A Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift

  Bellamy took a step back, faltered, took another step to catch himself, and then he fell backward, his eyes rolling up into his head. As the shouting rose, Bellamy landed on the parquet floor with a loud whump.

  David, startled, came forward and began to count him out.

  "Aw, Bellamy," Curry shouted. "You bastard. Get up, will ye?"

  Bellamy stirred, but David reached ten while Bellamy lay on the floor, not attempting to rise.

  "Cameron Mackenzie, winner," David said, a bewildered note in his voice.

  The Mackenzie guests shouted their victory. The servants groaned and booed. Cameron stood with hands on his hips, staring down at Bellamy while Mac knelt beside his valet to minister to him.

  A woman darted out of the crowd--Esme, who'd been given a job here at Bellamy's insistence--and fell to her knees at Bellamy's side. Bellamy's eyes swam open as Esme bent over him and lifted his bruised head into her lap. Bellamy smiled up at her, looking happy.

  Ainsley went to Cameron, and he put a shaking arm around her shoulders. "Damn him," he said. "He went down so a lady would be all over him w' sympathy, the crafty beggar. That was my plan."

  "I know." Ainsley wrapped her arm around him, feeling his body shudder with reaction to the fight, its abrupt end, his hurts. "You're a wonderful man."

  Cameron ruffled her hair with a shaking hand. "What do you mean, you know? How? Did it show?"

  "Steven told me you were pulling your punches, trying to let Bellamy win. I knew it was the sort of thing you'd do."

  "Damn and blast." Cameron wiped sweat from his eyes. "He would have beaten me fair, even if I hadn't held back. He's a hell of a fighter."

  The servants on the other side of the room surrounded Bellamy, their fallen champion. A few shot Cameron evil looks.

  "They do not look happy," Cam said. "They'll put sand in my soup, I shouldn't wonder."

  "Can you blame them? They've lost money they couldn't afford to."

  "No, they haven't." Cameron released Ainsley and called to his son, who was crowing that his father had beaten a London champion.

  "Good fighting, Dad," Daniel said when he'd loped over.

  "If you say so. I want you to cancel all the bets. Give everyone their money back."

  "What?" Daniel blinked, mouth open. "I can't do that. I'll be mobbed."

  "You'll lose your percentage, you mean," Cameron growled at him. "No one loses today," he said in a loud voice to the rest of the room. Talking ceased, heads turned to see what the winner was saying. "Daniel is returning your money. Bet on my horses. It's safer."

  As surprised then angry murmurs rose from the guests, Cameron lifted his hand.

  "The money is returned, or I can go to the duke and tell him his orders about betting were ignored. Ye can argue with Hart, or ye can take your money and be done."

  The murmurs ceased, and guests drifted off, annoyed, but the servants cheered. "Thank ye, sir," one shouted, and "'E's a proper gent, I always said," came from Curry.

  Daniel sighed and drew a pouch out of his sporran. "You'll ruin me, Dad."

  "I didn't raise you to be a bookmaker, Danny."

  "But I'm good at it."

  "That's what worries me."

  Muttering under his breath, Daniel left them to circulate the crowd, his movements betraying his irritation.

  Steven appeared and shook Cameron's hand. "Excellent fight. You know a thing or two."

  "Aye, maybe I used to. Bellamy's tough. I'll stick to horses."

  Steven grinned, pressed a kiss to Ainsley's cheek, and moved off. Cameron pulled Ainsley against him again. "Do you think they'll notice if the reigning champion slinks off to his soft bed to recover?"

  "I think you might be forgiven."

  Cameron's gaze heated. "Bellamy took a fall to win a woman. What shall I have to do?"

  "You've already won her," Ainsley said. She laid her hand on his chest. "However, perhaps I should don my New Year's frock and see how you like it. The bodice has ever so many buttons."

  "Wicked." Cameron brushed a kiss to her lips. "Mmph. Even kissing is painful. I believe I'll need my wife's healing touch."

  "Yes, indeed," Ainsley said, and she led her husband away, up to their bedchamber, where all was quiet, and bliss.

