"Once upon a time, I'd hoped that . . ." He gave the unborn Mackenzie a nod. "But it wasn't meant to be, I suppose."

"No, it wasn't. I'm sorry, David, if I ever hurt you."

"Hurt me? You ripped out my heart and kicked it about a mile, but no matter, dear lady. I'm made of resilient stuff." David decided to stop being selfish for two seconds in his life. He let his voice grow gentle. "You're madly in love, El. It shows on you, and it shows well. And it is obvious that Hart is madly in love with you in return. He always has been."

Eleanor's glorious smile spread across her face. "I believe he is, though when I when I was younger, I was too daft to understand that."

"And I have never forgiven Hart for the way he treated you." David got to his feet, alarmed when his legs swayed under him. "He deserves to be thrashed soundly. Although he paid for his mistakes, I would say." David leaned his fists on the bed, more to steady himself than anything else, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. "I am happy for you, El. And for Hart, the blackguard. I'm not so much of a bastard that I'd wish you any unhappiness."

"And you'll always be dear to us, David."

David snorted a laugh as he stood up, or tried to. The nips from the flask had been a mistake. "Don't grow sentimental. I'm only dear to Hart when he wants something. David does his dirty deeds."

"This one is in a good cause."

"For baby brother Ian? Yes, I suppose it is. And if you think I loathe to go to the Earl of Glastonby and threaten dire things, you're wrong. I'm looking forward to it." He leaned down and kissed Eleanor again, because what fool wouldn't when he had the chance?

"David." Hart's voice rumbled behind him. "Please take your hands off my wife."

David carefully straightened up, showing that he touched Eleanor only in friendship. Well, he didn't want to, but he'd keep it cordial.

"Leave me alone, you lucky bastard," David said. If he weren't so drunk and exhausted, he'd be more restrained, but if he didn't find a bed soon, he was going to die. He used Hart's arms to steady himself as he passed him. "If you make her unhappy for a single second, my friend, I will shoot you."

"My valet is waiting outside to help you. Sleep it off." Hart patted David on the shoulder.

The pat was friendly, but hard, and David had to struggle to keep to his feet. David blew a mischievous kiss to Eleanor, then swayed out the door and happily let the valet have his way with him.

*** *** *** "There, guv. How's that?"

Ian, dressing in the dark morning, paused impatiently. He wanted to fetch his children, meet Cameron and Gavina for their early ride, and then get back to his task in the sitting room. Christmas was nearing, and he and Daniel weren't finished.

Now Curry had turned from the wardrobe in Ian's dressing room and faced Ian with something resting on his small palms.

It was a Ming bowl, or what looked like one, but cracked and crazed with bits missing. Ian stared at it a moment, then losing interest, went back to buttoning his riding coat.

"It's your bowl," Curry said. "The one you bought from the Russian. Me and the others below stairs, we stuck it back together for you."

Ian looked at the bowl again. He knew full well that it was the bowl Beth had broken, with its pleasing lines of dragon and vine, and the lovely blue. When Ian had first taken it out of the box, it had sung like a symphony. Now it was broken, like a violin that would never make music again.

"No need," Ian said. "It's ruined."

Curry lowered his hands, his brows drawing down, that look on his face that meant Ian had disappointed him somehow. "You know, working for you can be bloody painful, my lord."

Ian straightened his collar. So Curry had said before. Ian never had any idea how to respond to that.

"This took us a long time, guv. And some of the bits had been broken to powder, so of course it can't be all there again."

He sounded exasperated. But then, Curry often did. Curry had done so much for Ian, however, one constant in Ian's swirling madness. Curry had cared for Ian when no one else had, when the man could have walked away and let Ian drown in his own confusion.

"Curry," Ian said. "Thank you."

"Oh, praise from me master. Do you want the bowl, or not?"

Ian glanced at it again, but the bowl no longer sang, no longer eased his jangled world. "You keep it."

Curry's eyes widened. "You'd give me a priceless Ming bowl?"

"Not priceless anymore. Or throw it away, as you like. I'll buy you a better present."

Curry looked down at it, an unreadable expression on his face. "I'll keep it if ye don't mind. A souvenir. It reminds me of you, this thing does."

Ian had no idea why that should be, but he nodded, glad the discussion was over.

He pulled on his riding boots and took up his hat, forgetting about Curry and bowls, broken or otherwise, as his thoughts moved forward to spending a delightful hour with his children.

*** *** *** As Christmas neared, the house filled. Beth was kept so busy she didn't have much time to worry about Ian, but the thoughts were there, niggling at her. Hart had assured her he'd have a new bowl for her to give to Ian by Christmas, and Beth was warmly grateful to him and Eleanor for their efforts.

Ainsley's four brothers, the McBrides, arrived en masse, Ainsley crying out like a girl as she flew down the stairs to fling herself first at one, then the next. Steven McBride, the youngest brother, came in his regimentals, able to obtain only a few weeks' leave. He was twenty-nine, handsome, tanned from foreign suns, and instantly the center of the female guests' attentions.

Next came Sinclair, the tallest of them with a booming, deep voice--the barrister, who lived mostly in London. The Scots Machine, Ainsley had said his fellow barristers called him, for his tenacious grilling of witnesses at the Old Bailey. He rarely failed to get his conviction.

He might be a machine in court, but Sinclair was also a harassed father with two children--Andrew and Catriona--who immediately turned the nursery into a circus, complete with tents and tightrope walking. Nanny Westlock's face had been tight since their arrival.

