago, how to give it, how to enjoy it. He'd had trouble with emotions--with mastering them, or at times, even feeling them. But physical joy he understood. He'd sought it to replace the more profound emotions he knew he'd never experience.
Beth had taught him otherwise. The marriage of the physical with the love she'd awakened had opened an entire world to Ian, one more amazing than he'd ever imagined.
He slid his arms around her, Beth making a noise in her throat as his kisses landed on the exposed skin of her shoulders and breasts.
As he reveled in the taste of her, her scent of cinnamon, sweat, dust, the back of his mind began to work.
Beth liked it when Ian did things for Jamie and Belle. When the children were pleased by his gifts or his attention, Beth laughed, she hugged Ian impulsively, she'd even kiss him in front of people, Beth who was so modest in public.
Ian remembered something he'd discovered accidentally one evening while idling away time waiting for his brothers. He'd tucked the idea and its beautiful precision into the recesses of his brain to be examined at another time, but now he brought it forth. Belle might not understand beyond the amusement of it, but Jamie would be delighted. He liked precision almost as much as his father did.
The idea caught at Ian so abruptly that he broke the kiss.
Beth touched his face. "What is it? What's wrong?"
He decided not to tell her. When he'd surprised Beth in the past with gifts, her astonishment had increased her delight, and Beth was at her most beautiful when she was delighted.
He'd tell no one. Ian couldn't trust Mac, Cam, Hart, or Daniel not to give away his secrets. He wanted to keep it special and private for his children, for Beth. The perfect Christmas gift.
Ian felt a smile spread across his face before he could stop it. Joy of joys, Beth smiled too, no more tears, though her lashes were still wet.
Ian kissed her again, and she responded, her mouth softening for him, hands seeking his body. He unfastened the intricate buttons of her bodice, then Ian let himself grow lost in the beauty of her, sorrow forgotten.
*** *** ***
A Prussian prince was one of the houseguests that year, and he arrived in splendor with his entourage a few afternoons later. Hart had invited him, first because the man was a longtime friend, and second, because Hart was still uneasy about how Germany was building up industry, including arms manufacturing. His princely friend was in the position to know many things, and Hart intended to use his visit to learn those things and pass them on to those who could act on the knowledge.
Hart stood with Prince Georg in the long upstairs gallery, which was filled with paintings of dour Mackenzie ancestors, interspersed with bright landscapes by Mac or his portraits of Mackenzie dogs past and present. The two men indulged in cigars as they looked out the long windows at the thin layer of pristine snow covering the Mackenzie lands, trees on distant hills outlined in silver.
The conversation had turned to Hart delicately probing for information about an armaments factory, when Beth rushed toward them in a swirl of rust-colored poplin.
"Hart, there you are. I need to speak with you." She passed the two gentlemen but looked back, her eyes wide, when Hart didn't move. "Urgently. I beg your pardon, Your Highness."
Georg smiled--the handsome, blond prince always had an eye for the ladies.
Beth continued walking at a rapid pace toward Hart's private wing. "Quite urgently," she said over her shoulder.
Hart let out a breath. "I need to follow her." He laid his cigar into a bowl on a carved Louis XV table. "My apologies."
"Not at all." Georg's smile indicated he knew damn well that Hart had brought him here to mine him for information. "Perhaps I will take a stroll in your lovely garden."
"If you prefer a warmer activity, an early dinner is being laid on in the dining room. I'll return as soon as I'm able."
"Of course." Georg chuckled. "Les femmes, eh?" He always used French when speaking about women.
Hart started after Beth down the gallery. His sister-in-law kept a swift pace, and Hart was striding fast by the time he reached the entrance to his wing of the house.
Beth made for Eleanor's bedchamber and walked in without knocking. Hart entered the chamber to see his wife sitting up in bed, a writing desk on the mattress next to her, a sheaf of papers surrounding her. Menus, Hart saw when he approached. And seating plans, and lists, so many lists.
Next year, Hart would rent a cottage in the middle of the Highlands for himself, Eleanor, and their new baby, and spend Christmas and New Year's in glorious privacy. No parties, no weeks of planning, no dining room full of too damned many people.
A futile dream, he knew. The entire staff of Kilmorgan Castle would follow them into the remote Highlands, never believing that Hart and Eleanor could look after themselves. Considering events of the past, they were probably right.
"No change?" Eleanor asked Beth.
Two pairs of blue eyes turned to Hart, one dark blue, Eleanor's cornflower. A double assault.
"Beth." Hart kept his voice gentle. "I have cabinet ministers and the Admiralty waiting for my report on armaments in Prussia."
"Not to worry," Eleanor said, before Beth could speak. "You rushing off after Beth over some domestic trouble will disarm Prince Georg admirably. He will relax and tell you everything. But I assure you, this is not a trivial matter. Beth came to me at once, which was the sensible thing to do. And, no, this is not about the cold supper for Boxing Day, although of course, I would value your opinion, as always, although . . ."
"Eleanor," Hart said sharply. Sometimes the only way to stop his wife was to talk over her. "Now that you two have brought me here, please let Beth tell me why."
