Being part of the Mackenzie family was a considerable change for Celia. Alec’s persona of artist who struggled to find work to feed his child fell away, revealing a man of sought-after talent who lived in one of the most sumptuous houses in Paris.

They quickly settled into a routine, though Celia realized Alec was simply picking up where he’d left off. He spent the morning at the top of the house in his studio, taking advantage of sunshine pouring in through the skylight. Celia made the habit of leaving him alone to paint for an hour or so, and then joining him.

Watching him work in bare feet, breeches, and smock that slid from his wide shoulders was a joy in itself. Once Alec was satisfied with his morning’s work, he’d turn to teaching Celia.

Her portfolio had been among the things Alec had ordered taken to the boat, and they did their best to restore or copy the sketches Celia’s mother had destroyed. Celia now used a camera obscura to draw the Paris skyline, and Alec showed her how to translate what she traced onto canvas.

He resumed his instruction on mixing paint, the latter ending up very messy, their bodies paint-streaked, the two of them breathless with laughter and bright-eyed when they emerged for dinner. It took Celia a while to find all the places the paint had smeared her skin from their wild lovemaking on the chaise.

Alec, Mal, and Mary showed her Paris, its decadence, its beauty, its gardens. Alec continued to work on plans for an extensive garden for Mal’s glorious house, which they’d build on Kilmorgan lands one day.

Celia watched, her heart full, as the brothers put their heads together over their designs, making and scratching out notes, arguing or agreeing. Mal and Alec belonged together, and she and Mary had made a pact that they’d not be separated again, not for long stretches anyway.

On occasion the duke invited in the Scottish families who also now made their homes in Paris, and they’d have a dance. Plaids filled the main salon, emptied of furniture, and the music of bagpipes, drums, and fiddles invaded the house. Men and women caught hands and danced in circles, then twirled each other, kilts flying, laughter gilding the air. Alec taught Celia how to dance in the Scottish fashion, which was robust and heady, pure enjoyment.

She also had the pleasure of watching Alec perform a sword dance one night, his tall body steady as his feet moved in complicated patterns between a pair of crossed swords. He kept his gaze on Celia, his smile widening as the dance wound to a frenzy.

When he finished, he caught her around the waist and spun her away, his kisses as hot as the dance. He loved her that night with equal passion.

Will was a frequent visitor to the palace at Versailles, and on occasion he took Alec and Celia with him. Alec was welcomed by Louis himself—Alec tutored the king’s offspring from time to time. The king’s beautiful mistress, Madame du Pompadour, was charming to Celia, and asked Alec for suggestions on what paintings to purchase for his majesty.

On one visit, Celia at last was introduced to Clara, the rhinoceros.

The king had set up a menagerie at the end of the gardens, and Clara had her own pavilion. The Dutchman who was her caretaker kept a protective eye on her.

Clara of the delicate name was enormous. Her horn had been trimmed down, but she had a great wide head, a huge body and thick hide, and large flat feet. No claws, Celia saw, though she’d seen rhinos depicted with such things before.

Her dark eyes sparkled as she looked over the many gentlemen who’d come to draw her, resting on Celia in her blue and green skirts as though puzzling about them.

The odor in the pavilion was strong, but Celia seated herself to sketch the beast, Alec on a stool beside her making his own drawing. Clara watched them, placid and hardly vicious, closing her eyes in pleasure when her keeper scratched the side of her face.

Their subsequent paintings of Clara hung in the stairwell of the Mackenzies’s home, and became Jenny’s favorites.

Another benefit of living with Mackenzies was the letters. They flew thick and fast between London and Paris, never seeing a post office, as messengers smuggled them past guards and censors.

Celia received letters from her father, who told her he was well, missed her, and that her mother had buried herself in charity work and didn’t say much these days about Celia, marriages, or Uncle Perry and his ruthless machinations to rise in power.

Uncle Perry had recovered from his adventure and gone on travels—he was currently on his way to the American colonies, so said the duke. The king and prime minister had heard about the imprisoned and tortured Scotsmen, and Lord Chesfield was having to explain himself.

