“I hope you’re happy, Ian,” Hart muttered.

“What?” Eleanor blinked open her eyes. When Hart did not respond, she poked him. “What did you say?”

Hart chuckled, the maddening man. “Nothing. Go to sleep.”

Eleanor kissed him again, and did.

Hart lay in the stillness of the room, watching Eleanor sleep, his mind full of what had just happened.

Eleanor had sweetly surrendered to him, and he’d experienced something beyond price. The two of them had become one, whole, complete. Hart had never felt that with any other person in his life.

Always Hart was alone, seeking to dominate so that his loneliness would not be used against him. Eleanor had smiled at him tonight in surprise and delight, completely trusting. Not seeking mindless pleasure for her own sake, but believing he would guide and protect her through their journey together.

Looking at her now, her face so serene, one curl snaking across her cheek, Hart knew he’d found peace. He’d just now let his dark needs fill him without check, without fear. Because Eleanor had been there to guide him.

With her help, he’d let his needs surge into the joy they were meant to be. Not Hart desperately seeking to forget in numbing pleasure, or Hart taking charge to remind everyone, including himself, who was master.

Hart had been loving a woman, showing her what joy could be. He’d been loving Eleanor.

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.”