The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie (40 page)

Now Violet stood in the decorated ballroom, her hand on Cameron Mackenzie’s arm. The tall Cameron would lead her down the aisle to Daniel.

Ian Mackenzie waited next to Daniel, having agreed to be his groomsman. While they’d still been in Paris, waiting for Daniel to heal, Ian had pulled Violet aside. “You kept him safe,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Safe?” Violet shook her head. “I got him shot. I did everything
but
keep him safe.”

“He lived because of you. He did everything for you.” Ian paused, glancing away as though gathering his thoughts before looking directly at Violet, his golden eyes like a flash of sunlight. “He needs someone to live for. Not just inventions.”

Violet tried a smile. “His inventions are very important to him.”

Ian’s expression didn’t change. “Family is more important. Now you are his family.”

And that was the end of the discussion.

The guests in the ballroom turned as Violet walked past them. They were all members of the family, or close friends and neighbors. No one else, Daniel had said severely. This was to be a private occasion, no showing off to the world.

For the private occasion, the ballroom was packed. Most of the guests were Mackenzies, the room filled with blue and green plaid. Some were McBrides, Ainsley’s brothers—the four of them and their families at the front of the room. Celine was there with Ainsley, looking ready to dissolve into tears.

Daniel had given the house in London he’d bought from Mortimer to Celine, who had been gushingly grateful. Celine planned to keep sitting the séances, she said, with Mary’s help. Her timely vision of Daniel needing help had made her more eager than ever to share her gift.

Bagpipes sang Violet down the aisle. Mackenzie clan members watched her come—tall men with hair every shade of red from darkest auburn to bright carrot. The Mackenzie, the clan chief, a straight and tall man with white hair, made Violet a bow as she walked by.

But when Daniel smiled at Violet as she stopped beside him, nothing else mattered. The warmth of Daniel, the gleam in his eyes, was the only thing Violet needed. He’d saved her life.

The bishop began. The ceremony wound its way along, and Violet made the correct responses, barely hearing herself. Only the words of the vows mattered—Violet plighting her troth to Daniel, he promising to care for her until the end.

Then she was wed. Daniel lifted the veil from Violet’s face and kissed her.

The crowd behind them let out whoops and screams. Pipes played, children shrieked, and shouts and laughter rang out.

The festivities began. There was the wedding feast, laid out across several rooms. Then dancing and flowing whiskey, the party lasting through the afternoon and on into the night.

Violet laid aside her veil and joined in the Scottish dances that Ainsley and Eleanor had taught her. Violet loved dancing alongside Daniel, holding hands with him, or threading through the other dancers in the line. The pipes, fiddles, and drums were energizing, the room filled with joy. At one point, Daniel was coaxed into doing a sword dance, which he performed with athletic grace. Then Jamie Mackenzie performed it, showing the same grace and skill, to the delight of all, and Ian’s pride.

“He’s a good lad,” Ian said to Violet, squeezing her hand hard. “My son. He’s
happy
.” The last was said with even more pride.

The Mackenzie children stayed awake long past their bedtimes, until they dropped off one by one. Gavina and Stuart begged to be allowed to have Violet and Daniel carry them up to bed, and Violet happily concurred. Violet too was wearying, though she was pleasantly tired, not exhausted.

“’Tis not really for us,” Daniel said, as he climbed to the nursery beside Violet. Stuart was already asleep on his shoulder, his golden red hair tousled, though Gavina resolutely kept her eyes open. “The wedding of a clan member reassures the others of the continuation of the clan. At least that’s the excuse for all the drinking and dancing.” Daniel winked. “And other things, as the night goes on. My family is not prudish.”

Violet laid Gavina in her bed in the large nursery, while Daniel tended to Stuart. Violet leaned down and kissed Gavina good night.

“Night, Violet,” Gavina said happily. “Since you’re married now, you and Danny can have lots of babies. Hurry, please.” She delivered her demand, then closed her eyes and drifted to sleep.

“My sister knows her mind,” Daniel said. He put a gentle hand on Stuart’s back, the fondness in his eyes plain to see. Daniel leaned down and kissed his brother’s forehead, then he took Violet’s hand and led her out of the room.

The hallway outside the nursery was deserted. Daniel leaned Violet against a wall by a large window and curved over her. “I know my own mind too. ’Tis a family trait. I’m dying for ye, Mrs. Mackenzie.”

