Jennifer Ashley - The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

Ian finally focused on her words. He grabbed her wrists.  “No!” He stared into her eyes . . . so blue, so beautiful, like the skies in the middle of summer.. . .

He slammed his eyes closed. “Stay out of it. Leave them out of it. Why do you think Lily Martin died?” Silence. At last Ian opened his eyes to find Beth still in front of him, her lips slightly parted. Her breasts swelled above the chemise, soft and white and inviting his touch.  “She died because she saw too much,” he said. “I couldn’t save her. I don’t want to find you like that, too.” Beth’s eyes widened. “You think he’ll strike again, then?” Ian’s breath hurt his lungs. He jerked away, fists clenching until his nails creased his palms. “Leave it the hell alone.  This has nothing to do with you.”

“You made me your wife. It has everything to do with me.”

“And as my wife, you are to obey me.”

Beth put her hands on her hips, her brows rising. “You don’t know much about marriage, do you?”

“I know nothing about it.”

“It’s sharing burdens. It’s the wife helping her husband, the husband helping his wife.. ..”

“For God’s sake.” Ian spun away, unable to stand still.  “I’m not your Thomas, your vicar. I never will be. I know you’ll never look at me the way you looked at him.” She stared at him, white-faced. “What do you mean?” He turned back. “You look at me like I’m the Mad Mackenzie. It’s in the back of your mind all the time.” He tapped the side of her head. “You can never forget about my madness, and you pity me for it.”

Beth blinked a few times but remained silent. His Beth, who could chatter on about anything and everything, was robbed of words.

Because Ian spoke the truth. She’d been madly in love with her first husband. Ian understood about love, even if he couldn’t feel it. He’d seen his brothers devastated by love and grief, and he knew Beth had been, too.  “I can never give you what he gave you.” lan’s chest hurt. “You loved him, and I know that can never be between us.”

“You’re wrong,” she whispered. “I love you, Ian.” He pressed his clenched fists to his breastbone. “There’s nothing in here to love. Nothing. I am insane. My father knew it. Hart knows it. You can’t nurse me back to health. I have my father’s rages, and you can never be sure what I’ll do—“ He broke off, his headache beating at him. He rubbed his temple furiously, angry at the pain.

“Ian.”

The rest of his body wanted Beth and couldn’t understand why the anger held him back. He wanted to stop this stupid argument and spread her on the bed.  Her agitated breath lifted her breasts high, and her hair straggled across her white shoulders. If he rode her, she’d stop nattering about the murder and love. She’d just be his.

She’s not a whore, something whispered in his head. She’s not a thing to be used. She’s Beth.

Ian grabbed her shoulders and dragged her up to him, slanting his mouth over hers. He forced her lips to part, the kiss raw, brutal. Her fists on his chest softened, but she was shaking.

He hungrily took her mouth, wanting to pull her inside him, or himself inside her. If he could be part of her, everything would be all right. He would be well. The horror he kept secret would go away.

Except he knew it wouldn’t. His damned memory would keep it as fresh as if it happened yesterday. And Beth would still look at him as if he were something pathetic in an East End gutter.

Her heat scalded him like the bathwater from his childhood.  No one had believed him when he shrieked that it burned—they’d forced him into the water, and he’d screamed until his throat was raw, his voice broken.  Ian shoved Beth from him. She gazed up at him, her lips swollen and red, her eyes wide.

He walked away from her.

The world became very specific, the pattern on the rug pointing almost but not quite to the door. It was agony to move his feet toward the door, but he had to. leave the room, and the anger and pain.

He saw Curry in the hall, no doubt having hurried up here when he heard the shouting. They all worried about him, Curry, Beth, Hart, Cam—so protective, hemming him in, his jailers. He passed Curry without a word and walked out.

“Where are you off to, guv?” Curry called behind him, but Ian didn’t answer.

He moved down the hall, placing his feet precisely in line with the carpet’s border. At the landing, he turned at a right angle and followed the line down the stairs.

Curry panted behind him. “I’ll just go with you, then.” Ian ignored him. He walked across the black and white marble tiles below, his feet finding only the white ones, and out the back door to the garden.

Walking, walking, to the steward’s house and inside to the case containing the guns for pheasant shoots and a brace of pistols. He knew where the key was and had two pistols out before Curry, with his shorter stride, could catch up.  “Guv.”

“Load these for me.”

Curry raised his hands. “No.”

Ian turned away. He found the bullets himself, shoved the box of them into his pocket, and walked out.  On his way through the garden, a young undergardener rose from pruning a rosebush, staring at Ian with his mouth open. Ian grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him along with him.

The young man dropped his shears and trotted obediently alongside Ian. Curry came after them, panting. “Leave it,” he snapped to the gardener. “Get back to work, you.” Ian had no idea to whom Curry was talking. He kept his grip firm on the young gardener’s arm. He was a wiry lad, strong as steel.

At the end of the garden, Ian handed an empty pistol to the gardener. He withdrew the box of bullets and opened it, shoving it in the young man’s open hand.  The bullets were shining, their brass casings catching the sun. Ian admired the perfect shape of them, tapered at the top, blunt on the bottom, how they fit precisely into the revolver’s chamber.

“Load that one,” he told the gardener.

The boy began to obey, fingers shaking hard.

“Stop,” Curry commanded. “Don’t do it for him.” Ian guided the young man’s fingers to place the bullet in the revolver’s chamber. The revolvers were Webleys, loaded by breaking the barrel forward on a hinge. “Careful,” Ian said. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Put the pistol down, lad, or you’re for it.”

The young man sent Curry a terrified glance.

“Do as I say,” Ian said.

The young man gulped. “Yes, m’lord.”

