“Well, I should hope so,” Eleanor said.

Hart growled again, then he lifted her in his arms, kicked open the door, and ran with her out of the room.

Epilogue

JUNE 1885

Hart had no interest in more official portraits of him, but Eleanor insisted. “Not just you,” she’d said. “The entire family.”

And so, on a fine day when Hart would have preferred to be fishing with Ian, he traipsed out onto the terrace with his brothers and their families to have their portraits taken. A photographer who’d come from Edinburgh busied himself readying the camera, his tripod, and his collection of glass plates.

First to be photographed was the Cameron Mackenzie family, only because Cameron marshaled his troops the fastest. Cameron sat on a chair, and Ainsley stood on his right, her hand on his shoulder. Daniel was on his left, and Gavina, nearly two years old now, sat on Cameron’s lap. Something dribbled out of Gavina’s mouth, and Cameron swiftly caught the drool on his handkerchief, wiping her clean before the camera’s shutter closed.

Next came Ian and Beth. Ian sat in the chair, his kilt draped over his knees. Beth stood regally beside him in her dress of Mackenzie plaid. She held Belle in her arms, while three-year-old Jamie perched on Ian’s lap. The camera caught Ian looking, not at the lens, but up at his wife, his face soft with happiness. Beth was looking back down at him, his fingers on her hand. A beautiful portrait.

Ian and Beth took the children down to the lawn to play while Mac at last got his brood chivied into place. Mac took his place in the chair, with six-year-old Aimee on his left, and Isabella standing at his right shoulder. Eileen, three now, stood leaning back against her mother, Isabella holding her hand. Two-year-old Robert, in a kilt, sat on his father’s lap.

The camera caught them laughing. Sun shone on Isabella’s red hair and her smile, but Mac was out and out laughing. “Papa,” Aimee said. “You’ll spoil it.”

They took another, more dignified photograph this time, but smiles underlay all expressions.

Eleanor bounced baby Hart Alec Graham Mackenzie in her arms, and Hart said, “Enough. Let us finish this.”

Mac herded his three children away, Eileen running screaming after her cousin Jamie. Aimee hurried behind, having appointed herself guardian to impetuous Eileen.

Hart sat in the chair and reached for baby Alec. Alec still wore long gowns, but Eleanor had fastened a piece of Mackenzie plaid around his sturdy waist. Eleanor stood at Hart’s right, and Lord Ramsay, who now called himself Grandfather Alec, took a place on Hart’s left.

Hart lifted his head and stared at the camera. He imagined how the finished photo would look: himself in the middle, straight and arrogant; Lord Ramsay looking almost comically regal; Eleanor, beautiful, her face softened with good humor; and baby Alec sitting up on Hart’s lap, Hart’s hands around him.

Alec. The miracle of a child that Eleanor had presented to Hart on a cold December evening, one of the longest nights of Hart’s life. Ian had plied him with drink, but Hart had paced and sweated, terrified that he’d relive the night that Sarah had died, and then the day that Graham had.

But Eleanor, resilient, had pulled through, and small Alec had greeted Hart with robust wails. Hart had lifted his son, small enough to hold in his cradled hands, his heart overflowing with so much joy and relief that he’d wept.

Hart thought of that night now as he looked down at Alec. Alec stared back up at his father, his gaze perfectly steady. Going on six months old, Alec had already perfected the Mackenzie glare.

“Mind your manners, now,” Hart said to him.

Alec loved Hart’s rumbling voice. Even now, his eyes softened. He gave his father a grin and reached up to touch his face. The camera caught it, father and son sharing a glance, the little hand on Hart’s jaw, Hart laughing down at Alec.

Hart made the photographer do another exposure, this one stiffly dignified, as portraits were supposed to be. But ever after, Eleanor would treasure the first one. She had it framed and hung it in a place of honor in the family’s private drawing room.

The afternoon of photographs wasn’t finished yet. Eleanor insisted they end with one of the entire family: Hart, Cameron, Mac, and Ian and their collective families, and—God help them—all the dogs.

They stood in a row, the four Mackenzies, with Ainsley and Daniel, Eleanor and Lord Ramsay, Beth and Isabella, the seven children, and the five dogs grouped around them. The portrait was difficult to pose, because no sooner were the younger children seated in front than two-year-old Robert decided that he’d much rather run after the butterfly that had landed on a flower on the edge of the terrace. Ruby and McNab decided to go after him.

