Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift

Chapter Eight

Ian heard the knocking on the door, but as though from far away. He was on his hands and knees behind a desk, working on a tricky bit. His fingers were steady as he set each object into place.

Vectors, momentum, resistance, acceleration, velocity--numbers and equations swam in his head, and he spoke softly to himself as he worked.

"The angle should be this, not this. A not B. Damn it."

He dropped one, which could have been a catastrophe, but he knew exactly where to pull another of line. Still cursing under his breath, he set the pieces in place again.

The knocking turned to banging. "Ian, open the door."

The stentorian tones of Hart came rolling through the wood. Ian paid no attention. Hart liked to tell the world what to do, but Ian had learned long ago how to ignore him.

"Ian." The shout turned to a roar.

Another rapid knock. "Come on, guv. You've got us worried something powerful."

Ian took another piece from the box and set it carefully into its place. Why, when a man wanted to retreat and do something useful, something interesting, did the entire family have to bluster their way in?

Ian had learned to follow certain conventions so his brothers wouldn't worry too much about him--leaving a note when he slipped away for a few days to fish, for example, instead of simply disappearing.

Not that Ian was good at explaining or remembering to leave notes, but he'd learned that these things kept his family calm. Ian was a perfectly healthy and strong man, yet Hart could fuss so whenever Ian went for a long walk.

Ian had bolted the door, because if anyone opened it, not only would they ruin the surprise, they'd let the bloody dogs in. That would be a disaster.

"Ian!" Hart's voice rose like battering thunder. "Open the door before I have Bellamy fetch an axe."

"Hart," Ian said, raising his voice and speaking carefully so there'd be no misunderstanding. "Go.

Away."

"Ainsley," he heard Hart rumble.

"I can hardly pick a lock if there is no lock to pick," came Ainsley's crisp, clear tones. The bolt's on the inside. You overestimate my skills."

"Then we go for the axe. Mac, get Bellamy."

"Don't you dare bash a hole into Ian's study door," Beth said. Good girl--she'd put Hart in his place. "It will be weeks before we can get a builder at this time of year, and I refuse to live with a door that is so much firewood."

"Persuasion is doing nothing," Hart said, angry. "Even yours."

"Stop it, both of you," Ainsley broke in. "Let me try."

Ian heard the lock of the door click--they'd have found a key for the main lock, which was why he'd had a bolt installed on his private study long ago. When he did mathematics equations that took his entire concentration, he didn't want a maid, footman, or his brothers invading the room and distracting him.

As they were doing now. A faint scratch, scratch sounded, Ainsley setting to work.

At least they'd stopped banging. Ian opened another parcel and reflected that he needed more, much more. He'd have to send to Inverness, maybe farther. How long for a package to arrive from Edinburgh or Glasgow--in time for him to finish for Christmas?

The voices outside the door lowered to normal tones, and Ian put them out of his head. When he finished for the day, he'd take Beth and the children for a walk, or show Beth how well they were progressing with riding.

"What are you all doing?" Daniel's voice floated over the others. "Disassembling doors now, are we?"

The others explained rapidly, Ian trying to shut out the voices. Daniel was clever--if anyone could get the door open, it was Ian's quick-witted nephew. Daniel had blossomed in the last year, with lightning-

swift thoughts, an ability to think of ten solutions to any problem, and a knack for building strange but useful gadgets. He even talked about heavier-than-air flight, about wind, air mass, and fixed wings. Any machine, from steam to electric to the forays into combustion engines, fascinated Daniel.

"Here, let me try this," Daniel said. Something snicked against the door with a more decisive sound.

"I've found it useful prying back bolts on hotel room doors."

"And why, son, were ye prying back bolts on hotel room doors?" Cameron's growl sounded in heavily accented Scots.

Daniel's answer was innocent. "Oh, university high jinks. Pranks. You know."

Ainsley said, "If it involved ladies, do not tell me."

Daniel snorted a laugh. "Very well, stepmama. Ah, I have it."

The bolt slid back and the door handle moved. Ian was already up and leaping across the room, knowing exactly where to put his feet so he wouldn't ruin what he was building.

He reached the door and slammed his hand against it just as Daniel swung it open.

"No," Ian said. "Stay out."

Daniel's head came around the door, Ainsley's fair one below it. "Good heavens, Ian, what are you doing?" Ainsley asked.

"Let me in," Hart said in a harsh voice.

Ian felt the door give, and he shoved back. "Daniel, keep him out. Don't let Beth see."

"Don't let Beth see what?" came Beth's anxious voice.

Hart brought his fists down on the door and shouldered his way past Daniel. He saw the state of the room and stopped. "What the devil?"

Daniel's quick glance took in everything, and his eyes started to sparkle. Hart's brows came down, his anger not abated. "Come out of there, Ian," Hart said. "You're worrying Beth."