His kiss took Violet’s breath away. Daniel had her pressed to the wall, his strength pinning her, the wooden paneling hard against her back.

The feeling of the wall behind her and a strong man before her stirred the fringes of Violet’s old panic. But Violet forced herself to the present. This was
Daniel
, leaning into her lovingly, his mouth coaxing, tender.

She and her husband kissing in the hall was
now
, her life. Daniel had taught her that a man wanting a woman could touch her gently, could draw from her the greatest pleasure she could feel.

Daniel kissed Violet until she knew nothing but him, this heat, his mouth, the caress of his lips. His hands warmed her, arms coming around her to pull her from the wall and into him. The panic floated away into the darkness.

Daniel stopped to kiss Violet several times as he led her down the stairs and to the large bedroom in the Cameron family wing. Locking the door behind them, Daniel pushed Violet step by step toward the bed, unbuttoning her clothes as they went. Violet, laughing, unbuttoned his.

Halfway across the rug, Violet was out of her bodice, Daniel, his coat and waistcoat. At the dressing table, Daniel’s collar and shirt came off as did Violet’s corset, lovingly unlaced by Daniel’s strong hands. At the chaise at the foot of the bed, it was Daniel’s socks and shoes and Violet’s petticoats.

When they reached the bed, Daniel lifted Violet into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. He kissed her as he held her, hands firm on her back, then he laid her on the mattress and divested her of drawers and ruffled camisole. Off came his kilt then, landing in a pool of plaid on the floor.

Daniel, unclothed. Lamplight touched his bronzed skin, tanned from the sun, except where his kilt would shield him—there he was Scottish fair.

Violet loved looking at him. His arms were corded with muscle, his chest broad, the inked design of the dragon cutting across his forearm.

He looked her over in return, and Violet flushed with excitement. Daniel’s scrutiny of her bare body wasn’t debasement. This was intimacy, love, need.

Daniel gazed at her with slow desire, his eyes the color of whiskey in the darkness. He moved his gaze from her legs to the join of her thighs, up over her waist to the rise of her breasts. He lingered there for a time before his gaze rested on her face, the love in his eyes intoxicating.

Daniel climbed onto the bed, but instead of coming over her, he stretched out beside Violet, running his hand across her belly. His cock lay hot against Violet’s side, but Daniel didn’t hurry. As much as she knew he wanted her, Daniel was taking his time.

Slow goodness.
Violet held her breath, uncertain she could wait for slow goodness tonight.

Daniel’s hand dipped between her legs, drawing from her a moan of delight. He kissed her, his mouth opening hers, while he let his fingers dance. Heat spiraled Violet upward, erasing all thought, all worries, everything but Daniel and the feeling of him touching her.

Violet caught his shoulders in her strong grip, pulling him to her. “Now,” she said hurriedly. “Please. Now.”

Daniel smiled, his wickedness returning. “My pleasure, love.”

His smile died as he moved over her. With one thrust, Daniel was inside her, and Violet rose over the top, any lingering terror chased away by a darker wildness.

Violet let herself be carried by the wave, Daniel there to hold her. He let her fly free, but at the same time he grounded her, keeping her safe.

“I love you!” Violet shouted it, no longer fearing the words. She was his, and he hers. Together. For now. For always.

“I love you, Vi, my sweetest Violet.” Daniel’s words came fast, breathy, his body rocking against hers. The joining was fierce, Daniel bracing himself as he thrust into her again and again.

They perspired in the warm room, the fires stoked high so the bridal couple would not grow cold. Violet ran her hands over Daniel’s body, welcoming him, loving him inside her. Daniel’s eyes widened as his end came, the sparkling depths holding the love of ages.

Violet gathered that to her as she gathered Daniel into her arms. They fell together to the bed, spent. In love. Trusting. Daniel would never hurt her.

The beauty of that streaked through her, and told Violet she was home at last.

“Ready, love?” Daniel watched Violet as she grabbed hold of the balloon’s basket, her eyes lighting with anticipation. “All right then.” Daniel called down to the men who held the massive bubble of the balloon as it strained for freedom. “Let her go!”

The men released ropes, sandbags dropped away, and the balloon rose. The cool Scottish air grew colder, the wind from the mountains and the sea beyond it catching them.

Daniel put his arm around his wife as they went higher and higher. The small farms became square patches in the rugged country of the Highlands, and tree-covered hills spread before them. Far away was the misty gray blue of the northern sea.

Violet took in every bit of it, the delight on her face beautiful.

