The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie

Mac spewed foul language as he pried lan’s hands from Fellows’s neck. Released, Fellows fell to his knees, then hauled himself up again, trousers stained with wet grass. His throat was red, his collar ripped.

“I’ll have you,” Fellows snarled. “By God, I’ll have you swinging for the hangman before you know where you are.” Foam flecked his lips. “I’ll destroy you, and I’ll put my heel in your brother’s face when he begs me for mercy.”

“Fuck you,” Ian screamed.

Beth pressed her hands to her face. Katie stared, openmouthed, as Curry and Mac laced their arms around lan’s middle and dragged him away from Fellows. lan’s face was purple, tears tracking his cheeks. He coughed as Curry jerked a fist against his breastbone. “You have to stop, guv,” Curry said rapidly. “You have to stop or you won’t breathe sweet air anymore. You’ll be back in that hellhole, and you’ll never see your brothers again. What’s worse is I’ll be stuck in there with you.”

Ian coughed again, but still fought, like an animal not understanding it had been caught. Mac stepped in front of Ian and grabbed his face.

“Ian, look at me.”

Ian tried to pull away, to do anything but look his brother directly in the eye.

“Look at me, damn you.”

He swiveled Ian’s head, forcing Ian’s eyelids open until finally, Mac’s eyes and Ian’s met.

Ian stopped. He gasped for breath, tears shining on his face, but he stilled, staring, mesmerized, into Mac’s eyes. Mac’s hold on him softened, and Beth saw that Mac’s own eyes were wet. “That’s it. You’re all right.” His grip on Ian’s cheek turned to a caress, and then Mac leaned forward and kissed Ian on the forehead.

Ian’s breath was hoarse and audible. He dropped his gaze and looked away across the park, seeing no one. Curry still had hold of his arms. Ian shook him off, then turned his back and started toward the carriage that had stopped in the lane.

Its coachman was standing on the ground, holding the horses and looking agitated. Beth guessed that Ian and Mac had been riding by, and Ian had leapt from the coach when he’d seen Beth with Fellows.

She realized then that Mac and Ian both wore rumpled evening dress, Ian in the same suit he’d worn the night before. They weren’t up early; they were still returning from the night’s revelries.

Ian never looked at Beth. Curry retrieved Ian’s hat from the ground, dusted it off, and strode after him. Mac turned to Fellows, his eyes like cold copper. “Go back to London. If I see you again, I’ll thrash you until you can’t stand.”

Fellows was breathing hard, rubbing his throat, but he wasn’t cowed. “You can hide Lord Ian behind the duke as much as you want, but in the end, I’ll get him. That terrifies you, doesn’t it?”

Mac growled. Beth pictured another outburst of violence in this quiet, sunny park, and she stepped between them. “Do as Mac says,” she begged Fellows. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”

Fellows turned hard hazel eyes to her. “One last warning, Mrs. Ackerley. Don’t throw in your lot with them. You do, and I won’t be merciful.”

“Didn’t you hear her?” Katie said, planting her hands on her hips. “Be off or I’ll call the police on you. Wouldn’t that be a laugh? A Scotland Yard ‘tec arrested by the French coppers?” Mac put his hand on Katie’s shoulder and pushed her toward Beth. “Get your mistress home and make her stay there. Tell my . . . Tell her she needs to look after Mrs. Ackerley better.”

Katie opened her mouth to snap at him, but she took one look into Mac’s eyes and quieted. “He’s right, Mrs. A,” she said meekly. “Best we go home.”

Beth gave Ian’s retreating back one last look, and then gazed up at Mac. “I’m sorry,” she said, her throat tight. Mac said nothing. Beth ignored Fellows and let Katie turn her toward the lane that led to the Rue de Rivoli. She felt Mac’s eyes on her all the way, but when she glanced back, Ian had entered the coach and was sitting with his head turned from her. He never once looked out at her, and she walked away with Katie, the garden’s brilliance blurred by her tears.

“I’ve lost her, haven’t I?” Ian grated.

Mac landed next to him in the carriage with a thump, and slammed the door himself.

“You never had her, Ian.”

Ian let familiar numbness flow over him as the coach started. He rubbed his temple, the rage having brought on his headache.

Damn the demon inside him. Seeing Fellows reach out and touch Beth—and worse, Beth do nothing to stop him—had unleashed the beast. All he’d wanted was to wrap his hands around Fellows’s throat and shake him. Just like Father—

Mac sighed, cutting through the memory. “We’re Mackenzies. We don’t get happy endings.” Ian wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and didn’t answer.

Mac watched him a moment. “I’m sorry. I should have sent the bastard packing the minute you told me he was in Paris.”

Ian sat back, unable to speak, but his thoughts spun, words tumbling over words until he had to keep mute. He looked out the window, but instead of the passing streets, he saw Beth reflected in the glass, her hands white lines on her beautiful face.

“I’m sorry,” Mac repeated wearily. “Damn it all, Ian, I am so sorry.”

Still gripping Ian’s arm, Mac rested his forehead on lan’s broad shoulder. Ian felt Mac’s distress, but he couldn’t move or say a word that could offer any comfort. Mac’s studio was not what Beth expected. He’d rented a shabby apartment in the Montmartre area, two rooms to live in on the first floor and a studio at the top of the house. A far cry from what she pictured a wealthy English aristocrat would live in.