  *** *** ***

  David Fleming departed soon after the fight and didn't return until the thirtieth of December. By that time, all guests but family had gone, making the house party smaller but no less loud. Preparations went on for the Hogmanay celebration, which would include another feast, bonfires, and a walk to the village to join in the celebrations there. Beth, Ainsley, and Isabella visited the less fortunate with baskets heaped with food, blankets, and clothing. Eleanor fretted that she couldn't be part of the good works, but she could at least help fill the baskets as she waited for her child to be born.

  David was well into inebriation as he rolled out of the carriage that had been sent to fetch him from the train. Hart met him in the foyer, and David thrust a box into Hart's waiting hands as soon as he walked in the front door.

  David's face was drawn, his eyes heavy with fatigue. Hart steered him into his downstairs study and closed the door.

  "You look like hell," Hart said.

  "You would too after the few days I've had. That is to say, nights." David glanced at the whiskey decanter, always kept full, and shuddered.

  "I've sent for coffee." Hart touched the box on his desk. "This is it?"

  "The very one." David sank into a chair. "Dearly bought."

  Hart let his voice warm. "Well done."

  David blinked. "Praise from Hart Mackenzie? I must make a note in my diary."

  "Kiss my fundament," Hart said dryly. "How did you manage it?" He leaned against his desk and crossed his ankles. "I admit, I'm curious."

  David started to laugh. Before he could answer, a footman entered with a silver coffee pot and porcelain cups on a tray, which he placed on a table at David's elbow, and then departed. David's laughter tapered off as he poured himself a cup of steaming black liquid.

  "The earl loves the ladies," David said, lifting the cup.

  "We all do."

  "Ah, but he loves them in a special way." David blew steam from the surface of the coffee and took a sip. "Was a while before I twigged. All suggestions, subtle or blatant, that we avail lovely women of our skills in bed was met with cold disapproval. Until I realized that what Prudy Preston likes is not to touch, but to watch."

  Hart listened in surprise. "He's a voyeur?" He'd met more than one gentleman in his lifetime who gained pleasure by watching others find it, but he'd never suspected it of the prim and proper Earl of Glastonby.

  David chuckled and took another sip of coffee. "The tale grows more intriguing. He's not interested in watching a bloke and his ladylove having a go. He enjoys watching ladies with each other." He closed his eyes. "Oh, it was delicious to discover that."

  Hart didn't ask how David had convinced Glastonby to tell him--David was famous for winnowing out of people things they didn't want others to know.

  "Once I discovered his guilty secret, it was easy to orchestrate an encounter for him," David went on. "I knew two young ladies who were all too eager to help. Yesterday afternoon, I escorted Glastonby to a house where the ladies put on quite a show for him. I rather enjoyed it. He wouldn't touch them--oh, no--he thinks himself too good for the likes of women such as they. But he let them perform. Lapped it up, shall we say." Another sip, David beginning to relax.

  Glastonby was exactly the sort of man Hart loathed--one who detested the same women he used to gain his pleasure. When Hart had lived in his own personal bawdy house, he'd taken plenty of pleasure in the young women who lived there with him, though Hart recognized now that he'd never let down his guard, never not been in charge of every move in the bed.

  But he'd never despised the women in his house for being paid courtesans, or submissive to him. Hart had recognized that they were people in their own right, with hopes and troubles, desp
air and delights. The young women had often asked his advice about whatever concerned them--or about life itself--and when they wanted to leave, Hart would send them off with enough money to ensure their survival.

  "What did you do to him?" Hart asked. "Something nasty, I hope."

  "Of course, old friend." David sent him a smile that did not bode well for the Earl of Glastonby. "What should happen as we were taking our rest, the young ladies still intertwined in the drawing room, but that a vicar should happen to call, with every intent of reforming said young women? This vicar beheld, to his shock, the upright Earl of Glastonby with his trousers undone, the earl, whose wife leads so many reform committees. Stifling my laughter was painful, I assure you."

  "This vicar was your old friend?"

  "All too glad to expose a sinner. Dr. Pierson has a fine sense of humor, I am happy to say. A truly good man--there aren't many. By the way, you owe him five hundred guineas for his church roof fund. They'll be able to start their repairs thanks to your generous--and anonymous--donation."

  "I'll have Wilfred draw him a cheque when he returns," Hart said without changing expression.

