He’d moved from the hell of the tunnels to the purgatory of the boat, where he’d come face-to-face with the realization of what was the most important thing in his life. Not power, not money or might, not controlling everything around him.

Eleanor.

He remembered how the warm thoughts of her, even when he couldn’t quite form them, had sustained him in the tunnels. His first thoughts when he’d woken again, free of the darkness, had been of her.

All that mattered was Eleanor, and the child she now carried inside her.

Hart spread his hand over her warm abdomen. She never moved, sleeping on.

Hart’s body loosened, and he dropped into profound sleep, curled into her warmth.


The return of Hart Mackenzie was greeted with dismay in some quarters and relief in others. England read of Hart’s survival in their morning newspapers, shook heads, and said, That family is quite unbalanced.

Reeve got his money, more than he’d dreamed. So much that Reeve decided to quit London and take his family to live in a cottage on the southern coast.

At Kilmorgan, Hart rejoined his family to great joy, and also to scolding. The ladies were the worst. Hart barely escaped from them, taking refuge in fishing with Ian.

David Fleming came to Kilmorgan, eager to have Hart take the reins of power again. They couldn’t lose, David said. Hart could hold the nation in the palm of his hand, make it do whatever he wished.

Everything he’d always wanted.

“It’s up to you, old man,” David said, lounging back in a chair, a cheroot in one hand, a flask in the other. “I don’t mind stepping aside. I’d prefer it. What do you want to do?”

Hart looked up at the Mackenzie ancestors that marched along the walls of his huge study, from Old Malcolm Mackenzie, with the sneer that had put the fear of God into the English, to his own father, who glared at all who crossed the threshold.

Hart looked into the eyes above the beard, at the mean glitter that the painter had managed to capture. Behind those eyes was a man who’d plotted to kill his own son.

Except that this time when Hart looked at the picture, he saw that the painted eyes were just that, paint.

The old duke was gone.

Hart pressed his hands flat on the desk and closed his eyes. I have defeated you. I no longer need to prove to you that I am not weak.

Upstairs, in their bedchamber, Eleanor was knitting booties.

He opened his eyes. “No,” he said.

David stopped, his flask halfway to his mouth. “What did you say?”

“I said no. I am resigning. You lead the party to victory.”

David paled. “But I need you. We need you.”

“No, you don’t. You kept the coalition together when it looked as though I was dead. You could not have done that if I was the only thing that held the party together. I look forward to many nights sharing whiskey with you and listening to your stories of your days as prime minister. I will continue to support the party and advise you if necessary. But I no longer want the post of prime minister.”

David stared at him. “You are joking.”

Hart sat back, breathing the waft of cool Scottish air that floated through the open windows. “The fish are biting in the river down the hill. The Mackenzie distillery needs my help. Ian does fine with it, but his heart’s not in brewing the finest malt whiskey known to man. I’m going to take over the running of it while he enjoys himself with the accounts. I am going to stop trying to run the world and start trying to run my life. I’ve neglected it.”

“I see, so you’ll become a proper Scottish laird, and walk about your estate in stout boots with a walking stick. I know you, Mackenzie. You’ll grow bored soon enough.”

“I doubt it. My wife is growing heavy with my child, and I intend not to miss a moment of his life.”

“Eleanor’s increasing?” David gaped. “Good Lord. Has she run mad?”

“Not yet.” Hart stared comfortably out at the room that had ceased to intimidate him. Maybe he’d let Eleanor take down all these bloody pictures and redecorate the place.

David laughed a little, but he shook his head. “Ah, well. We could have been great together, Mackenzie. Tell Eleanor she has my congratulations. And my sympathies.”

“I will. Now get out. I want to be alone with my wife.”

David chuckled. He took a drink from his flask and dropped it in his pocket. “Don’t blame you, old man. Don’t blame you one whit.” David shook Hart’s hand one last time, clapped him on the shoulder, and finally went away.

Hart stood up. He walked to his father’s portrait, a copy of the one that hung in the great stairwell down the hall. Tradition had it that the current duke hung on the first landing, the former duke on the second, and so on to the top of the house. When Beth had first moved in with Ian, she suggesting consigning the lot of them—including Hart, no doubt—to the attic.

