Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift

Chapter Fifteen

Dark night came on--these days, the sun hardly appeared at all. To Hart the darkness and the cold matched his fear, as he paced the sitting room down the hall from Eleanor's bedchamber.

Ian was with him. Hart's quiet brother stood looking out the window at the blackness as Hart walked the room behind him. Restlessness bothered Ian and made him want to emulate it, so he'd learned to turn away and block it out.

Eleanor had decorated this room, making it a place in which they could be private after supper, or sit with family and close friends. Other members of the family had made their contributions: Ainsley had embroidered cushions with her neat skill to strew about the sofa; drawings done by Mac's children--

Aimee's quite skilled, the others barely discernible scrawls--decorated the walls. Beth and Ian had purchased the long, comfortable sofa to replace the old-fashioned, overly carved horsehair one from the old duke's day.

A homey room, a room for family. Hart had never known such a retreat before his marriage.

"Damn it." He halted his pacing, sank to the sofa, and buried his head in his hands.

Eleanor's presence filled every corner of this room. If she did not live through the night . . .

There, he'd thought it. If she did not live, Hart would never enter this room again.

He smelled the sharp bite of whiskey and lifted his head to find Ian holding a glass out to him, brimful of Mackenzie malt.

Hart took the glass and poured half the contents down his throat. He coughed, wet his lips, and gulped down the other half.

Ian took the glass away and returned with it full again. Hart drank half of that before he sighed and set the whiskey on a table. His head spun, his gut churned, and still he feared.

A clock ticked on the mantelpiece, another pretty gift, this one from David Fleming. The clock chimed eleven, the fire burned, and Hart waited.

No news came. Hart and Ian didn't speak. The clock kept up its relentless ticking--chiming twelve, one. Finally Hart rose, stalked to the mantelpiece, ripped open the clock, and slapped its small pendulum to a halt. Only Ian's presence kept him from dashing the clock to the floor entirely.

"What is taking so confounded long?" Hart growled, staring at the now-still clock.

"Beth took a long time with Jamie," Ian said. "A day and a half. You can sleep if you want. I'll call you."

"Did you sleep?"

"No."

"Well, then." Hart resumed his pacing.

He did concede to eat something when Marcel carried in a light supper. Marcel also brought the news that Eleanor was in labor but the midwife did not believe she'd give birth for a while yet. Hart returned to moody contemplation, barely remembering to thank Marcel for his trouble. Marcel departed after Hart had downed a few mouthfuls, and Hart's gloom descended once more.

Now that he'd put the clock out of commission, Hart had to check his watch for time, which he found himself doing every five minutes. Another hour crawled by, and another.

Hart told Ian to go, but Ian stubbornly remained. Even when Beth entered, smudges of exhaustion on her face, and embraced Ian, Ian did not offer to leave.

Hart couldn't make his lips move to form questions to Beth, or his legs unbend to rise from the sofa.

Beth came to Hart, sat next to him, and took his hand. Always a bad sign, when a woman did that.

"Eleanor is very strong," Beth said.

"What does that mean?" Hart snapped. He heard the rage and impatience in his voice, but he couldn't take the time to apologize.

"The baby is ready to come, but Eleanor's body is being slow to make the passage wide enough. It happens. The midwife is certain she'll come through it, and the baby will be born without trouble. It's just taking time."

"Tell me what it really means. If she can't birth naturally . . ."

"Then we send for a surgeon. But it's early days, yet."

Hart's body went numb. He couldn't feel, couldn't move. "If they have to cut the baby out, El could die."

"Surgery has progressed in the last years, and you have the best surgeon in the Highlands waiting to be sent for if needed. She'll be in good hands."

But surgery was always risky, because though the surgeon might do a fine job, the wound could become infected, or Eleanor could lose so much blood that she wouldn't be strong enough to live.

Eleanor would die.

The thought whirled around in Hart's head and through his stomach, sloshing with whiskey and what little he'd managed to eat, and made him sick.

Hart stood up abruptly, throwing off Beth's helpful clasp, and ran out of the room. His old bedchamber smelled stuffy and cloying, but the bathroom that opened from it had a working cistern. Here Hart lost all the whiskey and dinner Marcel had brought to the bowels of the house.