  "I told Glastonby I could square it with the vicar to keep silent, especially to his wife and the earl's upright friends. My price, one Ming bowl. Glastonby took me to his house and nearly threw the bowl at me. I'll never be received in his home again." David laughed in delight. "Thank God."

  Hart relaxed. The ever-reliable David had done his job. "You're a devious snake," Hart said.

  "Indeed," David gave him a modest nod. "I was taught by the master--Lord Hart Mackenzie, now the lofty Duke of Kilmorgan. You might know him." He drained the last of the coffee from the cup and rose. "Shall we deliver the gift to Beth? Let me hand it to her. I want her kiss of gratitude."

  *** *** ***

  Ian removed the first layer of paper then of straw, feeling Beth's breath on his cheek. The warmth of it made him want to push the box aside and lead her away from all the people who'd gathered in the dining room. Why did they hover as though whatever Hogmanay gift Beth wanted to give him was any of their business?

  He carefully lifted out another layer of straw and set it aside. His brothers, their wives, Daniel, David, Louisa, the McBrides, and Beth, leaned forward.

  Inside the wooden box, nestled on another layer of straw, lay a Ming bowl. Ian lifted it out with gentle fingers--one never knew with porcelain how brittle it had become over the years.

  It was a decent specimen, a bit small, but with finely painted dragons flowing among vine leaves. A chrysanthemum decorated the bottom of the outside. The blue was good, not as brilliant as the Russian gentleman's bowl, but a similar shade.

  "This was the Earl of Glastonby's," Ian said, turning the bowl in his hands. He sniffed the porcelain--it was authentic. Some aristocrats in need of money had copies of their antiques made before they sold the originals, then forgot to mention that what they owned was the copy. Ian had seen this bowl before, when Glastonby had opened his home to show his collection, to raise money for one of his wife's charitable works. "He refused to sell it to me."

  "I know," David Fleming said. "Prying it out of him was an onerous chore, but one I happily performed."

  "It wasn't necessary," Ian said. "It's not as good as many of my others."

  Beth leaned to him, distracting him again with the touch of her breath, her voice like an alto flute, the softness of her breasts against his shoulder. "Do you not like it?"

  She wore the expression Ian had come to understand meant she was worried and trying not to show it. Worried about what? That he didn't want the bowl? Of course, he wanted it. Ming bowls were his passion.

  "I will add it to my collection."

  Ian thought his answer would close the matter, but his family remained staring at him, and Beth's expression grew more anxious. "It is like the one I broke." She touched the design. "With the dragons, and the flowers, and the blue."

  What was she talking about? This bowl was nothing like that one--perhaps it was similar in design and color, but with a completely different character and age.

  "It isn't the same," Ian said, trying to make Beth understand. "The leaves on the vines are different, and at the bottom is a mum, not a dragon. This bowl is about fifty years newer than the other." He carefully returned it to the straw. He'd have to rearrange the collection a little to fit it in, but no matter.

  Hart broke in. "I'm sorry, Ian. My fault. I thought it would suffice."

  Suffice for what? A new bowl was always welcome, and the fact that Beth had tried to buy him one warmed him.

  "Are you saying this is not the one you wanted?" David asked, his voice too loud for Ian's taste. "Not that I didn't enjoy my task, but are you not the least bit happy we wrested a prized possession from Glastonby? Now you have it, and he doesn't."

  Words began to knock together in Ian's head. He couldn't follow the undercurrents of the conversation, and his old frustration started to rise.

  "If I'd wanted Glastonby's bowl, I would have had it," Ian said.

  David slid a flask from his pocket and took a drink. "But you just said he wouldn't sell it to you."

  "He would have. Eventually. If I'd wanted him to."

  Ian turned to Beth, ready for his family to go and leave them alone. He stopped, his confusion escalating, when he saw the tears in her blue eyes.

  His brothers had drilled into him that, when someone gave him a present, Ian should acknowledge it. Perhaps that's what she was waiting for.

  "Thank you, my Beth."

  Beth swallowed, more tears moistening her eyes. "You're welcome, Ian."

  Ian closed the box. End of the matter.

