Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift

Chapter Six

A strong grip seized her and yanked the key out of her grasp. Mac took a step back, holding up the key, his smile triumphant.

"No, ye don't, Sassenach."

Isabella put her hands on her hips and let out an exasperated breath. "I went inside yesterday."

"I was ready for ye then." Mac backed away, holding the key out of her reach. "I'll let you in again when I'm done."

Her curiosity grew. "What is it, Mac? What are you hiding?"

"It's a surprise."

"You know I love surprises. Tell me now."

Mac laughed, the velvety sound she'd fallen in love with. "If I tell ye, it won't be a surprise, will it?

You'll find out. Come Christmas."

"A Christmas present, is it?"

She walked toward him, hands behind her back, swaying a little. Mac studied her as she came, gaze raking from her pushed-forward breasts to her moving hips.

"Aye. The perfect gift, I'm thinking."

"What is it?"

"Can't tell you."

Isabella lunged for him. Mac whirled away, still clutching the key. He ran down the stairs, Isabella after him, then he made for a tall window on the landing and tucked the key on top of the cloth-covered cornice, well out of Isabella's reach.

She halted, her breath coming fast. "You know I can always ask Mrs. Desmond for the key."

"But you won't." Mac stepped to her again, slipping one hand around her waist and pulling her against him. "You'll save it for Christmas."

"I'll consider it."

"You will." Mac's face was an inch from hers, soft in the shadows. He gave her a slow kiss, full of desire.

"You're highhanded."

"I am, wife."

His mouth came to hers again, brushing fire. Isabella opened her lips for his, seeking him, wanting him. Mac had been able to make her crazed with need since the night she'd met him, when he'd strode so casually through the crowd at the ball in her honor, where he'd not been invited. Wild, daring Mac had turned her world upside down from that night to this.

He slid his hand to the nape of her neck, holding her, while he thoroughly kissed her mouth. He stepped into her, boot nudging between her high-heeled lace-up shoes.

Isabella hung on to him, her body pliant, knowing he'd never let her fall. Never. Even when they'd been apart, those horrible years when they didn't speak to each other, Mac had been there, from afar, making sure she was all right.

He broke the kiss, his breath heating her skin. Isabella laced her fingers through his and tugged him along the hall to their bedchamber. She kissed him again as they nearly fell inside the door to the warm and welcoming room and its wide, embracing bed.

*** *** *** Ainsley rested her hand on Gavina's back, the bassinet on its stand pulled near the big bed. She leaned her hip against the bed's mattress, unable to move from her daughter to get into the bed as Cameron had ordered her to.

Her daughter, her beautiful daughter, had nearly been lost. Gavina lay on her tummy in the bassinet, her head turned toward her mother, eyes closed in exhausted sleep. Ainsley reached out and smoothed one of the golden curls that tumbled over Gavina's cheek.

Cameron strode into the bedchamber with his usual energy, but he closed the door softly, not waking Gavina. Cameron's hair was damp, and he smelled of soap and also warmth under the dressing gown that covered him from neck to slippers.

"Ainsley." The mattress sagged as Cameron leaned on it next to her, his arm stealing around her, smoothing her nightgown. "Let Nanny Westlock take her. You need your sleep, little mouse."

"I should have been watching her," Ainsley said, the pain of that welling like a fresh cut. "I shouldn't have taken my eyes off her for one moment."

Cameron was silent. His large body gave her comfort even through her sickening fear. He was the man who'd gone into the night and brought Gavina home.

"I had my hands full with this stupid Christmas celebration," Ainsley said. "Not noticing that my own daughter had gone missing, until it was too late."

"I was the one at the pub," Cameron said, his words heavy. "Throwing back a pint at the local was more important than looking after my family."

Ainsley gave him a surprised look. "This wasn't your fault."

"Why? Because fathers are supposed to be downing ale while the womenfolk carry on at home? Balls to that. I raised Danny on my own--I should know better than anyone that babies need your eyes on them all the time."

Ainsley heard the pain in his voice, the self-reproach. "I was arguing with Mrs. Desmond about the color of the tablecloths, when Nanny Westlock sent down word she didn't have Gavina. The color of the tablecloths. When my daughter . . ." Ainsley broke off, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth.

"Come here." Cameron pulled her against him, letting her head rest on his shoulder. His great strength came to her through his touch, and the heat beneath the dressing gown told her he was bare inside it. "Ye can't castigate yourself, love. Hart has an entire household of servants and nannies who were supposed to be looking after the children, not to mention my three brothers, their wives, and their servants. Someone should have seen her go, but none did. Danny's the only one guiltless in this--he was on the train."