Hart had thought Beth too full of her own opinion at the time, but now, he agreed with her. Changes would be made at Kilmorgan forthwith.

Hart gazed up at his hated father, His Grace of Kilmorgan, Daniel Fergus Mackenzie. And stopped. Clouds outside had parted, and a beam of sunshine slanted onto the portrait to show Hart something he hadn’t been able to see from his desk.

Hart stared at it for some time. Then he started to laugh.

Still laughing, he tugged the bellpull, and when a footman answered, he sent him to fetch Eleanor.

Eleanor found Hart sitting at his desk, leaning his chair back on two legs, his booted feet crossed on the desk’s surface. His kilt slid up to reveal his strong thighs, and he had a grin of delight on his face.

“Eleanor,” he said pointing. “Did you do that?”

Eleanor turned to look at what he indicated. “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

“That’s a valuable painting.”

“You have another by the same artist hanging in the hall. Not to mention the Manet in London.”

“Tell me why.”

Eleanor glanced up at the old duke. She’d come in here with Hart when they’d arrived back at Kilmorgan a few days ago, and she’d seen Hart flinch under the scrutiny of those eyes.

Later, Eleanor had marched upstairs and gotten a drawing pencil, come back down, climbed up on a chair, and in a fit of pique, did her damage. The old duke now sported devil horns and round spectacles.

Hart’s grin warmed his face. “Come clean, El. Tell me.”

Eleanor clenched her hands. “I was so angry with him. You have always been so afraid you’d become like him, and he made you fear that. But you’re not a bit like him at all. You have a temper, yes, but you’re generous and strong and protective. So very protective. Your father was none of that. I got tired of him upsetting you.” She looked at Hart, who had his hands behind his head. He’d shaved the beard, now her clean-shaven, hard-faced man again, but she might try to persuade him to grow the beard back. She’d rather liked the feel of it against any part of her he kissed.

She went on. “I’ve always thought you much more like your great-great-grandfather, Old Malcolm. He must have been a terror, and yet, his lady loved him. She described him well in her diaries—I read them. The things she says of him remind me of you.”

Hart looked thoughtful. “Old Malcolm? I thought he was a ruthless bastard.”

“Can you blame him? His four brothers and father dead at Culloden? Poor man. At least he found Mary and eloped with her. Very romantic.”

“Mackenzies were romantic in those days.”

“Mackenzies still are.”

Hart came out of the chair with the same controlled precision he gave everything else. “Are we, now, lass?”

“I think so.” Eleanor thought about the exciting things Hart had been teaching her in bed the last few days, things that made her blush, but gave her a little shiver of pleasure to think on. Hart certainly knew exotic things, but he was patient, never rushing her, always making certain she was unafraid before he proceeded. He was a wicked, wicked man, but one with a heart so full, and now he belonged to her.

She slid her hand into his and gave it a squeeze. “Of course you’re romantic. Look at how pleased you are that your brothers are happily married off.”

“I am.” Hart made an exasperated noise. “But now I have the whole confounded lot of them here. No privacy in this house.”

“They’ve gone fishing,” Eleanor said. “With the children. They won’t be back for some time. Perhaps we can take the opportunity for you to show me more of your… unconventional passions.”

“Mmm.” Hart ran his hands down her arms to move his thumbs over the insides of her wrists. “I have a few new things to play with. I got them just for you.”

Her heart beat faster. “Oh?”

“No more makeshift tethers. I have real ones now.”

“Do you? How splendid. I look forward to seeing you in them.”

Hart started, eyes widening. “What?”

Eleanor wanted to laugh. “Yes, indeed. My bonny, braw Scotsman, perhaps in only his kilt, with his wrists bound together, waiting for me?”

Hart stared at her for a long moment, then his sinful smile spread across his face. “Bold minx. You’ve been learning your lessons well.”

“I believe that would make a good photograph, do you not?”

Hart opened his mouth to answer. Then he closed it. Then he growled.

Her bonny, braw Scotsman jerked her up to him, and his kiss took her breath away. “My Eleanor,” he said. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Hart Mackenzie.”

His grin returned. “You should know better than to challenge me. I’ll answer with a challenge of my own.”