The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie

  “Don’t cry.” He kissed her wet cheek. “This is the time for joy.”

  “I know.”

  He was still inside her, thick and hard, spreading her marvelously. Don’t hunger for what you can’t have, she admonished herself. Take pleasure in what you can. Such thoughts had got her through the worst days.

  She wanted all of Ian, body and soul, when she knew she couldn’t have that. He was giving her what he could: bodily pleasure and momentary joy. She’d asked him to have a purely carnal affair with her. If she hurt because she couldn’t have more, it was her own fault.

  “Ian, you are so bad for me,” she said.

  He gave her a half smile. “I’m the Mad Mackenzie.”

  Beth pressed his face between her hands, anger suddenly rising. “That is other people’s explanation, because they don’t understand you.”

  He looked away. “You always try to be kind to me.”

  “It isn’t kind. It’s the truth.”

  “Shh.” Ian kissed her. “Too many words.” Beth agreed. Ian kissed her again, occupying her mouth with something much more satisfying.

  He began to move inside her again. Ian’s body was hot and tense, the noises he made exciting her beyond what she thought she could feel.

  This is bliss, her mind whispered as he took her to cresting waves of pleasure. She came beneath his body, twisting and arching against his hips. She moved and moaned until the black waves subsided, and Ian crashed down against her, their bodies melding into one line of heat.

  Thunder cracked right overhead, and Beth jumped awake. Ian lay beside her, propped on one elbow, watching her sleep.

  “Hello,” she murmured.

  Ian gave her a slow smile. She couldn’t tell if he’d slept or not, but he didn’t look tired at all.

  “I thought the storm would be over by now,” she said.

  “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. Early morning.”

  Beth grimaced. “Isabella will be worried.”

  “She knows I will take care of you.”

  “And she might be with Mac.” Beth grinned at him.

  “Maybe he’s gone home with her.”

  Ian’s look told her he didn’t agree. “Tonight was the first time he’d spoken to her in three years.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “He was very angry when I told him she wanted to go to the casino. I don’t think their reunion will be pleasing.”

  “You’re a pessimist, Ian. Isabella has been such a dear friend to me, and I want to see her happy again.”

  “She chose to leave Mac,” Ian pointed out.

  “I know. But she regrets it.”

  Ian’s body was like a warm wall, his touch amazingly gentle. “When they were married they were either wildly happy or fighting tooth and nail. No in-between.”

  “I suppose such drama would be tiring.”

  Beth could imagine herself deliriously happy with Ian, so happy she couldn’t bear it. She also saw that she could be completely miserable. Her heart had certainly never flipflopped so much in her life as after she’d met Ian Mackenzie. Ian stroked her hair, and she closed her eyes. How lovely to stay here for always in this bubble of contentment, floating away in quiet happiness.

  “I should go home.” She hadn’t meant for her voice to sound so sad.

  “Curry will have to fetch more clothes for you before you can leave. Yours are ruined.”

  “Does Curry even know where we are?”

  “No.”

  Then no one knew, Beth thought. She and Ian were utterly alone. Her heart squeezed with joy.

  “He’ll worry, won’t he?” she murmured.

  “He’s used to me disappearing. I always turn up again. He knows that.”

  Beth studied him. “Why do you disappear?”

  “Sometimes it gets too much for me. Trying to follow what people say, trying to remember what I’m supposed to do so people will think I’m normal. Sometimes the rules are too hard. So I go.”

  Beth traced his muscular arm with her fingernail. “Where do you go?”

  “Most times to the wilds around Kilmorgan. It’s a vast place, and I can lose myself for a long time. You’ll like it there.”

  She ignored this. “What about other times?”

  “Courtesans’ houses. As long as I pay, they leave me be. I don’t have to think of conversation there.”

  Beth had grown used to Ian’s bluntness, but that didn’t mean she wanted to hear about his being with other women. She imagined that courtesans were happy to give Ian sanctuary whenever he wanted it. He was rich, had the body of a god, and possessed devastating charm, especially when he smiled. Even his sideways look gave him a roguish quality. If she were a courtesan, she’d give Ian a special rate.