"When I'm finished," Ian said.

Hart started to argue, but Daniel stepped into the room and up his hand. "No, no wait. I think I know what he's doing." He scanned what Ian had set up. "Bloody marvelous."

"What?" Beth asked. "Move, Hart, I want to see."

Daniel whirled, kilt spinning, and spread his arms. "Ian's right. Everyone out, or you'll ruin it. Beth, it's a surprise. You'll like it. I promise."

Hart remained fixed in place. Daniel didn't move, and Ian kept his hand on the door, ready to slam it shut.

"I'll stay and help Ian, Uncle Hart. But you all have to go. And leave him alone. I'll look after him."

Hart's expression was murderous. Ainsley shook her head and withdrew.

"Thank you, Danny." Beth's voice came from the hall, but she remained without and didn't try to push her way in. "Come along, Hart. If Daniel says it's all right, it must be."

"Yes, let's go have some tea," Ainsley said. "Eleanor will be dying to hear what is happening.

Besides, don't you need to pry secrets out of a Prussian prince?"

Hart didn't answer either of the ladies. He held Ian's gaze, and Ian didn't let himself look away. He knew that Hart was reassured when Ian looked into Hart's eyes, taking it as a sign that Ian hadn't slipped back into madness. Gazing into Beth's eyes was easy--they were so beautiful; she was so beautiful--but Ian still wasn't always comfortable sharing so intimate a glance with anyone else.

But he'd learned that he could look at his brothers if he wanted to. And if it meant they went away and left him in peace, so much the better.

Hart at last gave Ian a nod, turned around, and stalked away, as though going had been his idea. Ian heard Beth and Ainsley begin talking at once, Cameron's growl, less edgy than before, and Curry's exasperated exclamation that looking after Ian was putting lines on his face.

Daniel closed the door and beamed a wide smile. "What a setup. For Beth, you say?"

"For Jamie and Belle." Ian liked that Daniel moved carefully, not disturbing what Ian had put into place. "Which will make Beth happy again."

"You're amazing, Uncle Ian. The only man in Scotland who can put an entire house in an uproar by locking a door."

"I didn't want the dogs in."

"Good thinking. Now." Daniel put his hands on his kilt-clad hips. "I have a few gadgets I could add--

clockwork figures, clockwork noisemaking machines, and . . . clocks. Will you let me?"

Ian imagined it, the timing, speeds, and events. "Yes," he said.

Another thing Ian liked about Daniel was that he didn't need long explanations and reassurance. He only laughed and rubbed his hands.

"Right," Daniel said. "Let's get to it."

*** *** *** David Fleming walked into Castle Kilmorgan and made a rude gesture to the Mackenzie ancestors glaring down from the walls at him. David was connected to these people, as his great-great aunt, Donnag Fleming, had been daft enough to marry a Mackenzie. David was descended from Donnag's brother, and that was as close as he wanted to become to being a Mackenzie.

The quantity of whiskey sloshing around inside him didn't help when looking up at all these people.

Nor did the long journey and lack of sleep.

At least Hart had comfortable beds, David thought. He knew he should be at home managing his own estate, but that seemed boringly tedious, and too much like the life his father had wanted him to lead.

Hence his eager acceptance of Hart's Christmas invitation.

I'll be a staid lord of the manor when I can't stand up anymore.

There was one drawback about staying in Hart's house, however. When the footman took David's wraps, he informed him that His Grace was waiting for David in a chamber in the duke's private wing.

Ah, well, best to get it over with. David straightened his cravat in front of a mirror on the second landing, brushed back his dark hair, and tried to convince himself that his eyes weren't as bloodshot as they felt.

At least his valet had stuffed him into a new suit. Hart would have him in a kilt for the rest of the visit, but David was happy he'd been able to make the drafty train journey with his legs covered.

He knocked on a door near the end of the corridor as directed by a helpful maid dusting in the hall.

Not Hart's bedchamber. However, he knew that Hart had changed his bedchamber after his marriage, declaring he wouldn't sleep in the monument dedicated to his father any longer. Not that David blamed him, but that meant he was being directed to . . .

A maid opened the door from the inside, gave David a deferential smile, then slipped away, carrying out whatever tray she'd come here to remove.

Hart Mackenzie, the Duke of Bloody Kilmorgan, sat on a gilded chair from the last century, ruining its finish by rocking back on the chair's legs and resting his feet on the large bed beside him.

In that bed, like a queen on her throne, reposed Eleanor, Duchess of Kilmorgan, formerly Lady Eleanor Ramsay, the woman whom David, once upon a time, had fallen madly in love with.

Tonight she lay in a modest dressing gown, pillows behind her, covers pulled up under her arms.

Nothing could hide the large bulge of her abdomen, the symbol of her love for David's oldest friend, Hart Mackenzie.

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