The Untamed MacKenzie

Fellows wasn’t certain how he’d gotten through the wedding festivities afterward. It had still been light, the June sunshine lasting far into the night, when he’d at last taken Louisa to the bedroom prepared for them—one well away from the rest of the family.

That night was imprinted on his memory forever. Louisa and he under the sheets, Lloyd inside her, her light touch, her kisses, the little feminine sounds she made as she reached her deepest pleasure. Lloyd had touched her and loved her far into the night, until they’d slept, exhausted. As soon as morning light brushed them—very early—Louisa had wakened him with a kiss. She’d smiled sleepily at him, and Lloyd had rolled onto her and loved her again.

That had been three days ago. They’d spent most of that time in their bedroom. Daniel remarked, when they’d finally emerged, that he was surprised either of them could walk.

Today, Hart had wanted to take Fellows on a ramble through the woods. He wouldn’t say why, but Fellows, being the great detective he was, realized the outing was important to Hart.

After about half an hour of tramping, Hart stopped. They were in a small clearing, woods thick around them, the evergreen branches shutting out the sky.

“This is where it happened,” Hart said. “Where our father died.”

Hart had told Fellows the true story of their father’s death, after Hart’s marriage to Eleanor. Not the widely circulated public version of the duke falling from his horse and breaking his neck, nor the story Hart had told the family, that the old duke had accidentally shot himself. Hart had told Fellows the truth. All of it. Only Hart had known, and he’d told only Eleanor.

“Father lived his life in hatred,” Hart said now. “And he tried to pass that hatred on to us. He hated me because I was his heir, and he knew I’d push him out one day. He hated my brothers because our mother loved them, and because I took care of them better than he ever could. He hated you because you reminded him he had no control over himself, or over the world, as much as he pretended to.”

“I’m glad we finished with the hatred,” Fellows said.

Hart looked around the clearing, the tension in him easing a bit. “Maybe the hatred made us stronger.”

“I don’t think so,” Fellows said. “It kept us apart, and weak. Love is better.”

Hart grinned. When he did that, he looked as he had as a very young man—handsome, devilishly arrogant, certain he’d rule the world. “Did Louisa teach you that?”

“Yes,” Fellows said without shame. “As Eleanor taught you.” He studied Hart for a time. “I kept it, you know. I still have it.”

Hart stared at his abrupt change of subject. “Kept what?”

“The shilling you gave me when I was ten years old. You must have been about that age too.”

Hart frowned. “I’m not recalling . . .”

“The duke’s coach pulled up in High Holborn—he was on his way to Lincoln’s Inn. A traffic snarl, of my making, stopped the carriage. The duke got down to see what was the matter. I’d planned to tell him I was his son that day. He was supposed to look astonished then welcome me into the coach and take me home with him. Instead, he beat me. You looked happy that I took my fists to him, and you gave me a shilling.”

Hart’s expression cleared. “I remember now. That boy was you?”

“You wouldn’t have noticed a resemblance with my face so filthy. Not to mention bruised and bloody.”

“Good Lord. I wish I’d known.” He gave Fellows a grim smile. “Yes, I was happy you pummeled him. The man beat me every night of my life, so I was glad to see him get a taste of it. He beat me to make a man of me, he said. Well, he succeeded.”

“Yes.”

Both of them looked around the clearing again, where a man who’d made so many miserable had come to his end.

“They’ll be wondering where we are,” Fellows said after a time.

Eleanor and Louisa, their wives and lovers. “They will,” Hart agreed.

“If they have to come after us, they’ll scold when they get here,” Fellows said.

“True. Then want to do something daft, like have a picnic.”

“The ladies do enjoy a picnic. After a five-mile hike.”

“I think we’ve been domesticated,” Hart said. “The Highland warriors have gone soft.”

Fellows shrugged. “I can do with a little softness now and again.”

“Eleanor knew I could too,” Hart said. “That’s why she came back for me.”

“They saved us from ourselves,” Fellows offered.

“Someone had to.”

The clearing had been a place of violence. Fellows imagined it, the gunshot, birds fleeing in a sudden rush of wings, the heat and smell of blood. The old duke, mean and thoughtless, falling dead. Hart breathing hard, the shotgun in his hands.

So much viciousness and cruelty. All gone now. The ground of the clearing was soft green, tiny yellow flowers blooming where the sun reached.

Without another word, the two men turned and started back for Kilmorgan.

They emerged from the trees near the river where Ian had taken the rest of the family fishing. They were all there—Beth and her children on a spread blanket; Mac’s family nearby with Louisa and Fellows’ mother; Ainsley and Cameron together; Daniel playing with his little sister; Eleanor and Alec on another blanket.

And Louisa. She smiled at Lloyd from where she reposed next to Isabella, and she rose to greet him.