The scandal wasn’t made much of, Celia’s father went on, as most Englishmen were not sympathetic to Jacobite Highlanders these days, but the decisions about the regiment were returned firmly to the duke’s hands, the soldiers redeployed to the Continent. Edward had been promoted to Major, and he would soon command a troop in the Netherlands, continuing to fight for Maria Theresa of Austria’s right to keep her throne.

Edward wrote of his mother and Uncle Perry, but in less couched terms than their father.

Uncle Perry scuttled away to the colonies with his tail between his legs. The king and prime minister are not so much concerned with the horrible things he’d done to the men imprisoned, but that he assumed any power at all. He is a nobody and should behave so, was their final word.

Mother too, has been quite subdued. Father put his foot down, it seems, and she has ceased to cross him. She now asks what he thinks anytime she has a scheme, but mostly she keeps to herself. The house has never been more comfortable.

I hope to see you, dear sister, sometime on my travels.

I remain, ever your

Edward

Mrs. Reynolds wrote only one letter, a brief one. In it she said that she and Lady Flora were on a rambling holiday to the west coast of England, and that they would remain away from London until Lady Flora’s nerves were better. Mrs. Reynolds ended the letter by wishing Celia and Alec much happiness.

* * *

As summer drew to a close, Celia lay with Alec in their room near the top of the house, late evening sunshine drifting in to touch them.

They’d worked all morning on a portrait of baby Jenny—Celia had made a series of sketches that Alec was now helping her render into a painting. All the sketches were hurried, as the girl could not sit still for more than a minute or so.

Most of the sketch sessions became a game of Jenny running mightily from her father, who would swoop down upon her and lift her to the ceiling. Jenny would laugh and squeal and then wait for her opportunity to run again.

Alone in their chamber now, Alec lazily kissed Celia’s breast, his warm weight at her side. He trailed fingers down Celia’s abdomen to touch the dark curls damp with their loving.

“Jenny’s picture will be beautiful,” Celia said, sighing happily. “We’ll have to hang it in a sunny room in the new house at Kilmorgan.”

“If it’s ever built,” Alec said, letting out an exasperated growl. “Mal’s changed his mind on the plans again.”

“There’s time.” Celia touched his face, loving the friction of whiskers beneath her fingertips. “I don’t mind staying in Paris for a while.”

“Aye, I suppose we have more choice of what we eat here. But too much of a good thing wears on a man. I haven’t had porridge and sheep’s entrails in an age.”

Celia grinned. “Mal says you never touch such things. You certainly shoveled in the roast pork with endives in butter at supper tonight.”

“Ah, I must make the best of what I have.”

Celia nipped his shoulder. “You are the worst liar I have ever met.”

“No, I’m not.” Alec rolled onto his stomach, propping himself on his elbows. “I played the befuddled Mr. Finn well enough.”

“True. But not for me. I saw through you the first day I met you.”

“Ha. That’s because ye poured ice-cold water on my foot, woman. A man can’t keep up his disguise when he’s cursing and sopping wet.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Celia smoothed his hair, which had come loose from its tail. “I’m glad I came to know the real man, Alec Mackenzie, my wild Highlander.”

Alec turned his head and kissed her fingers. “My prim, stuffy duke’s daughter turned out not to be so prim.”

“Or stuffy,” Celia said, pretending offense. “I am quite open-minded.”

“Aye, about drawing a man with his clothes off. I was pleased ye didn’t faint dead away.”

“No indeed. I was quite interested. I’d never seen a man without his shirt before.” Celia let her gaze run across his shoulders to his back and down to his smooth buttocks. “It was most intriguing.”

Alec’s gaze went dark. “And look where it’s led you.”

“To Paris. Where I believe this conversation began.” Celia studied the round of his hips, the strength of his thighs. “I would not mind taking up my pencil and drawing you again. More of you, this time, I mean.”

Alec gave her a slow smile. “Prim and proper you are not, my wife. I suppose I could be your subject. Shall I fetch you paper now?”

“I believe I’d prefer to do it in the studio in the morning, with all the sunshine.”

Alec flushed, and Celia’s heartbeat quickened. She imagined Alec lounging on the chaise, his body bare, one leg dangling over the chaise’s edge as he bathed her in a sinful smile. It was enough to make her wish the night would speed through and the sun rise swiftly.

