Jennifer Ashley - Lady Isabella’s Scandalous Marriage

Mac jerked back, a frown on his face. “I don’t under—” He stopped, not smiling, not angry, just still. “What exactly do you mean?”

“I mean what you suppose I mean.”

The tears that flooded Mac’s eyes were echoed by her own. “Oh, God.” Mac clasped her face between his hands and pressed a hard kiss to her lips.

He released her, turned back to the window, and shouted out of it, “I’m going to be a father!”

Daniel started dancing around, using the banner like a matador’s cape. Bertram Clark cupped his hands around his mouth. “Quick work, old man!”

Mac slammed down the window. He pointedly snapped the curtains across it, shutting off the view, though Isabella could still hear the happy sounds of the brass band.

Mac scooped her to him in strong, strong arms. “I love you, Isabella Mackenzie. You are my life.”

She simply looked at him, beyond words.

They never made it to the bedroom. The paint-smeared gown and Mac’s kilt came off, and he slipped the ring onto her finger as he kissed her on their way down to the floor.

SEPTEMBER 1882

Mac slathered paint on the canvas, ignoring the screams echoing around him. His entire being was transfixed by the green and black shadows of the valley that stretched all the way to the loch in the distance.

Nearby, his wife, younger brother and sister-in-law, nephews, and two children fished, watched fishing, or ran about screaming. At least, Aimee ran about. Ian’s little boy and Mac’s little girl were old enough only to lie in their baskets waving their fists. All three were screaming, however.

Ian was in the painting, standing in a stream in a kilt and loose shirt, his fishing pole steady. Beth and Isabella were the picture’s foreground, two ladies sitting on a picnic blanket, heads together. The two babies’ baskets lay next to them. Daniel headed after Aimee, making her squeal in delight as he chased her. Dogs milled about, all five of them, loping from the ladies to Ian to Daniel and Aimee to Mac, and then starting all over again.

Mac painted with vigor, trying to capture the exact moment of shadow before the ever-changing Scottish sky turned the picture into something new. At last he gave a sigh of satisfaction, threw down the brush, and stretched his arms.

“Gracious, it’s about time you finished,” his lovely red-haired wife said. She’d left off her mourning black for her father about the same time their baby had been safely delivered. Today Isabella wore a gown the color of the summer sky, while Beth sat next to her in bright pink. Two flowers on a Scottish meadow. “I’m famished.”

“We waited for luncheon for you,” Beth said. She started setting out plates and cups that the cook at Kilmorgan had tucked into a very large picnic basket. “Ian, time for lunch!” she called.

Ian kept on fishing without turning around.

“I’ll fetch him,” Mac said. He swept up his daughter, Eileen Louisa, and gave her a sound kiss. The little girl stopped screaming and blinked at him.

Mac tucked Eileen into the crook of his arm and waded out to Ian. The stream was shallow here, burbling over rocks and forming deep pools where fish liked to hide.

“The ladies want their lunch,” Mac said to him.

Ian didn’t turn. His attention was fixed on the swirling water, watching the pattern the eddies made.

“Ian.”

Ian pulled his attention away from the water and focused on Mac. Exactly on Mac, looking into Mac’s eyes. Ian had become much better at that in the last year.

“The ladies want their lunch,” Ian repeated in the exact tone Mac had used. “Good. I’m hungry. You took a long time painting.”

Mac shrugged. “I wanted to get it right.”

Ian hauled in his line. He gazed a moment at Eileen before reaching out and carefully chucking her under the chin. He’d been learning how to do that too. Eileen kicked her feet and let out a burble of approval.

“You and Isabella have been happy?” Ian asked Mac as they started back.

“Since we’ve been married again, you mean?” Gordon had been ecstatic to reverse their separation, and Mac had made a festival of it at Kilmorgan, with guests and flowers and all the trimmings.

Ian frowned, waiting patiently for Mac to answer the question.

“Very well, my wise little brother,” Mac said. “Yes. We are reconciled. We are happy. Ecstatically happy, especially of late.”

He put his heart in every word. Throughout the past year, Mac had alternately worried himself to death over Isabella and been extremely excited about the coming baby. He’d nearly smothered Isabella with his protectiveness, he knew from her exasperated looks, but he was damned if he would let her go through losing another child. And he would never leave her alone again.

The day of Eileen’s birth had been the most joyous of Mac’s life. He’d entered Isabella’s bedchamber to find his wife propped up in bed holding Eileen, smiling her triumph. Mac had wanted to paint her like that, a new, deeply happy mother with her babe in her arms, her red braid snaking over her shoulder like a rope of flame.

Isabella had been aghast, sure she looked a mess. To Mac, she’d never been more beautiful. Mac had taken up little Eileen and kissed her tiny forehead, thanking God for her and his wonderful wife.

“In fact,” Mac went on, barely able to contain his delight. “Isabella told me this morning that child number two will be with us sometime next year.”

He couldn’t keep the wide smile off his face. He and Isabella had celebrated the happiness of that announcement quite thoroughly.

“I am supposed to say congratulations, aren’t I?” Ian said, breaking Mac’s thoughts. “Then, you are to say congratulations to me.”

Mac raised his brows. “Oh really, old chap? You too?”

Ian nodded. “Beth also will have a child.”

Mac laughed uproariously and clapped Ian on the shoulder. “Our timing is impeccable, brother.”

“It’s only odds,” Ian said without changing expression. “We each enjoy going to bed with our wives, and we do it as often as we can. The probability of another conception, given the time since our first children were born, is high.”

“Thank you for that analysis.”

“You’re welcome,” Ian said in all seriousness, although Mac swore he saw a gleam of humor in his brother’s eyes.

