“Ye’ve arrived, then, m’lord,” the coachman said with a broad Scots burr. “M’lady.”

He opened the door and Ian boosted Beth in. She settled herself, marveling at the luxury of such a vehicle up here in the wild end of the world.

But Kilmorgan belonged to a duke, one of the most prominent dukes in Britain. In order of precedence, she’d learned from Isabella, the Duke of Kilmorgan came behind only the Duke of Norfolk and the Archbishop of Canterbury.  Small wonder the coach that took them to the duke’s seat would be the most sumptuous she’d ever beheld.  “I suppose Curry arranged this, too,” she said to Ian as the coachman climbed back to his box.

“We have the telegraph even in Kilmorgan,” Ian answered gravely.

Beth laughed. “You’ve made a joke, Ian Mackenzie.” He didn’t answer. They rolled through a village of whitewashed houses, an inevitable pub, and a long, low building that might be a school or a council house or both together.  A stone church with a new roof and a spire stood a little way from the village with a steep path leading to it.  Beyond the village, the land dipped to a wooded valley, and the carriage thudded over a bridge that crossed a rushing stream. Up into hills again, the earth undulating in green and purple waves to the sharp mountains in the background The hills were covered in mist, but the sun shone, the afternoon soft.

The carriage turned from the country road to a wide, straight lane lined with trees. Beth sat back and breathed the pure air. The pace Ian had kept since Paris exhausted her.  Now, in this still place with birdsong overhead, she could at last rest.

The coachman turned through a wide gate to a lane that led to an open park. The gatehouse was small and square with a flag flapping above it—two lions and a bear on a red background. The lane sloped downward in a wide curve toward the house spread across the bottom of the hill.

Beth half rose in her seat, hands pressed to her chest.

“Oh, my dear Lord.”

The place was enormous. The building rose four stories in height, with tiny windows peeking out of round cupolas under the vast roof. Rambling wings reached left and right from the central rectangle of the house, like arms trying to encompass the entire valley. Windows glittered across the monstrosity of it, punctuated here and there by doors and balconies.

It was the largest house she’d ever seen, comparable only to the Louvre she’d just left in Paris. But this wasn’t a remote palace she’d never be invited into. This was Kilmorgan.  Her new home.

The coachman pointed at the pile of house with his whip.

“Built just before the time of Bonnie Prince Charlie, m’lady.  The duke then wanted no more drafty castles. Employed th’ whole village and laborers for miles around. The bloody English burned the place after Culloden, but the duke, he built it back again, and his son after. Nothin’ keeps down a Mackenzie.”

The pride in his voice was unmistakable. The lad next to him grinned. “He’s clan Mackenzie, too,” the boy said.  “Takes credit for it, like he was there.”

“Shut it, lad,” the coachman growled.

Ian said nothing, only adjusted his hat over his eyes as though he meant to doze off. The restlessness that had kept him roving the trains had vanished.

Beth clutched the edges of the seat and stared, drymouthed, as they approached the house. She recognized the Palladian elements—the oval windows wreathed with stone curlicues, the arched pediments, the symmetrical placement of every window and door across the enormous facade.  Later generations had added things, like the stone balustrade that encircled the marble entranceway, the modern bellpull beside the front door.

Not that Beth had to ring to get in. As Ian handed her down, the double doors opened to reveal a tall, stately butler and about twenty servants waiting in a marble-tiled hall.  The servants were all Scottish, all red-haired and big-boned, and all smiled with enormous pleasure as Ian led Beth through the door.

Ian didn’t introduce her, but as one, every maidservant curtsied and every man bowed. The effect was marred by five dogs of various sizes and colors that barreled through the hall and headed straight for Ian.

Not used to dogs, Beth pulled back, but laughed as they reared up on Ian, burying him in paws and waving tails.  Ian’s face relaxed, and he smiled. And, to her astonishment, he looked direcdy at them.

“How are you, my bonny lads?” he asked them, The butler ignored this, as though the canine welcome was commonplace. “M’lady.” He bowed. “If I may say, on behalf of the entire staff, we are verra pleased t’ see ye arrive.”

From the smiles that beamed at her, the staff obviously agreed with him. No one had ever been this happy to see Beth Ackerley before.

Lady Ian Mackenzie, she corrected herself. Beth had known from the first moment she met Ian Mackenzie that her life would become entangled with his. She felt the tangle grow, winding around her.

