"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.