“What about you, Ian?” Mac asked. “I spilled my heart to you. Your turn. Are you happy?”

For answer, Ian shifted his gaze to Beth. At that moment, both ladies laughed. Isabella threw back her head, exposing her white throat, her red lips wide with her smile.

Likely the two ladies were making fun of their men. Not that Mac minded.

Beth lost her hat and screeched as one of the dogs gleefully grabbed it in his mouth and ran away. She leapt up and chased him.

Ian gave Mac a grin, his eyes lighting with more joy than Mac had ever seen in them. “Yes,” Ian said. “I am happy.” He turned and ran to help rescue Beth’s hat.

Mac walked over to the blanket, bouncing Eileen in his arms, and dropped next to Isabella, who was still laughing. “What is funny, my darling?”

“Highlanders and their legs.”

Mac studied his sun-browned legs stretching out from his kilt. “What’s wrong with our legs?”

“Nothing at all, Mac dear. Beth is thinking of writing an article on Scotsmen.”

Mac watched Beth running after the dog, her skirts in her hands, Ian cutting the chase short by grabbing the dog’s collar. Beside Mac, Ian’s son dozed off in his basket.

“Really, what is wrong with our legs?” Mac repeated.

“Nothing at all.” Isabella sent him a smoldering look. “I like to think of them wrapped around mine.”

Mac covered Eileen’s ears. “Really, my dear, you are unseemly.”

“I’d like to be even more unseemly. Next time, perhaps we should picnic on our own.”

“I could arrange that.”

“I find it odd that being with child makes me so randy,” Isabella said thoughtfully.

Mac wanted to laugh at her choice of words, but he heated under her smile. She was so beautiful sitting here with him, the sun on her brilliant hair, her green eyes like emeralds in shadow.

“I’ll not argue with you,” Mac said.

“Good.” Isabella gave him a wicked wink and reached for Eileen. “Perhaps we can make a start while everyone is chasing the dogs.”

Mac looked over at Ian, who was trying to persuade the dog to give up the hat. Daniel had caught Aimee and was tossing her in the air. Beth stood back and watched Ian, hands on hips, a loving smile on her face.

Mac wrapped one arm around Isabella and caught her lips with his. Between them, Eileen made happy noises.

“I love you, Mac Mackenzie,” Isabella murmured.

“I love you, Lady Isabella.”

“We had a scandalous marriage before,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Perhaps we can make this one even more scandalous?”

Mac smiled into the next kiss, his entire being rejoicing. He breathed in the scent of her, warm from the sunshine, and the powdery sweetness of Eileen.

“My wicked little debutante,” he said in a low voice. “We’ll be as naughty as you like. All of society will swoon to behold our decadent ways.”

Isabella slanted him a sinful smile. “I’m looking forward to it,” she said.

SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 1882

I saw Mrs. Chase slide that letter into Lord Cameron’s pocket, I know I did. She did it almost under my nose. Bloody woman.

Ainsley Douglas sank to her knees in her ball dress and thrust her arms deep into Lord Cameron Mackenzie’s armoire.

Why did it have to be Cameron Mackenzie, of all people? Did Mrs. Chase know? Ainsley’s heart thrummed before she calmed it down. No, Phyllida Chase could not know. No one did. Cameron could not have told her, because it would have come ’round to Ainsley again with breathtaking speed, society gossip being what it was. Therefore, it stood to reason that Cameron had kept the tale to himself.

Ainsley felt only marginally better. The queen’s letter hadn’t been in the pockets of any of the coats in the dressing room. In the armoire, Ainsley found shirts neatly folded, collars stacked in collar boxes, cravats carefully separated with tissue paper. Rich cambric and silk and softest lawn met her fingers, costly fabrics for a rich man.

She pawed hastily through the garments, but nowhere did she find the letter tucked carelessly into a pocket or fallen between the shirts on the shelf. The valet had likely gone through his master’s pockets and taken away any stray paper to return it to Lord Cameron or put it somewhere for safekeeping. Or Cameron had already found it and returned it to Phyllida, or perhaps he’d thought it female silliness and burned it. Ainsley prayed fast and hard that he had simply burned it.

Not that such a thing would completely solve Ainsley’s dilemma. Phyllida, blast the woman, had more of the letters stashed away in her house in Edinburgh. Ainsley’s assignment: Retrieve them at all costs.

The immediate cost was to her dove-gray ball dress, the first new gown she’d had in years that wasn’t mourning black. Not to mention the cost to her knees, her back, and her sanity.

Sanity was further disturbed by the sound of the door opening behind her.

Ainsley froze. She backed out of the wardrobe and turned around, fully expecting Cameron’s rather frightening Romany valet to be glaring down at her. Instead, the door blocked whoever had pushed it open, giving Ainsley a few more seconds to panic.

Hide. Where? The door to the dressing room lay across the length of the chamber, the armoire behind her too full for a young woman in a ball dress. Under the bed? No, she’d never dash across the carpet and wriggle beneath it in time.

The window with its full seat was two steps away. Ainsley dove for it, stuffed her skirts beneath her, and jerked the curtains closed. Just in time. Through the crack in the drapes, she saw Lord Cameron himself back into the room with Phyllida Chase, former maid of honor to the queen, hanging around his neck.

The sudden burn in Ainsley’s heart took her by surprise. She’d known weeks ago that Phyllida had stuck her claws into Cameron Mackenzie—Isabella, his sister-in-law and Ainsley’s great friend, had told her. Why should Ainsley mind if Phyllida pursued him? She was the sort of woman he preferred: lovely, experienced, uninterested in her husband. Likewise Cameron was the sort Phyllida liked: rich, handsome, not looking for a deep attachment. They suited each other well. What business was it of Ainsley’s?