“Morag will lead ye to your rooms, m’lady,” the butler continued. He was tall and large-boned, like the rest of them, his red-blond hair going to gray. “We have a bath prepared and the bed made up so ye can rest after your long journey.” He gave Ian a bow. “Your lordship, His Grace is waiting in the lower drawing room. He asked that ye see him as soon as ye arrived” Beth had taken two steps with the beaming Morag, but she pulled up in alarm. “His Grace?”

“The Duke of Kilmorgan, m’lady,” the butler said patiently.

Beth looked at Ian in panic. “I thought he was in Rome.”

“No, he’s here.”

“But you told me. .. Wait, did Curry receive a telegram? Why didn’t you warn me?”

Ian shook his head, his dark red hair spilling against his collar.  “I didn’t know until we rode through the gate. The flag was up. The ducal flag always flies when Hart’s at home.” “Oh, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?” Ian held out his hand. “Come with me. He’ll want to meet you.”

Ian, as usual, didn’t betray what he was thinking, but Beth sensed that he wasn’t entirely happy with this turn of events.  Despite his calmness in the carriage, he was now tense, wound tight, like when he paced the train.

Her own fingers were ice-cold when she slid them into Ian’s warmer hand. “Very well. I suppose I had better get it over with.”

Ian gave her the faintest of smiles, then held her hand tighter and led her off into the bowels of the house. The dogs, all five of them, followed, their nails clicking loudly on the slate floor.

Chapter fourteen

Hart Mackenzie, Duke of Kilmorgan, both resembled his brothers and at the same time looked nothing like them.  He sat behind a writing table near the fireplace, the desk long and ornately carved, as befitted the rest of the room.  He was writing with great intensity and didn’t look up when the door closed behind Ian.

The vast drawing room in which Beth and Ian awaited His Grace’s attention looked as though it had once been three rooms, with the intervening walls removed. The ceiling rose higher than a ceiling had a right to, and was covered with frescoes of frolicking gods and goddesses.  The walls were covered with paintings, too. They ranged from pictures of the Kilmorgan house in various stages to portraits of ladies and gentlemen—some in Scottish dress, some in whatever formal clothes were fashionable in their period. One could learn a history of clothing, Beth reflected, simply by studying the portraits in this room.  Ian had closed the door on the faces of the five dogs, and they’d looked resigned, as though knowing they were never allowed in this grand sanctuary.

Hart was going to make Ian and Beth stand there like schoolchildren waiting to be dressed down, Beth thought irritably. “Your Grace,” she said.

The duke glanced up sharply. His eyes glittered the same gold as lan’s but pierced Beth from across the room—hawk’s eyes.

Ian said nothing, remaining in place without flinching.

Hart’s pen clattered to his pen tray and he rose.

He was tall, like all the Mackenzies, his hair a darker redbrown.  Hart had the Mackenzie broad shoulders, powerful build, and square face. He wore a formal kilt, the Mackenzie colors, blue and green with red and white thread. His dark coat fit him like a second skin, likely made for him by the best tailors in Edinburgh.

Still, he wasn’t a mirror image of the brothers she’d already met. Mac’s face bore the restless brilliance of an obsessed artist. Cameron’s face was heavier, more brutish, complete with scar. He looked like a ruffian.  So did Hart, but Hart’s smooth confidence rolled off him in waves. This was a man who had no doubt that his slightest command would be fulfilled. It wasn’t conceit, but cool certainty.

Hart overpowered every single thing in the room—except Ian. The waves of Hart’s overweening confidence seemed to break and flow around Ian without Ian feeling the slightest effect.

Hart finally removed his knifelike gaze from Beth and switched it to Ian. “Was there no other way?” He spoke as though they were in the middle of a conversation, but Ian nodded. “Fellows would have found some means to use her. Or turned her into an excuse to arrest me.” “The man’s a pig.” Hart’s stare came back to Beth. “She was once a lady’s companion? Why did Isabella befriend her?”

Beth pulled herself away from Ian and walked forward, sticking out her hand. “I’m very well, thank you so much for inquiring. The journey was tiring but uneventful, no problems on the lines, and no Fenian bombs at any of the stations.”

Hart shot Ian a scowl.

“She is fond of jokes,” Ian said.