  “Anywhere else?”

  “Sometimes I take a train to a place I’ve never been or hire a horse and ride into the countryside. To find somewhere I can be alone.”

  “Your family must go wild with worry.”

  Ian propped himself on his arm and drew his finger between Beth’s breasts. “They did at first. Hart never wanted to let me out of his sight.”

  “But he eventually did, obviously.”

  “He used to be furious when I went. Threatened to have me locked up again.”

  Beth’s anger stirred. “His Grace the duke sounds a great bully.”

  One corner of his mouth turned up. “He realized I was going, no matter what. Curry took my side. Told Hart to fuck himself.”

  Beth’s eyes widened. “And Curry is still alive?”

  “As you see.”

  “Good for Curry.”

  “Hart worries, that’s all.”

  Beth frowned. “He let you out of the asylum and got your commission of lunacy reversed. Why, so you could help him win at high finance?”

  “I don’t much care why he did it. I only care that he did.”

  Beth grew suddenly angry with Hart. “It’s not fair. He shouldn’t use you so.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “But—“

  Ian put his fingers on her lips. “I’m not a servant. I help when I can but take something for myself.”

  “Like when you disappear for days at a time.”

  “Hart could have let me rot in that asylum. I’d be there now if not for him. I don’t mind reading his treaties and moving around his stocks if that’s what it takes to pay him back.”

  Beth twined her fingers through his. “I suppose I can be grateful to him for letting you out, at least.”

  Ian stroked the backs of her fingers, not listening. His warmth covered her like a blanket, and his breath burned as he kissed the line of her hair. “Tell me about your husband,” he murmured.

  “Thomas?” Now? “Why?”

  “You loved him desperately. What was that like?”

  Beth lay quietly, remembering. “When he died, I thought I would die, too.”

  “You hadn’t known him very long.”

  “That didn’t matter. When you love, especially with all your heart, it comes upon you so fast, you don’t have time to resist.”

  “And then he died,” Ian said. “And you can never love that deeply again.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Liar. Beth knew she was falling stupidly in love with Ian, and she had no idea how to stop herself. What is the matter with me?

  She answered her own question when Ian suddenly gave her a bruising, punishing kiss. Her tension dissolved and she gladly slipped her arms around him, holding him close. Ian made it evident he didn’t want to talk anymore. He shoved her legs apart with a strong hand and pushed his way inside her again, no argument. Mrs. Barrington would say that only a very loose woman would let a man have his way with her without protest. Beth rocked back on the pillows and spread her thighs, happily violating Mrs. Barrington’s strictures in every way. Beth slept again. When she woke, the window was a dim gray square. Ian stood to one side of it, looking out. Rain still beat d
own, but the thunder had abated. Ian was naked, and he rested one hand on the wall, his glorious backside half turned to her.

  In the gloomy light that played on his powerful muscles, he reminded Beth of the perfect male sculptures she’d seen in the Louvre. But those sculptures had been marble and alabaster; Ian was like living bronze.

  When she stirred, Ian put a finger to his lips. “Is someone out there?” she whispered in alarm. They were on the second floor in the front of the pension, the nicest room, the landlord had assured them. But the windows had no curtains, and Beth felt queasily exposed. “Inspector Fellows is watching the house,” Ian said.

  “He’s brought along some police.”

  Beth pulled the covers to her chin. “Oh, dear, how embarrassing.”

  “I think it’s worse than that.”

  “How can it be worse? They can’t arrest us for spending the night in a pension, can they? Goodness, if lewd behavior is illegal, they’ll have to arrest half of Paris.”

  The newspapers would get hold of it. They always did somehow, and the story would leak across the Channel to London. English Heiress up before the French Magistrates for Fornicating in a Questionable Parisian Hotel. This after Playing at the Evil and Illegal Roulette.

  A soft knock on the door made her sit up straight. “It’s me, guv,” came a Cockney voice from the other side. Curry. Beth heaved a sigh of relief.