He rinsed his mouth, dabbing his lips with a towel. When he left the bathroom, he found Ian waiting for him in the bedroom.

"Where's Beth?" Hart asked him.

"Back to Eleanor."

"You don't have to stay with me." Hart looked around his old bedchamber with its monstrously high ceiling, paintings of gods and horses around the frieze, and its old and chunky furniture. This had been his father's bedchamber--the dukes of Kilmorgan had slept here since the house had been built.

"Ian, if I lose her." Hart wandered to the bed he'd abandoned months ago to move into Eleanor's cozier bedchamber down the hall. "Losing Sarah and my boy was the hardest thing I've ever lived through. But even then, you see, I knew that Eleanor was with me. If not here, then at least in the world, where I could find her. I could think of her living in that old house with her father, I could write to her if I chose. She was the anchor in my world, no matter how far I was from her. But if I lose her . . . Ian, I lose myself. I can't live. Not without Eleanor."

Ian listened with his usual expression--focused, brows slightly drawn, mouth straight--saying nothing.

Whether he followed Hart's words or not, Hart didn't know. He never knew, with Ian.

He looked up at the ceiling. "God, I hate this room. I'm removing all furniture to the scrap heap and tearing out those bloody awful paintings. After . . ."

Ian held out his large hand to Hart. "Come with me."

"Come with you where?" Hart wasn't in the mood for expeditions.

Ian said nothing. He never explained. He simply expected Hart to trust him.

Hart gave up and followed his brother out of the room. Ian didn't go far. He led Hart down the hall to the chamber in which Eleanor lay and pushed open the door without knocking.

Hart smelled closeness, heat, the bite of the coal fire, too many people in a room with no fresh air, and blood. The room was too dark, too stuffy.

A maid swung around, alarm in her eyes. "You can't be in here, Your Grace. Your lordship."

The room teemed with women, maids in caps and aprons, the plump midwife, the wet nurse with her own baby, waiting to take Eleanor's. Beth sat on a chair on one side of the bed, holding Eleanor's hand.

Eleanor lay on her back, the covers bunched around her to form a kind of nest. Her arms, shoulders, and breasts were covered with her dressing gown, the rest of her exposed. Her knees were up, her skin dripping with sweat, her eyes closed in a pale face.

"Not really the place for you, Your Grace," the midwife said, without turning from the foot of the bed.

"We'll let you men folk know when the time is right."

Eleanor opened her eyes. Hart thought she might call to him, but her face distorted, and she emitted a long wail that ended in a scream. Her body arched, spasms wracking it.

She fell back to the bed, breathless. Beth stroked her hand, her attention all for Eleanor. Eleanor gasped for a few seconds, then she wailed again.

Hart was across the room, pushing aside the maids, reaching for Eleanor. Eleanor moaned again, her head moving on the pillow, but she grasped Hart's outstretched hand and held it hard. More than hard. She squeezed it to the bone.

She fell back again, spent. "Hart."

"I'm here, El."

"Really, Your Grace. It's not fitting." The midwife, a large Scotswoman with fire-red hair, put her hands on her hips. Hart might be a duke, but this was her demesne.

"Please, let him stay," Eleanor said. "Please."

Hart read the pain in her blue eyes, the fear, the hope. He kissed her fingers, her hands so pitifully swollen.

"Beth says it shouldn't be long now," Eleanor whispered.

Hart saw, out of the corner of his eye, the midwife and Beth exchange a glance. They'd lied to soothe her.

"Good," Hart said. "That's good."

Ian, saying nothing, came around the bed, dragged a chair next to Beth's, and sat down. He took Beth's hand in his, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

Hart knew Eleanor's fears and shared them. She was thirty-three, this was her first child, and first children could be difficult. Eleanor was much more robust than Hart's first wife had been, but childbirth was dangerous in any case.

Hart had taken far too long to find Eleanor again. They'd had less than a year together, and he might lose her tonight.

Eleanor squeezed his hand, this time gently. "Are you all right, my love? You look a bit green."

"Which is why husbands should wait outside," the midwife said. "They're not good with what a woman can take in her stride.

"I'm fine," Hart snarled. "I . . ." He swallowed, forcing the bile down. "I'm fine, love."

"Good," Eleanor said. "I'm fine too." She closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath, and then her body went slack.

