This then, was Act V. The heroine returns to drive the villain insane.

“Hart?”

Eleanor saw Hart blinking at the light as he jerked around to face her and the lantern she carried. His hand was on the chiseled letters of his son’s name, and he was holding on to them for dear life.

Chapter 17

Hart’s gaze was unfocused, his golden eyes glittering and moist. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he said. “It’s too damp. You’ll take sick again.”

Eleanor walked to him. Hart kept his hands on the plaque, as though loathe to take his fingers from the letters.

“What are you doing here?” Eleanor asked. “You have a perfectly good fire in your bedchamber. I saw it.”

Hart turned his face back to the tomb. “I was afraid.”

“Of what?” It was cold, which made her hurt arm ache, but Eleanor did not want to leave him here. “Tell me.”

“Losing you.” Hart looked at her again, his eyes anguished. “I was remembering you throwing the ring at me and telling me to go away, how arrogant I was.”

Eleanor shivered, thinking of that terrible day and how enraged and how proud they both had been. “That was a long time ago.”

“No, I’m still fucking arrogant. I should have sent you home when you came bleating to me about a job. But, no, I coerced you into staying with me, and you almost died for it.”

“Not everything in the world is your fault, Hart,” Eleanor said.

“Yes, it is. I manipulate the world, and then I suffer the consequences. Others more so than me.”

Eleanor’s gaze went to the tomb, where lovely, shy Sarah lay, along with her tiny son, Lord Hart Graham Mackenzie, one day old.

“You blame yourself for their deaths too,” she said softly.

“Of course I do.”

“Sarah would have died carrying someone else’s son,” Eleanor said. “It sounds cruel to say it, but she wasn’t strong enough to have a baby. Some women are not.”

“She didn’t want to have a baby at all. She hated being with child. She did it because that was what she’d been raised to do.”

True enough. Perhaps if Sarah and her son had lived, Sarah would have changed her mind about wanting a baby. Perhaps she would have realized how much she could love her son, and thereby brought Hart some measure of happiness.

Hart caressed the letters of baby Graham’s name. “Mac likes to say, We’re Mackenzies. We break what we touch. But this little Mackenzie… he broke me.”

Eleanor’s heart squeezed. When she’d received the black-edged card from Hart with the formal words, His Grace, the Duke of Kilmorgan, regrets to announce… she’d cried. Cried for Hart and for Sarah, and for the child who’d never grow up. She’d cried for herself, for what hadn’t been, and what could never be.

Hart finally let go of the letters. “I held him in my hands,” he said, showing her his broad palms. “Graham was so tiny, and he just fit into them. I held him, and I loved him.”

“I know you did.”

Hart looked at her, his eyes still dark in the lantern’s glare. “I never knew I could love like that. I don’t know to this day where the feelings came from. But looking at him—so small, so perfect… I realized, that moment, that I’d never entirely be like my father. I’d feared and fought being like him all my life, but when I looked at Graham, I knew I was safe from that. Because I could never hurt this little boy.”

Eleanor touched his arm, which was steely hard beneath his coat. “No.”

“He was so frail. I would have done anything in the world to keep him safe. Anything. But I couldn’t.” The pain in his eyes cut her. “I couldn’t save him, El. I should have been able to. I’m a strong man, the strongest I know. And I couldn’t save him.”

Eleanor pressed her forehead to his shoulder. “I know, Hart. I’m so, so sorry.”

He laughed a little, the sound bitter. “Do you know, people tried to tell me that Graham’s death was part of God’s plan and that he’d gone to a better place? I nearly punched someone for telling me that. A better place. Rot that. I needed him here.”

“Yes.”

“When I looked at Graham, I saw what I’d become. You showed me part of the truth when you threw me over, but this tiny boy made me face myself. The blackest, deadliest part of me.”

His words ran out, but Hart remained still, staring at his hands, head bowed.

Eleanor stepped in front of him and put her unhurt hand across his palms. “Come to the house,” she said. “You’re too cold out here. It’s time to get warm.”


Eleanor might wear the bandages, but he was the wounded one, Hart thought as he stripped back the covers on Eleanor’s newly made bed.