  Ian didn’t bother to cover himself as he let Curry into the room. Curry didn’t pay any attention to Ian’s state of nudity, and laid the garments he’d brought with him over the back of a chair. He calmly unfastened a leather bag and took out a razor, shaving cup, and brush.

  “Any hot water to be had in this benighted place, guv?”

  “Ring for the maid. Did you bring Mrs. Ackerley’s things?”

  “That I did.” Curry kept his gaze on Ian, pretending he didn’t see Beth cowering in the bed. “Her companion wanted to come, but I convinced her it wouldn’t be prudent.” Ian only nodded. He pulled on the drawers Curry held out to him, hiding his lovely anatomy, and sat down to be shaved. He might be at the luxurious Langham Hotel in London, rising after a night of leisure.

  Beth realized with a jolt that Curry had done this before. He seemed comfortable with the routine of slipping in the back way to bring Ian fresh linens and shave him after he’d spent the night with a woman.

  Beth hugged her knees. My own stupid fault if I’m jealous.

  “Did they see you?” Ian asked Curry.

  Curry answered as he stropped the razor. “No, I came up the back alley to the kitchen. The staff are all keeping mum. They don’t want the police in any more than we do.”

  “This is too absurd,” Beth said. “Why is Fellows persecuting you like this? And me?”

  “It’s his way,” Ian answered.

  Not much of an answer, but Ian closed his mouth and leaned his head back as Curry finished sharpening the razor. The maid of the night before slipped quietly into the room bearing a ewer of steaming water, and Curry told her in broken French that she should dress Beth. The girl curtsied, and while Ian and Curry faced the other way,-the maid laced Beth into the clothes Curry had fetched from Isabella’s. The maid’s face glowed with excitement. “He must be very rich, madame,” she breathed. Beth didn’t correct her assumption that Ian was her protector. Last night Beth had been amused that the landlord and servants had supposed her Ian’s kept woman, though it didn’t seem as funny now.

  “I suppose we shall have to flee out the back way as well,” she said to Ian. “Mr. Fellows is getting to be an absolute bother.”

  “We’ll not go yet,” Ian said.

  “Good, because it is still pouring rain.” Beth glanced at the windows. “I do hope the inspector and all his friends from the Surete are soaked.”

  Ian tilted his head back, face covered with lather. “Did you send for it?” he asked Curry.

  “I did like you said, m’lord. Now please stop talking so I don’t slice you open.”

  Ian went silent, and Curry drew the razor up his throat. Beth sat down on the bed she’d enjoyed such a night in and wished for something to eat.

  The maid bustled about and shook out Beth’s clothes from the night before, laying them before the fire to dry. Curry shaved Ian in silence, the only sound the scrape of the razor across Ian’s skin and the maid’s pattering footsteps.

  Ian seemed in no hurry. When Curry finished, Ian asked the maid to bring him a newspaper and coffee, and tea for Beth. Just after the maid returned with the requested things, someone else knocked on the door. Curry held the razor tightly while he answered it.

  Mac stood on the threshold. He came inside, and Curry quickly closed the door behind him.

  “Fellows looks like a drowned rat. Don’t worry, Ian. I took care.”

  “It is kind of you to come fetch us,” Beth said, trying not to sound impatient. “How is Isabella?”

  Mac looked blank. “How the devil should I know?”

  “You saw her home last night.”

  Mac turned a wooden chair around and straddled it back to front. “I got her into her carriage and paid her coachman to ensure she arrived home and didn’t leave again.”

  Beth frowned at him. “You didn’t go with her?”

  “No, I did not.”

  Most vexing of him. “She showed me the painting you did of her.”

  “Did she? That trifle?” Mac spoke casually, but he tensed.

  “Not a trifle. It’s beautiful. She travels with it—obviously, or she could not have shown it to me. She takes it everywhere, she says.”

  “Doubtless trying to find the perfect spot to throw it into the sea.”

  “Of course not.”

  Mac clenched the chair so rightly Beth feared he’d splinter the wood. “May we not speak of it?”

