They'll be able to start their repairs thanks to your generous--and anonymous--donation."

"I'll have Wilfred draw him a cheque when he returns," Hart said without changing expression.

"I told Glastonby I could square it with the vicar to keep silent, especially to his wife and the earl's upright friends. My price, one Ming bowl. Glastonby took me to his house and nearly threw the bowl at me. I'll never be received in his home again." David laughed in delight. "Thank God."

Hart relaxed. The ever-reliable David had done his job. "You're a devious snake," Hart said.

"Indeed," David gave him a modest nod. "I was taught by the master--Lord Hart Mackenzie, now the lofty Duke of Kilmorgan. You might know him." He drained the last of the coffee from the cup and rose.

"Shall we deliver the gift to Beth? Let me hand it to her. I want her kiss of gratitude."

*** *** *** Ian removed the first layer of paper then of straw, feeling Beth's breath on his cheek. The warmth of it made him want to push the box aside and lead her away from all the people who'd gathered in the dining room. Why did they hover as though whatever Hogmanay gift Beth wanted to give him was any of their business?

He carefully lifted out another layer of straw and set it aside. His brothers, their wives, Daniel, David, Louisa, the McBrides, and Beth, leaned forward.

Inside the wooden box, nestled on another layer of straw, lay a Ming bowl. Ian lifted it out with gentle fingers--one never knew with porcelain how brittle it had become over the years.

It was a decent specimen, a bit small, but with finely painted dragons flowing among vine leaves. A chrysanthemum decorated the bottom of the outside. The blue was good, not as brilliant as the Russian gentleman's bowl, but a similar shade.

"This was the Earl of Glastonby's," Ian said, turning the bowl in his hands. He sniffed the porcelain--it was authentic. Some aristocrats in need of money had copies of their antiques made before they sold the originals, then forgot to mention that what they owned was the copy. Ian had seen this bowl before, when Glastonby had opened his home to show his collection, to raise money for one of his wife's charitable works. "He refused to sell it to me."

"I know," David Fleming said. "Prying it out of him was an onerous chore, but one I happily performed."

"It wasn't necessary," Ian said. "It's not as good as many of my others."

Beth leaned to him, distracting him again with the touch of her breath, her voice like an alto flute, the softness of her breasts against his shoulder. "Do you not like it?"

She wore the expression Ian had come to understand meant she was worried and trying not to show it.

Worried about what? That he didn't want the bowl? Of course, he wanted it. Ming bowls were his passion.

"I will add it to my collection."

Ian thought his answer would close the matter, but his family remained staring at him, and Beth's expression grew more anxious. "It is like the one I broke." She touched the design. "With the dragons, and the flowers, and the blue."

What was she talking about? This bowl was nothing like that one--perhaps it was similar in design and color, but with a completely different character and age.

"It isn't the same," Ian said, trying to make Beth understand. "The leaves on the vines are different, and at the bottom is a mum, not a dragon. This bowl is about fifty years newer than the other." He carefully returned it to the straw. He'd have to rearrange the collection a little to fit it in, but no matter.

Hart broke in. "I'm sorry, Ian. My fault. I thought it would suffice."

Suffice for what? A new bowl was always welcome, and the fact that Beth had tried to buy him one warmed him.

"Are you saying this is not the one you wanted?" David asked, his voice too loud for Ian's taste. "Not that I didn't enjoy my task, but are you not the least bit happy we wrested a prized possession from Glastonby? Now you have it, and he doesn't."

Words began to knock together in Ian's head. He couldn't follow the undercurrents of the conversation, and his old frustration started to rise.

"If I'd wanted Glastonby's bowl, I would have had it," Ian said.

David slid a flask from his pocket and took a drink. "But you just said he wouldn't sell it to you."

"He would have. Eventually. If I'd wanted him to."

Ian turned to Beth, ready for his family to go and leave them alone. He stopped, his confusion escalating, when he saw the tears in her blue eyes.

His brothers had drilled into him that, when someone gave him a present, Ian should acknowledge it.

Perhaps that's what she was waiting for.

"Thank you, my Beth."

Beth swallowed, more tears moistening her eyes. "You're welcome, Ian."

Ian closed the box. End of the matter.