Under Eleanor’s heavy coat, she wore one of the old serge gowns she’d brought with her from Glenarden. She saw his frown as she slid off the coat and shook her head. “Did you think I’d go traipsing across your lawn in satin finery? That is the trouble with ladies’ gowns, terribly impractical for a good tramp.”

“Why the devil were you having a good tramp in the middle of the night?” Hart helped her extricate her arm from the sleeve. “Did you want to make yourself ill again?”

“I am perfectly fine, thank you very much, and I was looking for you.”

“You found me.” Sick at heart, floundering. He’d turned, and there she’d been.

Tell her everything, Ian had advised.

Sorry, Ian. I’ve had enough heartache for one night.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Hart said.

Eleanor rose on tiptoe and kissed his lips. “You won’t.”

Did she say that because she trusted him, or because she was that sure of herself?

“I’ll leave you to sleep.”

Eleanor pressed another kiss to his lips. “No, indeed. Sleep with me.”

She left him to walk to the bed. In the circle of the fire’s warmth, she unbuttoned her gown and let it fall, then stripped off what little she wore under it. She hadn’t bothered with a corset or layers of petticoats for her stroll. Her round backside rose as she leaned down to pick up the dress from the floor. She smiled over her shoulder at him as she straightened up.

God help me.

Hart stripped off his coat and muddy shoes at the same time, nearly tearing the coat in his hurry. He shed waistcoat and shirt, undershirt and socks as Eleanor lifted her coverlet and got into the bed. She lay back against the pillows, her bandaged arm across the quilts, and watched Hart pull off his kilt and let it drop.

Her smile widened as her gaze went unashamedly to his naked arousal. She lifted the covers. “Come in and get warm.”

Hart slid in beside her, on her right side so he wouldn’t touch her bandages. He drew his fingers across her sleek shoulder, and kissed her skin.

Making love to her the conventional way might hurt her injury, but Hart didn’t mind being unconventional. He slid his leg across both of hers, putting them inside his bent knee. He kissed Eleanor’s lips, slow, light kisses, enjoying her softness.

She tasted delightful. Firelight brushed her skin, and her warmth beneath the covers was chasing away his bone-deep chill.

“Sit up,” he said.

Eleanor blinked. “Why?”

“Questions. Always the questions.” Hart kissed the bridge of her nose. “Because I want you to.”

Eleanor gave him a look that said he was hopeless, but she pushed back the covers and carefully leveraged herself to sit against the headboard. Her full, round breasts peeped above the quilts. Hart ran his finger over one areola, delighting to watch it tighten.

With an agility Hart didn’t know he still possessed, he positioned himself before her, on his knees. He spread her legs around him, then slid his hands under her thighs and lifted her forward. Eleanor gave a startled gasp as she came to him.

“Rest your hand on my shoulder,” Hart said. “Don’t hurt your arm.”

Eleanor laid the bandaged wrist on his big shoulder. Hart moved her legs over his thighs until she sat against him, chest to chest.

“Comfortable?” Hart asked.

“Very.” Eleanor put her good arm around him and pulled him into a warm embrace.

Hart tucked his hands back under her buttocks, lifting them the slightest bit, so that his very needy arousal could find the place she opened. “You’re wet for me,” he said.

She laughed, which made her move against him in the nicest way. “I’m straddling the most glorious, naked Highlander.”

Hart licked across her lips while he pulled her down onto him, his stiffness sliding straight into the goodness of her.

He nipped her neck, then licked to ease the bite. He wanted to suckle every part of her, could imagine the taste of her warm breasts, the skin of her throat, the heat between her thighs. He wanted to taste her and drink her and not stop.

Gently. She’s hurt.

Hart knew how to be gentle. Rough play had its place, but there were times when the softest love was the best.

Perhaps one day they could…

Tell her everything.

Eleanor touched his face, hers soft with pleasure, skimming her fingers along his unshaven jaw. She smelled of her lavender soap, the scent that broke him open inside.

Hart pushed into her warmth, feeling her close around him, encasing him a tight embrace. God, yes. Eleanor’s eyes slid closed, her head going back while she clutched his shoulder with her unhurt hand. Her nails creased his skin, the little moan in her throat exciting.

Hart and Eleanor were locked together, their bodies firmly against each other’s. Hart’s skin prickled, and Eleanor’s little sigh let him know she was feeling him.