"But I'm her mother, " Ainsley said. "A bad mother."

"Stop." Cameron rumpled her hair. "You're hurting, love, I know, and not only about this."

Cameron knew her so well. He always had, even when he'd played the rakehell trying lure her--one woman out of many--into his bed. Cameron had understood when she'd told him about losing her first daughter. He'd been the only person in the world with whom Ainsley had been able to talk about that Gavina, the only one who'd held her until the pain lessened enough for her to bear.

Her terrible dread tonight was that any child given to her would come to harm, that God's plan for Ainsley didn't include her being a mother. Ainsley wasn't a stoic enough Scots to accept such a thing. She burned with fear, knowing that losing this Gavina would open a wound from which she might never recover.

"I can't stop thinking about her . . . out there alone . . . cold." Tears wet the soft velvet of Cameron's dressing gown.

"She wasn't cold, and she wasn't alone. She hadn't wandered aimlessly, she'd fixed on a purpose, a stubborn purpose, like the Mackenzie she is. Achilles went with her and protected her. He's going to be spoiled rotten after this . . ."

Ainsley had to smile as she looked across the carpet to the dog curled up by the fire. Everyone had certainly made a big fuss of Achilles when Daniel explained to all what had happened. Achilles was the hero of the hour, and Daniel suggested they fashion some kind of medal for him. The dog had been given a royal feast in the kitchen, but he'd followed Ainsley and Gavina back to Cameron's bedchamber, still guarding Gavina.

Cameron's arms came around Ainsley again, holding her close. "Hush now," he said, his voice gentle.

"Hush, little mouse."

He'd called her that since the night he'd found her hiding in his bedchamber--this very one. Ainsley had been there for a perfectly good reason, in her opinion, nothing to do with Cameron. Cameron had caught her, growled at her, teased her, confused her, seduced her, then protected her and made her fall wildly in love with him.

Gavina was their love too, the little girl sweet and whole.

"As much as you're trying to make me feel better," Ainsley said. "I won't cease to blame myself."

"We're both to blame." Cameron's chest rumbled with his words. "The poor lass is cursed with us as parents. But it turned out all right, and we'll all three go on. She's taught us how diligent we need to be."

Ainsley raised her head. "Meaning she'll try it again. And again."

"Of course she will. She belongs to this family." Cameron tugged a lock of hair at his forehead. "Ye see these gray strands? That's all Daniel, that is. Had them before I was twenty-five."

Ainsley had to smile. "I imagine he was a handful."

"A handful, a fistful, an armful, an earful. Thank God I had brothers to help me and that they started getting married. I've been a rotten father, but Danny's muddled through."

"You're not a rotten father." Ainsley slid her hands to his shoulders. "Daniel has become a remarkable young man."

"Good God, don't tell him that."

"Don't tell me what?" Daniel swung the door open and walked inside, his wide smile broadcasting that he'd heard the last. "Are you crying, dearest stepmama? No need. We're all here, and safe."

"You walk into a bedchamber without knocking, Daniel Mackenzie?" Ainsley said, pretending indignation. "One with your father in it?"

"I knew there was no danger of embarrassing you as long as Gavina was here, not to mention the snoring dog. I came to fetch my baby sister, by the way. Nanny Westlock is demanding her return to the nursery, where she belongs. Her words, not mine. I offered to come down for her, so you wouldn't have to face the wrath of a nanny whose schedule has been disregarded. You may thank me with an extra helping of pud at Christmas dinner."

Daniel reached for the bassinet, which lifted from its stand by whicker handles.

"Perhaps she should stay here for the night," Ainsley said.

Daniel raised his brows. "Oh, so ye want to break that news to Miss Westlock, do you? She's in a rare temper as it is, blaming herself for losing track of Gavina. Every one of the maids and all the footmen are beating themselves blue for it too. The majordomo and Mrs. Desmond are each trying to outdo each other in self-blame, because they're responsible for all the rest of the servants. The only one sleeping well tonight is Gavina. And Achilles. And maybe Eleanor. She almost dropped in her tracks from exhaustion, and Hart carried her up to bed. Hart's very angry, you can be sure. Oh, he blames himself too."

Cameron leaned to the bassinet to kiss his daughter's cheek. "Ye've managed to have the house in uproar, haven't you, love?" he asked her softly. "Just like your brother used to." He tickled Gavina's cheek, and Gavina stirred but didn't wake.