“Have I embarrassed you, husband?” she asked.

“Not I. I’m looking forward to it. You’ll draw me in the morning, and we’ll work on Jenny’s portrait in the afternoon. That is, if we have any strength left.”

Celia gave him a mock astonished look. “Are you proposing we do something unseemly in the studio?”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

He moved to kiss Celia, but she put a hand out to stop him. “Alec,” she said. “I’d also like to do a portrait of both you and Jenny, for the family.”

Alec nodded. “We’ll do one with all three of us. We’ll take it in turns.”

He said it offhand as he rolled Celia down into the bed.

“All four of us,” Celia said. “Sometime soon.”

Alec kissed her lips as she spoke, then he froze, his mouth fused to hers. After a moment, he carefully raised his head. “Four?”

“Yes, indeed. I talked it over with Mary, and we have decided that I am increasing. The child will probably arrive in early spring.”

Alec’s lips parted as he stared down at her, his freckles standing out on his paling cheeks.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered.

“It is the sort of thing that happens when a husband and wife enjoy each other as much as we do.”

“Bloody hell,” Alec repeated. His voice grew louder and more hoarse. “Celia.”

“Yes?”

His arms came around her, and he lifted her to him, pressing his face to the curve of her neck. “Celia, if I lose ye …”

Jenny’s mother had passed bringing her in. She sensed that worry in Alec take shape.

“I am quite robust,” Celia assured him. “And I have the determination of my mother. I will be fine, I have decided.”

Alec lifted his head. Tears stood in his eyes, which shone with hope and fear. “I’ll look after ye. Every day and every hour. You’ll have your portrait of the four of us, I swear it.”

“Excellent.” Celia drew him to her. “Until then …?”

Alec growled. He came down on her, kissing her hard, but he was gentleness itself as he slid inside her.

“I love you, my Celia,” he groaned.

Celia’s heart sang as she let him fill her, reveling in the beauty of her husband. “I love you too, my Highlander.”

Alec kissed her lips, her face. “My beautiful lady, my light. Thank ye for saving my life.”

“I always will, my love.” The words were meant to be tender, but as Alec’s thrusts began, Celia’s desires rose in a sweeping wave, and they came out a cry.

She gave up on words, and wrapped herself around her husband, the two of them entwined in heat and love as the twilight slid away and moonlight bathed them.

* * *

Kilmorgan Castle, 1892

Beth Mackenzie gave a contented sigh as her husband fell silent, the story finished.

“I love a happy ending,” Beth said. She and Ian were on the floor now, on a pile of worn rugs that had adorned Kilmorgan in one decade or another. Ian leaned against the desk, Beth lounging with her head on his shoulder, her plaid skirts billowing around them.

“Aye,” Ian said, his voice quiet.

“But don’t stop there,” Beth said. “What happened to Will? Did he marry? Was it Josette? Alec and Celia wouldn’t have mentioned her if she weren’t important, would he?”

Ian waited patiently until Beth’s questions faded. “None of that was in Alec’s or Celia’s journals that I found.” He caressed her arm with his thumb. “Though it might be in their papers I still haven’t decoded.”

“Decoded?” Beth sat up, her interest caught. “Some of them were in code? What sort of code?”

“A simple number and letter substitution. Many of the letters Will wrote after they settled in Paris are in this code. He couldn’t risk the letters the family sent to England or Scotland being intercepted.”

Beth’s fascination increased. “How intriguing. And you broke it?” She laughed and sank back to Ian and the comfort of his arm around her. “A foolish question to ask a man who uses Fibonacci sequences to send me notes.”

A hint of amusement glinted in Ian’s eyes. He enjoyed writing out the messages as much as Beth enjoyed receiving and untangling them.

“Will Mackenzie came up with the codes,” Ian said. “His personal ones are complex, but he also invented one his brothers, sisters-in-law, and father could use for their correspondence. I broke them using much hard work and patience.” Something like a twinkle entered Ian’s eyes. “And the key Will left for them.”

“Rogue.” Beth studied him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were teasing me.”

Ian gazed down at her, his golden eyes intense. Beth loved it when he looked directly at her, which grew easier for him each year. She knew he saw only her, not anything else around him or what called to him inside his head.