"What's the matter with her?" Hart asked in alarm.

The midwife looked harassed, but Beth answered. "She's only asleep. She's been drifting off from time to time. It's all right. Sleep is good for her. Gives her some peace."

But Eleanor looked too wan, her face too waxen for Hart's comfort.

The night wore on. There was another confounded clock in here, ticking, ticking. Eleanor woke up, groaning in pain, but the midwife still shook her head. Not yet.

Eleanor drifted off again, moaning a little in her sleep. Ian stayed with Beth, holding her hand as he dozed.

Hart stroked Eleanor's hand, wishing he could take all the pain away. In the days before his marriage to Eleanor, he'd spent time with women who liked Hart to inflict pain on them--to bind them and command them, and to use the pain, binding, and words to drive them to pleasure. He'd been good at it. Hart had mastered the technique of squeezing a woman's throat just enough so that when air cut off, her climax was that much more robust. A dangerous practice, but Hart had had the touch.

But he'd always been the master. He could twist and take, but when it was time to stop and soothe away the hurt, Hart had done it. He'd been excellent at that as well.

He looked at the woman he loved most in the world, knowing he couldn't take away her hurt, couldn't help her, and it killed him. Hart Mackenzie, the specialist in ultimate control and exquisite pleasures, could do nothing to relieve his wife.

Not true, he realized--he could do a few things. When Eleanor swam again to wakefulness, he got up onto the bed beside her, where he could snake his hands behind her back and gently rub it. He massaged there then worked his way up to knead her neck, and then her scalp.

Hart knew how to soothe, how to bring a woman down from unbearable ecstasy. He used the same movements as he glided his hands to her wrists, then to her ankles and back up her calves, trying to take away pain.

Eleanor, who knew what he was doing, smiled at him, her eyes heavy lidded. "I love being married to a wicked husband."

Hart gently kissed her lips. He'd spent many years mastering the art of cruelty, but then he could turn around and be kindness itself. Now he wanted to help his wife the only way he could, to let her know he was with her, and would be until the last.

"I love you, El," he whispered.

She smiled faintly. "And I love you, Hart. You should sleep. It might be a while yet."

"I'm not leaving you."

"No?" Her red brows climbed in her too-white face. "Good thing the bed is nice and wide."

"It's our bed."

"Yes, I know." She lightly patted the mattress. "Although I admit, I'm growing a bit tired of it at the moment."

"This will soon be over," Hart said. "And we'll snuggle down again, like an old married couple."

"Do hush. And sleep. You're cross as a bear when you don't get your sleep."

Hart softly kissed her again then laid his head on the pillow next to her.

He had no intention of sleeping, only of resting curled in her warmth, but the next thing he knew, Eleanor was crying out again, and the midwife bustled around, a smile on her face.

"It's now, Your Grace," the midwife said. "I believe the little gentleman is coming. Time for you and his lordship to go."

Hart smoothed Eleanor's hair. "I'm not leaving."

The midwife made an impatient noise. "Your Grace . . ."

"Let him stay," Eleanor said. "If he faints, it will be his own fault. Make certain you fall out of the way on the carpet, my love."

The midwife looked unhappy, but she subsided.

Ian likewise stayed. He remained on his chair while Beth rose excitedly to help.

Hart was surprised how much Ian's silent presence comforted him. His volatile little brother, who'd needed so much help in the past, was now a rock in the roiling stream of Hart's world.

I can always find you, Ian had told him once. He'd meant that he'd know when Hart needed him, would be there, no matter what.

Eleanor screamed. She seized Hart's hand and hung on.

She crushed his fingers with amazing strength. Hart gritted his teeth, holding her steady, while her body tightened, her face beading with sweat.

The midwife and maid helped bend Eleanor's legs, settling her knees, covering her modestly. Eleanor shoved the sheets aside impatiently, her breasts straining against her dressing gown as she arched.

"Push, Your Grace," the midwife said. "Like I explained to you. Give the little fellow a shove."

Eleanor's face twisted as she obeyed, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Hart kissed her fingers, still tight around his. "You're strong, love," he said. "You're so strong."

Eleanor wailed in pain. She clenched Hart's hand even harder, her other fist bunching the sheets.