Ainsley drew a breath. "You're right, Daniel. Take her up to bed. I suppose she'll be safe enough in her cot. She won't get out of that."

"Actually, I used to . . ." Daniel broke off. "Ah. Never mind. Off to bed you go, my sweet little sister.

Good night, stepmama." He leaned around Cameron and gave Ainsley a noisy kiss on her cheek.

"Do stop calling me that, Danny."

"Right you are. Good night, Father."

He went out with his usual energy. Achilles, awakened, trotted after them, tail moving. Daniel closed the door behind them, and quiet fell.

Cameron gathered Ainsley into his arms again. His heat came to her, and she heard the firm beating of his heart.

An ordinary man might say, Come to bed, love. Everything will be fine in the morning. But Cameron wasn't ordinary. She knew she wouldn't love him so much if he were.

Ainsley raised her head and kissed him.

His lips firmed against hers, the worry and fear in him changing to desperation. Ainsley tasted his hunger, the terror he'd shared with her.

Their child was safe, unharmed. This was a time to celebrate, not weep.

Ainsley wrapped her fingers around the lapels of his soft dressing gown and pulled it open. She found him bare inside, as she'd suspected, warm and still damp from his bath.

She skimmed her hands down his torso, his heartbeat quickening. His tight abdomen met her touch, his waist narrowing to his hips and the thickness of his cock.

"Don't." Cameron raised his head, gold gleaming from between half-closed eyelids. He seized her wrist, fingers shaking as he kept himself from gripping too hard. "Don't, unless you want me to . . ."

"She's safe," Ainsley whispered. "I want to rejoice."

Cameron smoothed her hair, his touch strengthening as he cradled her head in his hand. "Then we will," he said, voice rasping.

He dragged her to him, his next kiss anything but tender. Cameron opened her mouth, pressing her back. Ainsley tasted the need in him, the desire to hold on.

Her husband lifted her into his arms and laid her across the bed, coming down on top of her. A mad light gleamed in his eyes.

"Too confounded many buttons," he growled before he ripped her nightgown open from neck to waist.

Ainsley delved inside his dressing gown, wanting his skin touching hers. She loved the weight of his body on hers, comforting, protecting. Never hurting her. Cameron never would.

Cameron shed his dressing gown in impatient jerks and furrowed her hair with his hand. Pulling her head back, he kissed her--hard--and at the same time entered her.

His hands on her body were strong, kisses on her lips, her flesh, as strong. He loved her with firm, sure strokes, Ainsley opening to him, body rising to his.

Cameron loved her in silence tonight, speaking only with his body, his kisses, nips, touches. He stirred fire deep inside her to wash out the pain, the fear, the worry of everything to come.

He loved her until they were both crying out, peaking together, then falling again to the valley of peace, warmth, quietude. Cameron kissed her with the slow kisses of afterglow, their bodies sweating in the warm room.

"I love you, little mouse," Cameron said softly.

Then he gave her the sweetest gift he had to give--he curled up around her, pulled the covers over them, and went easily to sleep with her.

*** *** *** Ian entered the sitting room of the suite he shared with Beth, looking forward to his warm bed and his wife in his arms. This last week with its chaos of preparations, the house swarming, and more and more people arriving had kept him unnerved. Ian had gown better at dealing with people around him, but that didn't mean he liked it.

Poor Gavina going missing tonight had given him something practical to do, a problem to solve. Ian was much better at that. Finding Achilles, her favorite dog, had seemed the obvious thing to do.

Cameron had looked intensely relieved when she was found, and in this instance, Ian found empathy. If one of his children had disappeared, Ian would have been frantic. Any thought of harm to Jamie or Belle made him physically ill. Ian had spent the last hour up in the nursery, watching his little boy and girl, until Nanny Westlock and Daniel, carrying in Gavina, had chased him out.

No matter. Ian would see the babies tomorrow. If the weather was fine, he'd take them out riding.

Jamie was already a good rider, and Belle was learning quickly.

His thoughts dissolved when he beheld Beth sitting on the carved old-fashioned sofa, a book in her lap. The blue satin gown she'd worn for dinner was now rumpled and dust-stained, but it hugged her waist and bared an enticing glimpse of bosom. The bustle made her sit on the edge of the sofa, her satin skirts nearly hidden by the large book.

Ian recognized one of his texts on Ming bowls. He remembered the broken bowl and felt a pang of loss. It had been beautiful, and he'd only been able to hold it a few short moments.

But the bowl was nowhere near as beautiful as his wife, who looked up at him with sensual blue eyes, and said, "Oh. I didn't see you come in."