“As promised,” Daniel said. “Ballooning over northern Scotland. Nothing else comes close to being more stunning.”

Violet’s expression was one of delight and sheer joy. No more fear, no more dread.

“You like it?” Daniel asked her, knowing the answer.

“It’s marvelous.” Violet turned away from him, tipping the basket, but she laughed and caught the ropes to steady herself. “You’re right. It’s the most beautiful thing in the world.”

“Next to you,” Daniel said, meaning it.

Violet laughed again as she spun around. The Highlands floated quietly beneath them, the balloon rising ever higher.

“How do you feel?” he asked her.

“Free.” Violet flashed a smile that made Daniel’s life worth living. “Effortless. In love with you.” Another smile, this one warm and serious. “I saved this up to tell you now—we’re going to have a baby.”

Daniel stopped. The wind sighed around them, the roar of the modified wind machine breaking the silence.

Then a wave of pure happiness hit him, a new kind of happiness, one Daniel had never known before. “Are we?”

“Yes.” Violet touched his hand. “Thank you.”

A child. A wee one. First it would be an adorable baby, then a child like Stuart and Gavina, then a lad or lass to grow into a tall young man or woman, the pride of the family.

Daniel threw his head back, looked at the heavens, and let out a whoop that should be heard all the way to the Orkneys. He caught Violet around the waist and pulled her close.

“Anytime, love.” He laughed. “Anytime.”

Violet laughed with him. Daniel slid his arms around her as Violet gazed at the land flowing below them and stretched out her arms to embrace the world.

And she soared.

Turn the page for a preview of the next historical romance from Jennifer Ashley

Rules for a Proper Governess

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation

His voice drew her. Bertie leaned forward from the gallery and watched the man standing upright and arrogant on the floor, one hand touching an open book, the other gesturing as he made his argument.

He wore one of the silly wigs, but his face was square and handsome, far younger than that of the judge who sat above him. A wilted nosegay reposed in a vase in front of the judge, both judge and flowers looking weary in the extreme.

The case had caught the attention of journalists up and down the country—the sensational murder of a lady in Surrey by one of her kitchen maids. The young woman in the dock, Ruthie, had been accused of stabbing her employer and making off with a hundred pounds’ worth of silver.

Bertie knew Ruthie hadn’t done it. The deed had been done by Jacko Small and his mistress, only they’d set up Ruthie to take the blame. Bertie had known, had heard Jacko’s plans, but did the police listen to the likes of Roberta Frasier? No.

Not that Bertie was in the habit of talking to constables most days. She stayed as far away from them as possible, and her dad and Jeffrey made sure she did. But she’d tried for Ruthie’s sake.

Hadn’t mattered. They’d arrested Ruthie anyway, and now Ruthie would get hanged for something she didn’t do.

The barrister with the mesmerizing voice was busy making the case that Ruthie had done it. Ruthie couldn’t afford a defense, so she was up in the dock on her own, thin and small for her age, a maid who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bertie could only clench her fists and pray for a miracle.

The barrister, despite his dire statements, had a delicious Scots accent. His voice was deep and rich, rolling over the crowd like an intoxicating wave. Even the bored judge couldn’t take his eyes off him.

The man had broad shoulders and a firm back, obvious even under the black robes. His accent wasn’t so thick Bertie couldn’t understand it, but his
R
’s
rolled pleasantly, and his vowels were long, especially the
U’
s.

“If your lordship pleases,” the barrister said. “I would like to call Jacko Small back to the witness box.”

Bertie swallowed. Jacko had already given his evidence that he’d found the body in the sitting room of the London house, then seen Ruthie down in the kitchen, crying, with blood on her apron. The silver was gone, and no one had found it, so Ruthie must have hidden it somewhere, hadn’t she? The police had tried to get its location out of her, but of course Ruthie didn’t know, because she hadn’t stolen it in the first place.

The judge sighed. “Is it relevant, Mr. McBride? This witness has already told us his version of events.”

“One or two more questions, your lordship,” Mr. McBride said. “You will understand my reasons in due time.”

In duuui time.
The vowels came out of his mouth in a round, full sound.

Jacko came back in, was reminded he was still under oath, and faced Mr. McBride with all innocence on his face.

“Now, then, Mr. Small.” Mr. McBride smiled pleasantly, but Bertie saw a gleam in his eyes that was a cross between anger and glee.

Now, what was he up to? She leaned forward to watch.