Ben, smart animal, lay his great head between his paws and fell asleep in the sunshine, his snores sounding even over the children’s cries. Aimee chased Robert, Jamie went to see what the fuss was about, and Gavina demanded to be set down so she could crawl about, or at least play with the dogs.

Daniel loped off and lifted both Jamie and Robert into his big arms, carrying them, protesting, back to the terrace. The dogs followed.

Much arguing and cajoling followed. In the midst of it, Hart gave Eleanor a squeeze and leaned down to her. “I bought you a present.”

Eleanor’s eyes lit. “I adore presents. What is it?”

“A surprise, minx. You’ll have to wait. Your punishment for putting me through the torture of having our portrait taken.”

Eleanor handed Alec to him, turned swiftly, and started chivying the others into position as only Eleanor could chivy. They finally got settled, and the photographer said, “Still now. And… done.”

The portrait of the entire Mackenzie family, seventeen of them, with five dogs, was printed on a large sheet, framed, and hung in the foyer of Kilmorgan Castle.

But that was to come. Today, the children, released from the restriction of having to stand still, now ran about the garden, screaming and shouting, in a game of tag that seemed to have no rules. Mac and Daniel dodged after them to make sure no one was hurt in the fray.

The ladies served tea and talked. And talked and talked. Cameron, Ian, and Hart exchanged a glance, went inside to discard their finery, and took out their fishing poles.

As it was, Hart did not have the chance to give Eleanor her present until late that night, which was fine with him.

Eleanor, in her silk dressing gown, gave Hart a curious look as she opened the wrappings of the square box he presented her. They were in the bedchamber Eleanor had been given when she’d become Hart’s wife, which Hart had adopted as their bedchamber. No longer would he sleep in that mausoleum of a room when he could curl up cozily with Eleanor.

“Oh, Hart, it’s lovely.”

It was a small camera, so small as to fit into Eleanor’s hand. She turned it around and around, examining the lens, the leather case, and the brass fittings that would let glass plates slide across its back.

“You said you liked handheld cameras.”

“But this one is so tiny.” Eleanor smiled at it. “How very clever. I can carry it about in my pocket.”

“There is a box of dry plates in the drawer of the table behind you.”

Eleanor went to it and pulled out the box. She withdrew a plate and quickly worked out how to slide it onto the back of her little camera. “Now,” she said. “What on earth can I take a picture of?”

She smiled at Hart, her eyes sparkling. Hart unfastened his dressing gown and let it fall. “Let us think.”

Eleanor laughed. “Do hold still.”

Hart drew himself up and gave her his best portrait glare, a Mackenzie in all his dignity. Except that he wasn’t wearing a stitch.

Eleanor took photo after photo, until Hart took the camera from her. “Your turn.”

She hadn’t paid her dues yet. Eleanor had begged off any photos while she carried Alec, as much as Hart argued that he’d never seen her so beautiful. She’d only given him the look women reserved for men they thought hopeless.

After that, they’d been busy—with Alec, with the estate, with Hart working with Ian at the distillery, with the fêtes and balls Hart still hosted as duke and supporter of his party. Never mind that the party had gone down in defeat, and Gladstone had once more returned to the fold. David Fleming vowed to carry on.

“I’m not sure I can,” Eleanor said. “I’m rather shy, you know.”

Hart set down the camera, came to Eleanor, and ripped open her dressing gown. She fended him off and undid the buttons herself of the nightgown she wore beneath.

Hart stood back and waited while Eleanor came into view. Her hips had grown a little more curved since she’d had Alec, her breasts more full. Her hair was a fall of red gold glory, her eyes sweetly blue. Freckles spread across her face and onto her forehead, and across her chest, dipping to her breasts.

Beautiful. Hart snapped the first photograph of her from the waist up, Eleanor with her thick hair falling across one breast.

Next, Eleanor lay on the bed, rolling onto her side, coyly shielding herself with her thigh, her arm over her bare breasts.

Nudity, not quite revealed, was even more beautiful than if she’d spread herself out for him.

Hart leaned down to kiss her. He dropped more kisses to her bare side, and then he forgot about the camera. It tumbled to the mattress while he gently lowered her onto her back, and then he climbed over her, body surrounding hers. Where he belonged. Thoughts of his past, his mistakes, his anger, and his misery, were gone. Hart looked into Eleanor’s eyes, felt her arms around him, and knew he’d found home.