"Ian." Mac laid a heavy hand on Ian's shoulder. "A word with you, if you don't mind. Alone."


* * * * *

Chapter Fourteen

Ian tried to ignore him. He didn't want to leave Beth, who was still crying. He wanted to kiss away her tears, to feel the moisture on her lashes brushing his lips. He needed to discover what was the matter, to make her happy again. He'd thought he'd done so with Jamie's Christmas gift, but he'd been wrong.

Mac's hand firmed. "Now."

Ian smothered a sigh, pushed the box away, rose from the table, and let Mac lead him out into the hall.

The others closed on Beth--if they didn't leave her alone, they'd suffocate her.

"Ian." Mac shut the door, cutting off Ian's view of Beth. "Sometimes, my little brother, you can be incomparably cruel."

"What are you talking about?" This was what happened when his family wouldn't let Ian and Beth be alone. When Ian could wrap himself in Beth's presence, he was at peace, in a blissful place where all was stillness. Now there was turmoil, tears. "I said 'thank you'."

"How can I explain this? Beth feels terrible that she broke your blasted bowl. She's been hunting everywhere for one like it, Hart bullied half the country until he located a Ming bowl with blue dragons on it, and he sent Fleming to lure Glastonby into a compromising position so Glastonby would hand it over. Fleming rushed it to Hart, who rushed it to Beth, who rushed it to you. She wanted to make up for what she'd done. Do you see?"

"But the bowl was irreplaceable," Ian said. Perhaps if he spoke slowly, he could make himself clear.

"It was very rare. Glastonby's is not as good."

"Not the point. Beth was very unhappy that she broke the bowl. She knew how much it meant to you.

Hell, for months you wouldn't talk about anything else. And then she broke it. The woman who loves you broke it. How do you think that made her feel?"

"I know Beth was upset. I told her it was all right."

Mac scraped his hands through his hair. "Yes, yes, you told her. But every time she thought of a way to make up for it, you said she never could. You told Curry he needn't have bothered sticking the damn thing back together, as Beth asked him to. And now, she goes to the trouble of finding you another bowl, and you tell her it isn't good enough."

"It isn't as good. But I said I'd keep it . . ."

"And I want to break the bloody thing over your head. Focus, Ian. Look at me."

Ian shifted his gaze, which still rested on the door that blocked him from Beth, to Mac's copper-

colored eyes.

"Beth is hurting," Mac said. "Because she thinks she hurt you."

Bewildering. "She didn't."

"But she doesn't know that."

Ian couldn't look away from Mac as his thoughts spun around and the events straightened out in his head. A mathematical problem. A = x and B = y; if A + B = C, then C = x + y.

"She thinks she hurt me because she broke the bowl," Ian said.

"Yes!" Mac threw up his hands. "Ian wins the race."

"What race?"

"Never mind. Forget about races. Let's return to Beth being upset. You love your bowls, and Beth destroyed something you love." A + B = C. Except that A was flawed.

"I don't love the bowls."

"You're overly fond of them then."

"No." Ian thought a moment. "They please me." Uniform, their gentle shape, the intricacy of the designs.

"Fine. Beth destroyed something that pleased you. Therefore, she is unhappy."

Ian did not like Beth being unhappy. Her sorrow was his, he ached when he saw her tears.

Ian looked again at Mac, his unruly, teasing brother, the one he understood least. Mac was the opposite of Ian--he was impetuous, reckless, volatile, wild, whereas Ian needed his life to be neat and exact, his routine unbroken unless absolutely necessary. Mac's artistic talent had earned their father's wrath, and he'd run away from the cloying household at a young age. Ian's exactness had also earned his father's wrath, the old duke believing Ian mad, and punishing him for it.

"What do I do?" Ian asked. He was swimming, uncertain, trying to find the current.

"Tell Beth you're not upset at her for breaking the bowl. Simple as that."

"But I told her."

"Tell her again. And again. As many times as it takes for her to believe you. Explain why you are not upset. In great detail--you are good at details."

The dining room door was beckoning to him, because behind it lay Beth. All the bowls in the world could crumble to dust, and it wouldn't matter, because he could lean down and kiss Beth's cheek, smoother than any porcelain.