A Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift

There was another reason Bellamy wanted to go. He was lonely.

Outside, all was dark, and freezing. The sun had gone, night coming swiftly this far north. Bellamy's breath fogged out, and his feet crunched on the frozen ground. No snow at the moment, but it was coming.

He walked around the corner of the kitchen wing, out of the wind. He heard a gasp, saw another fog of breath, and stopped. At his feet crouched a bundle of clothes. Not rags--the person inside had piled on as many layers as possible against the cold.

A face inside a hood stared up at Bellamy, terror in her eyes flaring as she took in his height and breadth.

"Please," she said. "Don't make me move on yet. Just a while longer, out o' the wind."

Her accent wasn't broad, but it put her from right here in the Highlands. Bellamy had never seen her before.

"Who are you?"

Bellamy's voice came out harsh and scratched. His east London accent couldn't be reassuring either.

The woman flinched, but she held on to her courage. "I'm no one. But please, if you could spare a bit of bread before I go."

Bellamy reached for her. She cringed away, as though expecting a blow, but Bellamy held his hand to her, palm out. "Come with me."

The woman started to scramble to her feet. "No, I'll move on. I know he's a duke and all. I never meant no harm."

Bellamy seized her by the arm, clamping down when she made to jerk away. "Don't be daft, woman. I meant ye need to come inside and get warm."

She stared up at him in more fear, then resignation. This poor lass probably hadn't had a word of kindness in a long while, and when she had, she'd likely had to pay for it.

Bellamy felt a bite of anger at whoever had made her pay in the past. Well, she'd understand soon enough that not all was darkness. He led her into the echoing hall behind the kitchens and closed the door against the night, all thoughts of retiring pushed aside for the moment.

*** *** ***

Eleanor, the Duchess of Kilmorgan, lay in the warm bliss of her bed, while her husband placed another slow kiss on her swollen abdomen.

This had been one of the difficult days, when she'd only been able to rise to toddle to the necessary and back again. And she had to use the necessary so often these days. Her three sisters-in-law assured her this was normal, but Eleanor worried. She was thirty and having her first child. She knew there was danger, and Hart did too.

The duke kissed her again, adding a brush of tongue. He lifted his head, Hart's eyes deep golden in the shadows.

"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said in his low, rich voice.

Eight months of marriage hadn't dimmed Hart's passion. In fact, their marriage was awakening desires he'd kept long buried. Eleanor learned more about Hart every day she lived with him.

Eleanor smiled as she laid her hand on her belly, feeling a tiny movement within. "I am very rotund."

"Beautiful," Hart repeated firmly, a spark lighting his eyes. He liked to be commanding.

"Carrying your child," she said. "I'm very happy to."

Hart slid a little way up the bed and touched a kiss to her equally swollen br**sts. They ached, but his kiss soothed.

Eleanor was naked, surrounded by blankets and pillows, and the fire in the white and gold stove was stoked full of coal. She must be the warmest person in the house.

Hart had returned from the funeral a little bit ago and come to her--cold, disgruntled, his face hard. He'd undressed near the stove, boots, coat, and cravat coming off impatiently, shirt following them to the floor. He'd stripped out of his underbreeches, leaving his kilt in place, then climbed up on the bed with her, laying Eleanor down and kissing her before he'd spoken a word.

Seeking comfort. Eleanor was happy to give it. Hart had suffered much loss in his life, had sacrificed so much, more than anyone but Eleanor understood.

Hart told her about the funeral while he lay against her, having skimmed off her nightrail. He touched her with the possessiveness of a husband, the tenderness of a lover. They'd talked, voices low, until his bleak look had gone. Hart hadn't been great friends with Mrs. McCray or her husband--far from it--but the funeral had stirred memories of his father and the rather horrible man he'd been.

"Not long now," Eleanor said, her chubby fingers tracing the movement on her abdomen. "Thank heavens. I look forward to walking about my own house again. Without the waddling."

Chapter Three

Laugher tinged Hart's voice. "You don't waddle."

"Mac said I looked like a mother duck. And he is right, blast the man."

"I'll speak to Mac."

"Don't bother. I shook my finger at him. But the comparison was apt. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Still, 'twill be a nice Hogmanay gift, do you not think? A little boy to dandle on your knee?"

"Or a girl."

"We've had this argument many a time. He will be a boy."

"Mackenzies do as they please. So do Ramsays." Hart ran his hand across her lower abdomen and around her navel.

"I know they do. Which is how I know he is a boy. Did you wager on a girl in Daniel's pool?"

Hart sent her a glance laced with heat. "Do you think I would wager on the outcome of my own child?"

"Danny's become quite the little bookmaker, has he not? I of course put down twenty pounds on boy."

"Only twenty? I thought you were so sure of the outcome."