“Mr. Small,” Mr. McBride said smoothly. “You say you opened the door of the sitting room to find the lady of the house on the floor, her dress covered in blood. You’d been asked to refill the coal bin on your return from your day out and had gone up there to do so.” Mr. McBride glanced down at the notes on his bench. “That day was the seventh of July. The middle of the afternoon, in the middle of summer. Quite the warmest day anyone could remember, the newspapers reported. A bit too warm for a fire, wouldn’t you say?”

Jacko blinked. “Well . . . I . . . the nights were still nippy. I remember that.”

“Yes, of course. Bloody English weather. Begging your pardon, your lordship.”

People tittered. The judge scowled. “Please get on with it, Mr. McBride.”

“You say in your statement that you saw quite a lot of blood,” Mr. McBride said without pausing. “On the sofa, on the floor, smeared on the door panels and on the doorknob.”

“Yeah,” Jacko said. He put his hand to his heart. “Gave me a turn, it did.”

“So you fled the room and went down to the kitchen, where you saw the accused wearing an apron stained with blood.
She
says she got the blood on her because she thought she’d help out the cook by stuffing the chickens for dinner. The chickens were still a bit bloody, and she wiped her hands on her apron. Correct?”

“It’s what she said, yeah.”

“Now, I need your help, Mr. Small. I must ask you a very important question, so think hard. Was there any blood smeared on the doorknob of the door to the back stairs?”

Jacko blinked again. He obviously hadn’t rehearsed this question. “Um. I don’t think so. I can’t be sure. Don’t remember. I was quite, you know, in a state.”

“But you remember distinctly the blood on the doorknob in the sitting room. You were quite poetic about it.”

More titters. Jacko looked flustered.

What the devil was Mr. McBride doing? Bertie frowned. He was supposed to be proving Ruthie did it, not that Jacko had lied. Which Jacko had, of course, but how did Mr. McBride know that? Besides, it wasn’t his job to expose Jacko. Bertie knew from experience that there were procedures. It was as if Mr. McBride had stepped onstage and started playing the wrong part.

“Was there blood on the doorknob to the back-stairs door?” Mr. McBride repeated, his deep voice growing stern.

“Um. Yeah. Yeah, now that I recall it, there was. Another big smudge, like in the sitting room. I had to touch it to open it. It were awful.”

“Except there wasn’t,” Mr. McBride said.

“Eh?” Jacko started. “Whatcha mean?”

“The door to the back stairs, or the green baize door as it is also known, had a broken panel. It had been taken away, since it was a quiet day, to be mended. There was no door that day, not for you to open, nor for the maid to smear blood on.”

“Oh.” Jacko opened and closed his mouth. “Well, I don’t really remember, do I? I was, watcha call it . . . agitated.”

“Though you remember in exact detail the placement of everything and every bloodstain in the sitting room. The accused says she didn’t see you at all that day, and never knew about her employer’s death until the police arrived. I’m going to suggest that you went nowhere near the kitchen and never saw the accused. I suggest you left the sitting room and the house entirely, returned later, found the police there, saw them taking away the accused and her bloody apron, and came up with the story about seeing her.”

Jacko looked worried now. “Yeah? And why’d I come back, if I’d killed the old bitch?”

The judge looked pained. Mr. McBride’s eyes took on a hard light. “You knew that if you’d disappeared entirely, you’d be screaming your guilt. I suggest that you left to dispose of the silver and returned as though you’d been gone all day. And never did I suggest, Mr. Small, that you committed the murder.”

Rustling and muttering filled the courtroom. The judge finally bestirred himself. “Mr. McBride, do I have to remind you that the witness is not on trial?”

“He’s not,” Mr. McBride agreed. “Not yet.”

Another round of laughter. Jacko’s face was shiny with sweat, though it was nippy in here.

“I am finished with the witness, your lordship. In my summing up, I will be putting the case that what we have here is not a conniving young woman who killed her employer, smeared blood all over the room, and then remained quietly in the kitchen with an apron covered with the same blood—and, I might add, no time to dispose of the missing silver. I am going to instead put forth my belief that another person had much better opportunity, and, I might add, strength, to commit the crime, and that we are coming dangerously close to a miscarriage of justice. Perhaps your lordship would like to retire briefly and prepare for my outrageous statements?”

The judge growled. “Mr. McBride, I have warned you about your behavior in my courtroom before. This is not the theatre.”