Ian clicked the revolver back together, sighted down the barrel, and shot a small rock that had been resting on another rock fifty feet away. He shot again and again until his pistol clicked on an empty chamber.

He shoved the pistol at the gardener and took the second one. “Reload that,” he said, and sighted down the fresh weapon.

Ian shot six more times, blowing both rocks to pieces. He took the first gun and centered it on another rock, while the young man loaded the second one again.

Dimly Ian heard Curry shouting at him, then at the gardener, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. He heard others behind him. Cam. Hart.

His world narrowed to the blue steel of the pistol’s barrel, the tiny explosions of rock downrange, the burst of noise as he squeezed the trigger. He felt the solid butt of the gun against his palm, screwed up his eyes at the acrid scent of burned powder, shifted his weight to take the kick.  He shot, handed off the pistol, shot again, over and over.

His hands ached, his eyes watered, and he kept shooting.

“Guv,” Curry yelled. “Stop, for the love of God.” Ian sighted, squeezed the trigger. His arm bucked, and he straightened it, shooting again.

Heavy hands grabbed his shoulder. Hart’s voice, roaring in rage. Ian shook him off and kept firing.  Fire, hand over pistol, grab second pistol, aim, fire.

“Ian.”

Beth’s warm tone floated to him, and her cool hand rested on his. The world came rushing back.

It was dimmer now, twilight having taken the place of bright afternoon. The undergardener sobbed at his side, dropping the empty pistol and pressing his hands to his face.

Ian’s arms ached. He slowly unclenched the pistol that Curry eased out of his hand and found his palms blistered and raw.

Beth touched his face. “Ian.”

He loved how she said his name. She spoke the syllables gently, her voice always soft, caressing.

Hart loomed up behind her, but Ian dissolved into Beth.  He slid his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck.

“When he comes back and finds you gone, ‘oo will he strangle?”

Curry bleated. “Me, that’s ‘oo.”

Beth handed Katie her valise and adjusted her gloves.  “You told me that when he disappears like this, it’s often for days and days. I’ll be back before then.”

Curry’s mulish look said he didn’t believe that.  Ian had slept with Beth, made love to her last night after Curry had bandaged his hurt hands. But when Beth had awakened, Ian had been gone, not only from their bedroom, but from the house and park around it. None of the horses was missing; no one had seen him go.

Hart was livid and demanded a search. Cameron and Curry had persuaded him to let Ian alone. Ian would come back when he was ready. Didn’t he always? Hart, his look told her, blamed Beth.

“You’re doing right, m’lady,” Katie whispered to her as they climbed into the carriage. “I always thought he was a nutter.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Beth said sharply, loud enough for the coachman to hear. “I’m simply taking care of business in London.”

Katie glanced at the coachman and winked at Beth.

“Right you are, m’lady.”

Beth snapped her mouth shut as the coachman started the horses. She felt a pang. She’d miss Kilmorgan.  The ride to the railway station proved uneventful. As the coachman lifted out the valises, Cameron’s son, Daniel, suddenly rolled off the backboard, where he’d been crouching.  “Take me with you,” he blurted.

Beth hadn’t yet made up her mind about Daniel. He was definitely a Mackenzie, with his brown-red hair and golden eyes, but the shape of his face was different. His chin and eyes were softer, making him handsome rather than hard.  His mother had been a famous beauty, according to Curry, celebrated in her day.

Just like our Lord Cameron to marry a wild one like her, Curry had said. Anything to get under his father’s skin.

Daniel’s attempt to mimic Cameron in all ways touched Beth’s heart. He wanted Cameron’s attention and approval, Beth could see, and Cameron didn’t always respond.  “I’m not certain your father would be happy,” Beth tried.  Daniel’s face fell. “Please? It’ll be dismal up here with Ian going to ground and Hart biting everyone’s head off and Dad growling like a thunderstorm. With you gone, they’ll be even worse.”

Daniel would be in the middle, Beth sensed. He’d chafe and rebel, which would make Hart and Cameron harder on him.

“Very well,” Beth said. “You didn’t happen to pack a bag, did you?”

“Naw, but I’ve got clothes in Dad’s house in London.” Daniel ran a few steps and did a cartwheel. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Are you mad?” Katie hissed as Beth turned to the ticket window. “Why d’ya want to saddle yourself with that hellion?”

“He’ll be useful, and I feel sorry for him.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “He’s a right nuisance, that one. His pa needs to tan his hide.”

“Being a parent is complicated.”

“Oh, is it? You ever been one?”

Beth hid the swift pain in her heart. “No, but I’ve known plenty of them.” She smiled at the stadonmaster as he came to the counter.

The stadonmaster put Daniel’s ticket on the Kilmorgan account, looking slightly surprised that Beth asked for the tickets instead of sending a servant. The idea of her ladyship purchasing anything for herself seemed to fill everyone with horror.

“I’d also like to send a telegram,” she said crisply, then waited while the obliging stadonmaster fetched his pencil and paper.

“Who to, m’lady?”

“Inspector Fellows,” she answered. “At Scotland Yard, in London.”

Being alone no longer soothed him.

Ian watched the water run along the bottom of the gorge, his boots muddy, the hem of his kilt wet from the splashing stream.

At one time in his life, fishing in Abernathy’s Gorge with nothing but the wind, sky, and water would have seemed like perfection to him. Today he felt drained and empty.

He wasn’t strictly alone. Old Geordie fished on a rock not far from him, his pole silently dangling from his weathered hand. Long ago, Geordie had been a stable hand for lan’s father, but he’d retired and lived a reclusive existence up on the mountain, miles from anywhere. His cottage was tiny and run-down, Geordie too unsocial even to hire someone to help him keep up the place.