"He's coming, Your Grace," the midwife said. "Not much longer."

"I see him." Beth said, her smile wide. "El, I see his little head."

"Or hers," Hart said. "It might be a her."

Eleanor opened her eyes and looked at him, the blue swimming with tears. "What do you know, Hart Mackenzie? He's a . . . " She trailed off into another wail.

"He's coming," the midwife said. "Here. Quickly."

A maid was there with blankets, Beth standing with fingers steepled against her lips, the midwife frowning in concentration.

Eleanor gave one final, agonized heave, and the midwife cried out in triumph.

She bent over the blanket the maid held, and after a long, breath-stopping moment, the first shrieks--

loud and angry--of a new Mackenzie rang out.

"Welcome to the world, your lordship," the midwife said.

She lifted the blanket, the baby glistening and red, still attached at his tummy to his mother. A sheaf of dark hair sprouted from his head, his tiny face screwed up, and he roared.

Hart sat up, tears blurring the wondrous sight. He touched a broad finger to his child's face.

"He's beautiful," Hart whispered. "El, he's beautiful."

Eleanor was laughing, tears spilling down her face. She reached for her baby, and the midwife gently put him into her arms.

"We'll get him all cleaned up and fed for you, Your Grace."

"In a moment," El said, her voice weak but rapt. "In a moment."

Hart kissed Eleanor's forehead and drew her close, his fingertips resting gently on his son, his hand almost as large as the lad's little body. The baby waved his fists, his cries announcing to the world that he'd arrived, and he was hungry.

Hart wanted to break down and weep; he wanted this moment to never end.

El touched the boy's cheek. "Hello, Alec." She smiled at him then slanted a sly look at Hart. "A wee little lad. I told you."

"I'll never doubt you again," Hart said. Then his tears came, and he didn't bother to stop them.

*** *** *** "How's the family, then?" Isabella entered the room an hour later, bringing in the family that had been kept out. Ian watched them from the sofa across the room, where he sat with Beth.

Mac came behind Isabella, then Ainsley and Cam, Eleanor's father, and Daniel, and with them the Mackenzie children. Ian rose to take Belle from Daniel's arms. He kissed his daughter, remembering every detail of his worry the night Beth had brought her into the world, and before that, when Jamie had come. Hart had just gone through the same ordeal.

Hart sat on the bed, his back against the headboard, his arm around Eleanor. The midwife had finished the rest of the birthing and washed the child, and the wet nurse had given him his first meal. Ian and Hart had been persuaded to step outside for the procedures, and once he'd walked out of the room, Hart's legs had buckled, and he'd nearly fallen to the floor.

Ian had caught him, holding his older brother upright in his arms, until Hart had regained his strength.

Darkness still prevailed outside, but bonfires broke the blackness, the villagers getting started on the Hogmanay celebrations. Inside Hart and Eleanor's bedchamber, all the lamps glowed, and the fire burned high, lighting up the scene.

"Hart Alec Graham Mackenzie," Eleanor's father, Alec Ramsay, was saying. He tickled the baby's cheek. "What a splendid name for a splendid little fellow."

They'd call him Alec in the family, Hart had said, in honor of Eleanor's father. Small Alec was now dozing in his mother's arms, breathing well, proclaimed healthy and strong by the midwife and the doctor who'd visited after the messiest bit was finished.

Hart looked as though someone had kicked him repeatedly. Exhaustion stained his face, his eyes red-

rimmed, but his smile was strong and as arrogant as ever, as though he'd just done something uncommonly clever.

Ian's brothers shared Hart's pride, holding up their own children so they could greet their new cousin.

"He's very small," Jamie informed Ian. "He won't be able to ride his pony."

"He'll grow." Beth rumpled her son's hair. "In a few years, you'll be racing him."

Jamie looked doubtful. "He's even smaller than Belle."

"Not for long, I wager," Daniel said in his deep voice. "Mackenzie men grow tall." He pressed a fist to his chest and laughed down at Jamie.

Bellamy and Curry carried in trays of wine, whiskey, and champagne. Hart grabbed a glass and drank heavily, this time keeping it down.

The others raised glasses in a toast. "To the newest addition to the family," Mac said. "God help him."

"He's our First Footer," Isabella said, lifting her champagne glass. "The first into the house for the New Year."