  "Ian." Mac laid a heavy hand on Ian's shoulder. "A word with you, if you don't mind. Alone."

  * * * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ian tried to ignore him. He didn't want to leave Beth, who was still crying. He wanted to kiss away her tears, to feel the moisture on her lashes brushing his lips. He needed to discover what was the matter, to make her happy again. He'd thought he'd done so with Jamie's Christmas gift, but he'd been wrong.

  Mac's hand firmed. "Now."

  Ian smothered a sigh, pushed the box away, rose from the table, and let Mac lead him out into the hall. The others closed on Beth--if they didn't leave her alone, they'd suffocate her.

  "Ian." Mac shut the door, cutting off Ian's view of Beth. "Sometimes, my little brother, you can be incomparably cruel."

  "What are you talking about?" This was what happened when his family wouldn't let Ian and Beth be alone. When Ian could wrap himself in Beth's presence, he was at peace, in a blissful place where all was stillness. Now there was turmoil, tears. "I said 'thank you'."

  "How can I explain this? Beth feels terrible that she broke your blasted bowl. She's been hunting everywhere for one like it, Hart bullied half the country until he located a Ming bowl with blue dragons on it, and he sent Fleming to lure Glastonby into a compromising position so Glastonby would hand it over. Fleming rushed it to Hart, who rushed it to Beth, who rushed it to you. She wanted to make up for what she'd done. Do you see?"

  "But the bowl was irreplaceable," Ian said. Perhaps if he spoke slowly, he could make himself clear. "It was very rare. Glastonby's is not as good."

  "Not the point. Beth was very unhappy that she broke the bowl. She knew how much it meant to you. Hell, for months you wouldn't talk about anything else. And then she broke it. The woman who loves you broke it. How do you think that made her feel?"

  "I know Beth was upset. I told her it was all right."

  Mac scraped his hands through his hair. "Yes, yes, you told her. But every time she thought of a way to make up for it, you said she never could. You told Curry he needn't have bothered sticking the damn thing back together, as Beth asked him to. And now, she goes to the trouble of finding you another bowl, and you tell her it isn't good enough."

  "It isn't as good. But I said I'd keep it . . ."

  "And I want to break the
bloody thing over your head. Focus, Ian. Look at me."

  Ian shifted his gaze, which still rested on the door that blocked him from Beth, to Mac's copper-colored eyes.

  "Beth is hurting," Mac said. "Because she thinks she hurt you."

  Bewildering. "She didn't."

  "But she doesn't know that."

  Ian couldn't look away from Mac as his thoughts spun around and the events straightened out in his head. A mathematical problem. A = x and B = y; if A + B = C, then C = x + y.

  "She thinks she hurt me because she broke the bowl," Ian said.

  "Yes!" Mac threw up his hands. "Ian wins the race."

  "What race?"

  "Never mind. Forget about races. Let's return to Beth being upset. You love your bowls, and Beth destroyed something you love." A + B = C. Except that A was flawed.

  "I don't love the bowls."

  "You're overly fond of them then."

  "No." Ian thought a moment. "They please me." Uniform, their gentle shape, the intricacy of the designs.

  "Fine. Beth destroyed something that pleased you. Therefore, she is unhappy."

  Ian did not like Beth being unhappy. Her sorrow was his, he ached when he saw her tears.

  Ian looked again at Mac, his unruly, teasing brother, the one he understood least. Mac was the opposite of Ian--he was impetuous, reckless, volatile, wild, whereas Ian needed his life to be neat and exact, his routine unbroken unless absolutely necessary. Mac's artistic talent had earned their father's wrath, and he'd run away from the cloying household at a young age. Ian's exactness had also earned his father's wrath, the old duke believing Ian mad, and punishing him for it.

  "What do I do?" Ian asked. He was swimming, uncertain, trying to find the current.

  "Tell Beth you're not upset at her for breaking the bowl. Simple as that."

  "But I told her."

  "Tell her again. And again. As many times as it takes for her to believe you. Explain why you are not upset. In great detail--you are good at details."

  The dining room door was beckoning to him, because behind it lay Beth. All the bowls in the world could crumble to dust, and it wouldn't matter, because he could lean down and kiss Beth's cheek, smoother than any porcelain.