Elliot McBride, a former soldier who had been kept nearly a year in a terrible prison in India, arrived with his new wife, Juliana. Elliot had scars on his face and kept his hair shorn, but he'd softened somewhat from the last time Beth had seen him. Married life looked well on him.

Patrick was the eldest, fifteen or so years older than the other McBrides. He'd been father to them when they'd lost their parents, raising the three boys and Ainsley the best he could. Ainsley clung to him for a long time, and then to Patrick's wife, Rona.

Isabella and Beth, by tacit consent, took over a few of Ainsley's tasks to allow Ainsley to spend time with her beloved family. Still more tasks when Eleanor's father, Earl Ramsay, arrived, so that Eleanor could fuss over him.

Ian, despite his avoidance of crowds, seemed to take the filling house in stride. When he wasn't taking his children out for walks or riding with Cameron and Gavina, he spent it closeted in the sitting room with Daniel. He'd occasionally pass a late evening in the billiards room with the McBride brothers. Beth would look in and see Ian and Elliot smoking in silence while Sinclair and Steven did most of the playing and talking. Ian also quietly won much money from the other three.

Daniel was the Mackenzie who gave Beth the most concern. He'd become as obsessed as Ian over whatever they were doing in the sitting room, bolting down the stairs whenever mysterious packages arrived at the door. In fact, while Ian would emerge from the room from time to time, Daniel remained behind. There was no question of unlocking the door and taking a peek on the rare occasion both left the room, because Daniel had sent for parts for a new lock and installed it himself--and he kept the only key.

Three days before Christmas, Beth came upon Daniel and Bellamy facing each other in a dim back corridor. Bellamy and Daniel both had fists raised, and Daniel sported a large and multicolored bruise from his forehead to his jaw.


* * * * *

Chapter Ten

"Daniel! What on earth?"

Bellamy lowered his fists and stepped away from Daniel, his stoic expression in place.

"Oh, hello, Auntie," Daniel said with his usual brisk cheerfulness. "Bellamy's giving me a few lessons in boxing. I need them, as you can see."

"I do see. Bellamy didn't give you that, did he?"

Bellamy looked faintly alarmed, but Daniel laughed. "Nae, not Bellamy. Lad down the pub. The barmaid's been me mate for years, but her new intended didn't see it that way."

Barmaid. Beth's maid Katie had related the gossip about what had happened in the village since their last visit. "Ah, yes. She's marrying the blacksmith's boy."

"Aye, biggest lad in town. We went a round or two before he knocked me down. Best boxer I ever faced. I came home and asked Bellamy to show me what I did wrong."

"And what did he do wrong?" Beth asked Bellamy.

"Didn't guard right." Bellamy stepped forward, the servant disappearing, the fighter emerging. He held up his fists, arms slightly bent, knuckles loose. "In fighting like that, if your hands are too close to your face, your opponent can shove your fist right back into your own eye, and then get under your reach while you're trying to decide what happened."

He demonstrated by slowly thrusting his beefy fist at Daniel's upraised one, pushing Daniel's back at him. Then Bellamy followed with his other fist, underneath to Daniel's face, right where the bruise was.

Daniel sighed in resignation. "Fair point. Thank you, Bellamy. Hello, Dad."

Cameron came down the hall like an angry bear, the picture softened somewhat by his daughter riding on his shoulders. Gavina saw Daniel, squealed in delight, and held out her arms.

Daniel caught her as she tried to dive off the taller Cameron, then Daniel swung her around, making her squeal all the more.

"Brawling in the pub?" Cameron felt himself torn between exasperation and worry, and also the pang of realization that his son had grown up. Cameron had been brawling in pubs at sixteen, chasing barmaids, fighting for their favors. Danny had gone from babe in arms to tall university lad so quickly. Gavina would grow as quickly, gone before he knew it.

"Not in the pub," Daniel was saying. "In the yard behind. No one was hurt--only the pride of Daniel Mackenzie."

"I heard," Cameron said, retaining his fatherly growl. "Blacksmith was worried I'd fetch a constable to arrest his son for pounding you. I told him it was no more than you deserved. You leave the local barmaid alone, Danny. Trouble only comes of that. Ye don't piss in your own nest. Beg pardon, Beth."

Beth, used to Mackenzie men forgetting to mitigate their words around the ladies of the family, only nodded.

Daniel swung Gavina up on his shoulder. "I'm mates with Kirsten, that's all. We've known each other from babyhood. I'll go shake hands and make peace, all right?"

Cameron had no doubt that Daniel could restore everyone into admiring him again. He had the knack for making people like him--his mother had had that charm, though hers had hidden a foul nature. Daniel's nature was sunny, thank God. "Leave them alone for a bit. You can be a whirlwind."

Daniel shrugged, not offended. "Fair enough. After Christmas then."

"And learn to fight better," Cameron said. Daniel made friends, yes, but he also tended to defend those who couldn't defend themselves and sometimes got beaten for his troubles. "Here, look."

He faced Bellamy, fists raised. Boxing within the rules was all very well, but street fighting was another matter. At Daniel's age, Cameron had been a formidable bare-fist fighter.

Bellamy, always the professional, raised his hands and defended. "You keep your fists up, not down," Cameron said. "That way when you punch, your arm twists with the forward thrust, giving it that much more momentum."

He brought his fist forward in slow motion, straight at Bellamy's jaw. Bellamy blocked with his arm, swinging his own fist straight upward, under Cameron's reach.

"And that," Cameron said, dancing back out of the way, "is why defensive moves are sometimes better than offensive. You watch what your opponent does, find his weakness, and then strike."