"What are you doing out of your studio?" Isabella asked. Mac had retreated there after breakfast and hadn't been seen since. He still wore his painting kilt and boots, though he'd donned a shirt. Most of the time when painting, he didn't bother with the shirt. "Has something happened?' "Yes, Nanny Westlock. Time for the children's tea. I was taken to task for not returning them to the nursery, and I came to you for comfort."
"And as you can see, I'm swimming in plans for Hart's Christmas ball and New Year's celebration."
"Isn't that what Wilfred is for?"
Isabella reached for another sheet of paper, Mac's arms still around her. "Wilfred is a man and what I have in mind needs a woman's touch. Eleanor is fragile, and I like doing this for her."
"I know you do, love. You have a generous heart."
He kissed her again, and Isabella closed her eyes, momentarily consigning plans for Christmas, Hogmanay, and the coming year to oblivion. She'd fought long and hard to reconcile with Mac. She wanted to savor every moment she had with him, to erase the years she'd had to do without him.
"Daniel telegraphed," Mac said. "Cam's out, so the majordomo handed the telegram to me. He'll be arriving tonight."
"Excellent." Isabella opened her eyes, smiling in true enjoyment. "I miss having him underfoot. He's all grown up now."
"He's quick-witted, resourceful, inventive, and as stubbornly obsessive as any of us. Very dangerous."
"And yet, he'll still be the little boy who mistook me for your fancy lady the day after we married.
Poor thing. He wasn't to know you'd brought an innocent miss into your house."
Mac's arms tightened around her. "Love, you'll never know how hard I fell for you, my haughty debutant, when I saw you in the middle of that ballroom, all lace and fineness. You looked at me, the great Mac Mackenzie, and I knew I was lower than worms."
"I was an arrogant little thing, so certain I was the catch of the Season. You brought me down a peg or two. I needed it."
"I never meant to bring you as far down as I did." Mac's arms tightened around her, and Isabella remembered the pain and heartache of the first years of their hasty marriage.
"We were both young, impatient, and selfish," she said softly. "It was bound to go wrong."
"Whereas now we are old, wise, and staid?" He nibbled her neck. "I hope we have some wickedness still in us. How about I send Bellamy for some scones and tea?"
Isabella flushed bright red, remembering one afternoon in her London house, when she'd shared scones and clotted cream with Mac for the first time since their separation. Her behavior had been decidedly un- ladylike.
"Perhaps," she said, the word demure, her gaze cast down.
Mac growled. "My little Sassenach. Do ye know how much I love you?"
Small footsteps interrupted Isabella's intended answer. They turned to see Aimee, their adopted daughter, five going on six, watching them solemnly from the carpet.
Isabella rose, her love for Aimee flooding her. They'd rescued the poor girl from a madman, and she'd brought Isabella and Mac closer again.
Isabella went to Aimee and lifted her, reflecting sadly that she was getting too big for such things. She planted a kiss on Aimee's pink face. Mac joined them, his arms going around his wife and daughter.
"Why are you out of the nursery?" Isabella asked.
"Yes," Mac said. "You'll have Nanny Westlock hunting me, ready to put buckshot into my backside."
"Papa," Aimee said reproachfully. "Don't be so silly. Nanny wants to find Gavina. I told her I'd ask her what you've done with her."
"Gavina?" Mac blinked. "She belongs to Cam. Why should I have done anything with her?"
"Because she likes to play in the studio with us, and Aunt Ainsley didn't return her to the nursery for tea. Nanny thinks you might have forgotten where you left her."
"I didn't leave her anywhere," Mac said. "If she's not with Ainsley, she must be with Cam somewhere."
"Uncle Cameron has gone to the pub. Would Uncle Cameron have taken her to the pub?"
"No . . ." Isabella began, then she stopped. With Cameron, anything was possible. She glanced out the dark window. "I'm sure she's only followed one of the dogs or fallen asleep." Isabella set Aimee on her feet and took her hand. Mac took Aimee's other hand, his wink at Isabella telling her they'd continue their discussion about scones later. "Come along, Aimee. Let's find her."
*** *** *** Daniel Mackenzie stepped off the last train of the night to Kilmorgan, settling his hat as the train puffed steam then chugged slowly up the track to its next destination.
"Master Daniel," the stationmaster said. "Welcome back. If you wait a few moments, my son will drive you up to Kilmorgan Castle."
"I'll walk," Daniel said. "I've been sittin' on trains since Edinburgh, and my legs, they need some stretching. Have the lad take my case, but I'll take a stroll through the village."
"Powerful cold night for a stroll, lad."
"Aye, but the warm pub is between here and there." Daniel grinned at the stationmaster, who'd been stationmaster for more than the entire eighteen years of Daniel's life.
The stationmaster chuckled, snatched up Daniel's one bag, said good night, and disappeared into the station. Daniel pulled his greatcoat closer and walked swiftly to the road that led to the village.
Coming home was always a mixed blessing. Christmases at Kilmorgan had become much better since Ian had married Beth, even better with Mac and Isabella now back to loving each other, and the best since his father had done the sensible thing and married Ainsley.
Now that Eleanor was Duchess of Kilmorgan, maybe Uncle Hart would stop behaving like a snarling bear. From what Cameron had said, since the marriage Hart had regained the more playful, lighthearted side of his youth-- God help us all, Daniel's father had concluded.
This homecoming would be more interesting than others, that was certain.
On the other hand, Daniel was restless, tired of waiting for life to begin. He liked his studies at Edinburgh, but they didn't move quickly enough for him. He'd taken to slipping away to spend time with a middle-aged man who built crazy gadgets in his house, which had led to a few scrapes that Daniel hoped had not come to the attention of his father.
The one street through Kilmorgan was deserted, not surprisingly, because a cold wind cut through the huddle of houses and back out again. No snow yet lay on the ground, but it clung to the mountains and waited to pounce on the valleys.
With relief, Daniel opened the door of the pub and stepped into its welcoming warmth.
A large man holding a glass of ale in one hand and a lit cigar in the other lounged at a table between fireplace and door. He sat alone, though he'd cut off a conversation he'd been having with two men playing cards at a nearby table.
The man took several long drags of the cigar, blew out the smoke, and said, "Hello, son."
* * * * *
Chapter Four
"Dad." Daniel lifted his hand to the regulars in the public house, men he'd known all his life.
Lord Cameron Mackenzie, next in line for the dukedom until Eleanor bore a son, sat comfortably in their midst. The locals had never minded Cameron or Mac coming in to drink, play cards or darts, and join in the conversation. They didn't mind Ian either, who'd drink and sit in silence the rare times he'd visited with his brothers, though Hart still made them a bit nervous.
An open box of cigars sat on Cameron's table, and from the acrid scents around him, many of the men here had dipped into it. Daniel's father was generous--these were expensive.
Daniel took one of the cigars, bit off the end, lit the cigar with a match from a box on the table, and sank down across from Cameron. He smiled over at the barmaid, who smiled back and started working the taps.