The Untamed MacKenzie

When Louisa paced past him for about the twentieth time, however, Mac dropped his palette with a clatter and thrust his brush into oil of turpentine.

“Louisa, lass, for God’s sake, sit down. I can’t concentrate with you rushing past a dozen times a minute.”

Louisa bit back snappish words and sat down with a thump on the threadbare sofa. The sofa was old and thoroughly worn from children playing and napping on it. Louisa knew Isabella modeled for Mac on it, and not for modest pictures. Little Robert had been conceived on it, Louisa believed. A very family-situated sofa.

“I beg your pardon, Mac. I am tired of being confined to the house.” Hearing nothing, knowing nothing. Fellows had sent no word and had not called himself. “It’s a bit frustrating.” An understatement, but Louisa had been bred to be so very polite on every occasion.

Mac softened. “Aye, I know. I’m sorry. Forgive my temper.”

“You’re an artist,” Louisa said lightly. “You can’t help yourself.”

Mac burst out laughing, a big, booming Mackenzie laugh. “A good excuse. Ashamed of myself for employing it. Why don’t you tell Isabella to take you out? No reason you should sit here day after day. If anything had happened . . . was wrong . . . the good Fellows would tell us, yes?”

Mac’s stammering around the subject did not give Louisa heart. He meant that if policemen were about to swoop down and arrest Louisa, Fellows would warn them.

“Be kind to her, Papa,” Aimee said. “She’s afraid people will accuse her of poisoning the bishop.”

Aimee was five years old, nearly six. Mac and Isabella’s adopted daughter had red hair a similar shade to Isabella’s, steady brown eyes, and a burgeoning intelligence. Unkind people made out that Mac was Aimee’s father in truth, her mother one of Mac’s models, and Isabella a fool to take Aimee into her home.

The truth was harsher—her father had been a man who’d tried to kill Mac, her mother a Parisian woman who’d died of illness and neglect. Mac’s and Isabella’s compassion had saved this little girl. Aimee was turning into a sweet, amiable, and clever child. She knew she was adopted, but the only parents she remembered were Mac and Isabella.

Mac stared at Aimee now in surprise. “Where did you hear talk like that, wee girl?”

Aimee returned his look without blinking. “You and Mama. And a few ladies who came to visit Mama yesterday. I hid in the second drawing room and listened to them talk. I like to look at the ladies in their dresses. Some of them are beautiful, though Mama’s dresses are the prettiest.”

Mac had his mouth open. On a big man wearing a kerchief, the expression was comical. “Aimee . . .”

“Perfectly all right, Mac,” Louisa broke in. “We shouldn’t hide things from her. Aimee, sweetie.” Louisa took Aimee’s hands. “It is true that some people will say I killed the Bishop of Hargate, but that is untrue.”

Aimee still looked troubled. “The ladies said you hated him for what happened with your father. And one said you’d been his lover. What does that mean, exactly?”

Mac’s Highland Scots became pronounced. “Lass, never listen to the likes of women such as they. I’ll tell Morton not to allow them into the house again. And don’t repeat such things to your mother.”

“I wouldn’t,” Aimee said. “That’s why I’m asking you and Louisa.”

“God save me,” Mac muttered, and went to find his palette again.

Louisa squeezed Aimee’s hands. “What they said is untrue as well. The bishop and I were acquaintances only, and I was not angry with him. I did nothing to hurt him.”

Aimee nodded, her eyes round. “I know you didn’t.”

Relief touched her. Louisa knew Aimee didn’t entirely understand the implications of the situation, but the girl trusted her, and Louisa wanted to do nothing to violate that trust.

“And Aimee, lass, you’re not to talk of it anymore, with anyone,” Mac said sternly. “Not even within the family.”

Eileen, who was nearly three, watched them, her fingers in her mouth. Her little brother Robert slept on a pile of clean drop cloths, on his tummy, his fists curled beside him. His hair stuck up in little spikes, his Scots fair skin a stark contrast to the brilliant red of his hair. The boy could sleep anywhere, at any time, no matter what fireworks were going off around him. Louisa found that adorable; Mac only growled that he was another stubborn Mackenzie.

“Don’t scold her, Mac,” Louisa said. “She wasn’t to know. You may talk of it with me all you like, Aimee.” She smoothed the girl’s wiry red hair. “No secrets inside the family. Those outside might not understand, which is why we’re not speaking of it to them.”

Aimee nodded. “All right, Aunt Louisa. Why do people think you poisoned him?”

“Because I was nearest him at the time. But I give you my word, I did not.”

“I believe you.” Aimee climbed up onto Louisa’s lap and gave her a warm kiss and a hug. “Don’t be afraid, Aunt Louisa. You’re safe here.”

Louisa felt anything but safe, but her eyes grew moist at the sentiment. Now, if only Lloyd Fellows would believe her. Not to mention put his arms around her and reassure her that she was all right.

Mac turned back to his canvas. He was working on a picture of a group of horses. He’d done the preliminary drawings in Berkshire at Cameron Mackenzie’s training stables, and was now painting it. The horses galloped across a pasture, manes and tails flying, muscles gleaming. Because Mac painted in the new style, the lines weren’t solid, but the wildness of the beasts came through—even more than if he’d made every line exact. Louisa could almost hear the hooves pounding, the snorts and whinnies, and smell the grass, dust, and sweat.