  “As you wish.” Beth frowned, but she dropped the subject. By the time Curry had got Ian fully dressed and Beth had drunk a cup of tea, someone else knocked on the door. Mac hastened to open it, but he slipped out into the hall without letting Beth see who it was. She heard a rapid exchange of French, and then Mac came back in with his pugilist valet, Bellamy, and a man in a long black-buttoned cassock and rosary.

  “Good heavens,” Beth bit out. “Are we having a fancydress party? So many more people to slip out the back.”

  Ian turned around. “We are leaving by the front door. Be damned to Fellows.”

  “I thought you said he was ready to arrest us.”

  “Why should he?” Ian’s voice hardened, and he glanced at her with a look she didn’t understand. “He has no reason to arrest a man for spending a night in a pension with his wife.”

  Beth stopped. “But I’m not your…”

  She took in the priest, Mac’s expression, Curry’s innocently blank face.

  “Oh, no,” she said, her heart sinking. “Oh, Ian, no.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  They all stared at her, Curry with amusement, the priest with a worried frown, Bellamy nonplussed, Mac in impatience. Only Ian remained expressionless. He could be a man waiting for someone to tell him whether or not there were any eggs for breakfast.

  “Why the hell not?” Mac asked. “Ian likes you, you get on, and he needs a wife.”

  Beth squeezed her hands together. “Yes, but perhaps I don’t need a husband.”

  “A husband is exactly what you need,” Mac growled. “It will keep you and my wife from running about in illegal casinos.”

  “Mac.” Ian’s voice was quiet. “I’ll talk to Beth alone.”

  Mac ran his hands through his russet hair. “Sorry,” he said to Beth. “I’m a little on edge. Marry him, do. We need at least one sensible person in this family.”

  Without waiting for her reply, he got the priest, the maid, Bellamy, and Curry out of the room and shut the door. Rain beat against the windows, the sound grainy in the silence. She was aware of Ian’s gaze boring a hole in her head, but for once she couldn’t look at him.

  “I det
ermined not to marry.” Beth tried to sound determined, and failed. “I decided to live as a wealthy widow, traveling, enjoying myself, helping others.”

  Her words sounded feeble, even to herself.

  “Once you are my wife, Fellows can’t touch you,” Ian said as though he hadn’t heard her.

  “His superiors ordered him to stay away from my family, and when you marry me, you’ll be my family, too. He can’t arrest you or harass you. My protection, and Hart’s protection, will extend to you.”

  “It hasn’t much stopped him from bothering you, has it?”

  “He won’t be allowed on the grounds of Kilmorgan, and Hart will make trouble for him if he tries to approach you anywhere else. I promise you this.”

  “Didn’t you say Hart was in Rome? What if he doesn’t want his protection extended to me?”

  “He will do it. He hates Fellows and will do anything to thwart him.”

  “ But…”

  The suddenness of it all took her breath away, and she groped for arguments. She found one.

  “Ian, there’s something you don’t know about me. My father was never a French aristocrat. He told people in England he was a viscount and they believed him. He could ape the manners of the nobility very well indeed. But he was as lowborn as any in the slums of the East End.”

  Ian’s gaze slid away from her. “I know. He was a confidence trickster fleeing arrest in Paris.”

  Beth’s breath left her. “You know?”

  “When I decide to learn about someone, I learn everything.”

  Her throat tightened. “Do your brothers know?”

  “I saw no reason to tell them.”

  “And you still want to marry me?”

  “Yes, why not?”

  “Because I’m not the kind of woman a duke’s son should marry,” she almost shouted. “My background is sordid—I was little better than a servant. I’d ruin you.”

  He lifted his shoulders in a very Ian-like shrug. “Everyone believes you the daughter of an aristocrat. That will be good enough for the stuffy English.”

  “But it’s a lie.”

  “You and I know the truth, and the people who prefer the fiction will be satisfied.”

  “Ian, you will make me a confidence trickster myself, just like my father. I’m no better than he was.”