"To the First Footer!" Mac and Daniel shouted. Glasses clinked, and champagne disappeared.

"You've lost your bet, Uncle Hart," Daniel said. "Forty guineas you owe me, I think."

"Hart, you rogue," Eleanor exclaimed. "You told me you didn't think it was proper to wager on your own child."

Hart shrugged. "I thought I had a good chance. I'll make good on my bet."

"Well, I've won quite a packet. Haven't I, Danny?"

"Ye have, Auntie. As have I. I always trust the mother."

"Mother." Eleanor held Alec close. "That sounds nice. And here is Papa."

She handed the baby to Hart. Hart took him, his expression softening to wonder, everything hard in him suddenly gone.

The others raised glasses once more. Ian put his arm around Beth and sank into her warmth, hefting his daughter in one arm, while his son sat happily in his mother's. This time next year, their little family would be larger, and Ian's happiness would expand yet again.

"They change you," Ian said to Hart. "We're not the same now."

"Bloody good thing," Cameron rumbled.

"Aye," Hart said. He leaned to his wife. "Thank you, El, for saving my life."

Eleanor winked at Ian as she leaned to kiss Hart's lips. "You are most welcome, love."

*** *** *** "Do you feel you've changed that much?" Beth asked Ian much later.

The day was starting, the Hogmanay celebrations would commence soon, but Ian and Beth lay in their bedchamber, entwined and bare, the covers keeping them from the cold world.

Jamie and Belle had been taken back to the nursery for their breakfasts, both chattering about Alec and New Year's, and the unusual excitement in the house. Nanny Westlock had taken charge, and Ian had led Beth, exhausted though she wouldn't admit it, back to bed.

Ian had gathered Beth into his arms, and they'd celebrated with passionate, warm, lovemaking. Ian's desire and love tangled inside him, blotting out all that was terrible and brutal in the world. Now, he trailed open-mouthed kisses down Beth's body, loving her softness.

"Ian?" Beth prompted, her voice low and sleep-filled.

Instead of answering, Ian reached into the drawer in the bedside table and pulled out the tissue-

wrapped package he'd been saving to give Beth for Hogmanay. He laid it on her bare chest and pressed a kiss to her breast.

"You didn't have to get me anything," Beth exclaimed, though her face softened in pleasure. "You did so much with that wondrous surprise for Jamie."

"Open it," Ian said.

Beth undid the wrapping, which fell to the sheets, and drew a quick breath when she saw what lay inside. A locket of heavy silver rested in her hand. Beth pried open the locket, her eyes shining.

Inside were pictures, drawn and colored by Mac, of the two children, Jamie on the left, and Belle on the right. The pictures were tiny, yet Mac had executed them in fine detail.

"Ian, it's perfect."

"The locket was my mother's."

"Oh." Beth's expression went quiet. She closed the locket and held it close. "Then I'll treasure it all the more."

Ian had very little from his mother, but he'd always kept the locket safe. But Beth should have it. His mother would have liked that.

Beth laid it and the wrappings carefully on the bedside table. "Thank you, Ian."

"Mmm." Ian lowered his head back to her breast, licked around her satin areola, and drew it into his mouth.

"You didn't answer before," Beth said, her voice going soft. "Do you feel you've changed? Being a husband and a father?"

Of course he had. She knew that--why did she need to ask? "It's better now," Ian said. He licked her nipple until it stood up in a fine point. "Much better."

"I'm inclined to agree with you."

Ian's thoughts went back to the funeral they'd attended the day Beth had broken the bowl. Death, sorrow, the loss of something he treasured. Instead of sinking into darkness and despair, Ian had walked forward, moving to what had been important--Beth, Jamie, Belle.

Beth had let him do that. He'd never have been able to sort out his thoughts or focus on what was vital in his life without her.

"Much better," Ian repeated. He kissed between her breasts and moved to her lips, sliding over her body to enter her again. "Thank you, my Beth," he said, echoing Hart's words to Eleanor.

Beth's beautiful smile spread over her face as Ian looked straight into her eyes. "You're welcome, Ian Mackenzie."

End Want more Mackenzies?

Read on for a preview of The Seduction of Elliot McBride Book Five of the Mackenzies / Highland Pleasures series December 31, 2012

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