Which made no sense to Ian. Of course she hadn't seen him--she'd been looking at the book. She might have heard him come in; seen him, no.

"I will take the babies riding tomorrow," Ian said, sitting down close to her. Her scent, familiar to him now, and so dear, began easing him, and his thoughts cleared. "Come with us." A ride to the folly high on the hill, winter sunshine, his wife and children snuggling at his side . . .

"I'd love to." Beth's face softened. "But I can't, you know. There is so much to do, more guests arriving, the menus to be sorted. Since Chef has left for France, Cook is having hysterics by the hour.

She's terrified she won't be able to manage, even with the extra help we've hired." Beth rubbed her temples. "It is becoming quite an ordeal."

Ian sensed her unhappiness, but he relaxed, because he knew exactly how to make her feel better. That was another thing he could do that didn't involve crowds, or understanding how to answer people correctly, or looking into their eyes.

He started to lift the book from Beth's lap, kissing her cheek at the same time. Beth grabbed the book and pulled it back.

"Wait. I wanted to show you." She pointed to a picture, a colored illustration, protected by a leaf of thin paper. "What do you think of this one? It's very like the one I broke, isn't it? Same sort of vines and dragons, but in green and gray, instead of blue. The book says it's owned by a gentleman in France. I could write him."

Ian glanced at the picture, taking in every nuance of the bowl in two seconds flat. How could she think it was like the one the Russian had? Clearly it was not, or Ian would have purchased this bowl in the first place.

But he'd learned, to his amazement, that most people couldn't tell one Ming bowl from the other. The fanatics who shared his passion could, and they were the few human beings with whom Ian could speak at length and understand in return--at least, as long as they remained on the topic of Ming pottery. Hart had explained that a person either had the gift or did not, and Ian needed to show compassion toward those who didn't.

"No," Ian said, trying to soften the word. It sounded harsh all the same, falling flat against the thick velvet drapes at the windows. "It's not the same."

"But look." Beth traced the line of vine with her finger. "Surely the pattern is identical. I checked it against the book in which you found the first one . . ."

Ian lifted the tome away again, and this time, Beth let him. "It isn't blue," he said.

"Well, I know it isn't exactly the same, but . . ."

Ian closed the book and carried it to a table, taking a moment to line up its edges exactly with those of the wood. Once he was satisfied that the symmetry was perfect, he returned to the ugly sofa and sank down next to Beth. He sat shoulder to shoulder with her, hip to hip.

"I started collecting the bowls a year and four months after I came home from the asylum," he said.

Beth looked at him to listen, her gaze catching his. Her eyes were such a lovely color, blue with flecks of gold, like sunshine on a pond. Ian got lost in looking at her eyes a moment, forgetting what he'd been saying.

"You began collecting a year or so after you came home . . ." Beth prompted.

Ian's mind picked up the thought and returned to that gear. "I went into an antiques shop with Isabella, in Paris."

Ian stopped again, remembering how terrified he'd been to leave Mac's hired townhouse, how soothing Isabella's presence had been when she'd persuaded him to accompany her. His sister-in-law had known how to speak into Ian's panicked silences, how to calm him with a smile, how to ask his opinion and then give it for him, so that strangers wouldn't think him odder than he was.

He remembered that his brothers had been puzzled and angry that Ian had let Isabella lay a hand on his arm or give him a quick kiss on the cheek, when he refused to let the rest of his family touch him.

Ian had thought his brothers fools about that. If they couldn't understand the difference between three overbearing Scotsmen who smelled of smoke and whiskey, and a lovely young woman scented with of attar of roses, he couldn't help them.

"Ian?"

Ian had lost track again. He looked into Beth's face--the woman who'd saved him from himself and who loved him in spite of his many, many shortcomings--and the words went out of Ian's head. Nothing he'd been saying could be as important.

"Isabella likes to shop, yes," Beth said, watching him expectantly. "And she took you into an antiques shop. Did you see a Ming bowl there?"

Beth always insisted Ian tell the end of a story, no matter that, in his head, he'd finished with the subject and moved on.

"It was beautiful." Ian forced the memories to return. "Translucent white and brilliant blue. The lines were perfect. Chrysanthemums and dragons, a lotus flower on its bottom. I couldn't stop looking at it."

He remembered his younger self standing in the center of the shop, staring at the bowl, riveted in place. Isabella telling him it was time to leave, and Ian refusing to go. His world had been so heavily gray, and the incandescent colors of the bowl had stood out like a beacon of hope.

"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."

* * * * *