Eleanor blinked. "Well, of course. Do carry on. Beth is frightfully worried about Ian."
"I think I upset him very much when I broke the bowl," Beth said, diving in before Eleanor could speak again. "He seemed all right for a few days, but now he's locked himself into one of the chambers in our wing and refuses to come out. He went in yesterday evening, came to bed very late, and then got up and went right back inside. He's not come out to eat, he'll not let anyone leave him food, he won't unlock the door. Curry says he used to do this sometimes, before I met him."
Alarm rose in Hart. Ian had on occasion locked himself away from his brothers and the world that bewildered him too much. He'd resist all attempts to make him come out, or even speak, although, he'd at least let Curry leave a tray of food outside the door. Even then, he wouldn't open the door until the hall was completely empty.
Hart tried to remain calm, logical. "All the doors in your wing have the same locks now. A key from any other door will open it."
Beth gave him an exasperated look. "This is Ian. He will have thought of that. He's bolted it from the inside."
Hart's alarm threatened to become panic. "Damnation."
"I'm sorry, Hart." Beth's eyes were red-rimmed. "I'm afraid I might have sent him into one of his muddles."
Ian hadn't had a breakdown for a long time. When he'd first come home from the asylum, he often degenerated into panicked tantrums, or he'd spend days without speaking to anyone. His body had been present, but his mind had not. Watching Ian stare straight ahead, refusing to look at Hart or respond to his words, had been heartbreaking.
The incidents had dwindled as Ian grew used to living at home and being around his brothers. They'd all but stopped after he'd met Beth, and they'd ceased altogether after he and Beth had moved into Ian's private house not far from here. The birth of Ian's children had relaxed him still more, a tension Ian had carried for so long easing away.
But Hart had never understood what had made Ian fly into his frustrated rages. Beth might be right, as much as Hart wanted her to be wrong.
Hart went to Eleanor and leaned to give her a brief embrace. She kissed his cheek, her scent and warmth lending him strength.
"Show me where he is," Hart said to Beth. "And send for Ainsley."
* * * * *
Chapter Eight
Ian heard the knocking on the door, but as though from far away. He was on his hands and knees behind a desk, working on a tricky bit. His fingers were steady as he set each object into place.
Vectors, momentum, resistance, acceleration, velocity--numbers and equations swam in his head, and he spoke softly to himself as he worked.
"The angle should be this, not this. A not B. Damn it."
He dropped one, which could have been a catastrophe, but he knew exactly where to pull another of line. Still cursing under his breath, he set the pieces in place again.
The knocking turned to banging. "Ian, open the door."
The stentorian tones of Hart came rolling through the wood. Ian paid no attention. Hart liked to tell the world what to do, but Ian had learned long ago how to ignore him.
"Ian." The shout turned to a roar.
Another rapid knock. "Come on, guv. You've got us worried something powerful."
Ian took another piece from the box and set it carefully into its place. Why, when a man wanted to retreat and do something useful, something interesting, did the entire family have to bluster their way in? Ian had learned to follow certain conventions so his brothers wouldn't worry too much about him--leaving a note when he slipped away for a few days to
fish, for example, instead of simply disappearing.
Not that Ian was good at explaining or remembering to leave notes, but he'd learned that these things kept his family calm. Ian was a perfectly healthy and strong man, yet Hart could fuss so whenever Ian went for a long walk.
Ian had bolted the door, because if anyone opened it, not only would they ruin the surprise, they'd let the bloody dogs in. That would be a disaster.
"Ian!" Hart's voice rose like battering thunder. "Open the door before I have Bellamy fetch an axe."
"Hart," Ian said, raising his voice and speaking carefully so there'd be no misunderstanding. "Go. Away."
"Ainsley," he heard Hart rumble.
"I can hardly pick a lock if there is no lock to pick," came Ainsley's crisp, clear tones. The bolt's on the inside. You overestimate my skills."
"Then we go for the axe. Mac, get Bellamy."
"Don't you dare bash a hole into Ian's study door," Beth said. Good girl--she'd put Hart in his place. "It will be weeks before we can get a builder at this time of year, and I refuse to live with a door that is so much firewood."
"Persuasion is doing nothing," Hart said, angry. "Even yours."
"Stop it, both of you," Ainsley broke in. "Let me try."
Ian heard the lock of the door click--they'd have found a key for the main lock, which was why he'd had a bolt installed on his private study long ago. When he did mathematics equations that took his entire concentration, he didn't want a maid, footman, or his brothers invading the room and distracting him.
As they were doing now. A faint scratch, scratch sounded, Ainsley setting to work.
At least they'd stopped banging. Ian opened another parcel and reflected that he needed more, much more. He'd have to send to Inverness, maybe farther. How long for a package to arrive from Edinburgh or Glasgow--in time for him to finish for Christmas?
The voices outside the door lowered to normal tones, and Ian put them out of his head. When he finished for the day, he'd take Beth and the children for a walk, or show Beth how well they were progressing with riding.