Oh, but it was, Bertie thought. Only the play was real, and the curtain, final. Mr. McBride knew that too, she sensed, despite his jokes.

“You are, however, correct that I would like to recess briefly to gather my thoughts,” the judge said. “Bailiff, please see that Mr. Small does not leave.”

The judge rose, and everyone scrambled to their feet. The judge disappeared through the door into his inner sanctum, the journalists rushed away, and the rest of the watchers filed out, talking excitedly.

Bertie looked over the railing at Mr. McBride, who’d sat down, pushing his wig askew as he rubbed wheat-colored hair beneath. The animation went out of his body as the courtroom emptied around him, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

He glanced around and up, but not at Bertie. He looked at no one and nothing.

Bertie was struck with how empty his face was. His eyes were a strange shade of gray, like a stormy morning. As Bertie watched, those eyes filled with a vast sadness, the likes of which Bertie had never seen. His mouth moved a little, as though he whispered something, but Bertie couldn’t hear what he said.

Bertie remained fixed in place instead of nipping off for some ale, her hand on the gallery’s wooden railing. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man below, who’d changed so incredibly the moment his performance had ended.

He never left his bench until the judge returned, and the courtroom started up again. As Mr. McBride got to his feet, the life flowed back into his body, and he again became the eloquent, arrogant man with the beautiful voice.

He put his case so charmingly that all hung on his words. The jury went out and returned very quickly with their verdict about Ruthie,
Not guilty.

Ruthie was free. Bertie had hoped for a miracle, and Mr. McBride had provided one.

After much hugging, Ruthie left Bertie and went home with her mum. Bertie found her dad and Jeffrey waiting for her outside the pub across the street. They were furious. Jacko was Jeffrey’s best friend, and Jacko had just been arrested for the murder and taken away by the police.

“’E’s to blame,” Jeffrey said darkly, jerking his chin at Mr. McBride, who was walking out of the Old Bailey, dressed now in a normal suit and coat. Once again, Bertie noted how Mr. McBride had changed from a man who commanded a room to a man who looked tired of life.

The day was cold, darkening with the coming winter night. Bertie rubbed her hands together in her too-thin gloves and suggested her dad and Jeffrey take her into the pub and buy her a half.

“Not yet,” Bertie’s dad said. “Just teach ’im a lesson, Bertie. Go on now, girl.”

Girl,
when she was twenty-six years old. “Leave him alone,” she said. “He saved Ruthie.”

“But got Jacko arrested,” Jeffrey growled. “Whose side are you on?”

“Jacko
killed
the woman,” Bertie said. “He’s a villain. He always was. I say good on Ruthie.”

Jeffrey grabbed Bertie by the shoulder and pushed her into the shadows of the passage beside the pub. He wouldn’t beat her in public—he’d take her somewhere unseen to do that—but his hand clamped down hard. “Jacko is my best friend,” Jeffrey said, his breath already heavy with gin. “You get over to that fiend of a Scottish barrister and fetch us a souvenir. We deserve it. The traitorous bastard was supposed to be on Jacko’s side.”

Jeffrey’s grip hurt. Bertie knew that if she protested too much, both Jeffrey and her dad would let her have it. But she couldn’t do this.

“That fiend of a Scottish barrister is very smart,” she pointed out. “He’ll catch me, then
I’ll
be in the cell with Jacko, waiting to go before the magistrate.”

Bertie’s dad leaned in, his breath already reeking as well. “You just do it, Roberta. You’re like a ghost—he’ll never know. And if he
does
see you, you know what to do. Now get out there, before I take my hand to you.”

Blast. They weren’t going to drop it. In their minds, Mr. McBride was the villain and deserved to be punished. If Bertie refused, her dad would drag her away and thrash her until she gave in. If Mr. McBride went home while Bertie was taking her beating, her dad would make her wait here every day until Mr. McBride returned for another case.

Either way, Bertie was doing this. One way would just be less painful than the other.

Bertie jerked free of Jeffrey’s hold. “All right,” she growled. “I’ll do it. But you’d better be ready. He’s no fool.”

“Like I said, he’ll never see ya,” her dad said. “You’ve got the touch, Bertie-girl. Go on with you.”

Bertie stumbled when her dad pushed her between the shoulder blades, but she righted herself and squared her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she walked steadily across the street toward where Mr. McBride stood waiting, his sad face and empty eyes focused on something far, far from the crowded streets of the City of London.