“Aye,” Ian said. “Have I done it right?”

Beth snuggled into him. “You’ve done it marvelously. You know jolly well what happened to Will, and Alec and Celia’s children, and everything else I want to know, don’t you?”

Ian nodded. “But it isn’t in Alec’s story. It’s in Will’s.”

“Well then …”

Ian glanced at the skylight, which had darkened. Beth had lit lamps as Ian had told his tale into the dusk of the summer night.

“It’s late,” Ian said. “Another time. We’ll tell it all to our children—both stories.”

Beth nodded against him, his strength beneath his coat intoxicating. “Yes, you are right. That will be better.” She made no move to rise though. Leaning against Ian was not only comfortable but desirable.

Then she heaved a sigh. “I suppose we’d better go downstairs before your brothers begin searching for us.”

“Hart knows where we are.” Ian’s voice rumbled beneath her. “He knows to leave us be.”

“Of course.” Ian would have told his oldest brother not to let anyone up to the attic if Beth came to find him—and Ian had known she would come.

“You planned this in advance,” she said with sudden clarity. “Luring me into the attic, keeping me here with your fascinating tales of your family.”

Ian’s slow smile spread across his face. “Maybe.”

“You’re incorrigible, Ian Mackenzie.”

“Incorrigible.” Ian’s brows drew together. “You think I’m un-reformable? Irredeemable? That’s what incorrigible means.”

“Exactly.” Beth slid her arms around him. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Puzzlement flickered on Ian’s face, then it cleared as all interest in the past fled. He focused on Beth alone, his golden eyes darkening, the passion in him as strong as when they’d first met.

Beth found herself on the rugs, Ian’s warmth coming down on her, his hands loosening buttons, hooks, and laces, his kilt spreading to cover them both.

Beth welcomed Ian into her, holding the husband who was her life and breath, as they joined together under candle flames that flickered as golden as his eyes.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I am thrilled to be able to return to the Mackenzie family, and tell more stories about Ian Mackenzie’s ancestors. I had planned to write only Malcolm’s story (The Stolen Mackenzie Bride), but as I learned more about Alec and Will, I knew I needed to tell their tales as well. Will’s book (The Devilish Lord Will) is next—follow and see what trouble Will Mackenzie can get himself into.

As you might guess, the Mackenzie family is very special to me. They walked into my head a long time ago, Ian demanding my attention, his brothers there to protect him. I knew everything about Ian, Mac, Cameron, and Hart before I ever put pen to paper.

From there, the series grew as I included the story of Daniel (Cameron’s son, The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie), and the McBrides, who intrigued me when Cameron’s heroine, Ainsley, talked with such fondness about her brothers.

I hope to do more Mackenzies as time permits. There are Mackenzies of other eras, including Old Dan, the original Duke of Kilmorgan, back in the 1300s. The Mackenzie children will be adults in the Edwardian age, and then there are other characters who pop up (David Fleming and Cameron’s Romany groom) who might want tales as well. (Please see the Mackenzie Family Tree at the end of this book to keep everyone straight!)

Historical notes: I love writing about the eighteenth century, which was a period of great change, from the growth of travel and tourism, to wars that reshaped countries and empires all over the globe, to new discoveries in science that forever changed our understanding of the physical world. Art, music, and architecture became the light and airy style called rococo, and discoveries of Herculaneum and Pompeii revived interest in history and classical design. It was an exuberant, vibrant, dangerous, volatile age I have long had interest in, and very much enjoy exploring this amazing century.

Clara, the rhinoceros, is a true historical figure. She was orphaned in India as a baby, and rescued by the director of the Dutch East India Company, who raised her. He gave her in turn to a Dutch captain (Douwe van der Meer), who took her back with him to Europe and showed her off to fascinated artists and monarchs. Very tame, Clara traveled with van der Meer all over Europe, did visit France and Louis XV, and ended her days in England, looked after by her Dutch sea captain until her death. I found the beguiling Clara so fascinating I had to include her in the book!

I hope you enjoyed Alec and Celia’s tale, and I hope to be writing Mackenzies for a long time to come.

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All my best,

Jennifer Ashley