Mackenzie Family Christmas (The Perfect Gift)(3)

The bowl was certainly beautiful. Its thin porcelain sides were covered with interwoven flowers and tiny dragons in blue, one object flowing into another in delicate strokes. The inside of the bowl held more flowers dancing around the rim, and on the bottom was a single lotus flower. The underside held a dragon, four claws curled around the bowl's bottom lip. The blue, the only color, was incredible--dark and intense across the centuries.

"Lovely," Beth breathed. "I understand now why you hunted for it so hard."

Ian kept his gaze on the bowl, his face betraying joy he didn't know how to convey. He said nothing, but his look, his happiness, was enough.

"The perfect Christmas gift," Beth said. "How on earth will I find something for you to compete with it?"

"Today isn't Christmas," Ian said in his matter-of-fact voice, still looking at the bowl. "It's the twelfth. And we give our gifts at Hogmanay."

"No, I meant . . . Never mind." Ian could be so very literal, and though he did try to understand Beth's little jokes, he didn't always catch when she meant to be funny. Poor Beth, she imagined him thinking, She doesn't understand a word she's saying.

Ian set the bowl into her cupped palms. "Hold it up to the light. The pattern is deep. You can see the layers when th' light is behind them."

He kept hold of her wrists as he guided her to raise her hands, holding the bowl toward the warm yellow wall sconce, which dripped with long, clear crystals.

The light unfolded more flowers from between the dragons and vines, small and light blue. "Oh, Ian, it's exquisite."

Ian released her wrists to let her turn the bowl this way and that, but he remained behind her, his warmth on her back. Her bustle crushed against her legs, Ian's arm coming around her waist. He leaned to kiss her neck, the love in the kiss rippling heat through her.

Beth held the bowl up again, her fingers trembling. She needed to tell Ian of the outcome of their nights in bed this autumn, but she'd not had the chance yet. But now . . .

Beth started to turn, to lower the bowl, to hand it back to him.

Her shoe caught on the edge of the Aubusson carpet, its fringe snagging the high heel of her boot. She rocked, and Ian caught her by the elbow, but the bowl slipped from her fingers.

She lunged for it, and so did Ian, but the porcelain evaded their outstretched hands.

Beth watched in horror as the blue and white bowl fell down, down, down to the wooden floor beyond the rug, and smashed into shower of beautiful, polished bits.





* * * * *





Chapter Two





Beth followed the bowl down, her dark skirts spreading as she sank to her knees. "Oh, Ian." Her breath caught on a sob. "Ian, I am so, so sorry."

Ian remained fixed beside her, his polished boots an inch from her skirts. His large hand curled against the blue and green plaid of his kilt, a silent sign of his anguish.

Beth reached for the pieces, tears in her eyes. What had she done? What had she done?

She found Ian on his knees next to her, his hands gently lifting hers from the broken shards. "You'll cut yourself."

His voice was even, almost a monotone. Ian's gaze fixed on what was left of the bowl, his whiskey-colored eyes taking in every piece, as though he knew exactly where each of the bits fit together.

"We can fix it," Beth said quickly. "I'll have Curry find some glue, and we can put it back together again."

"No." Ian kept hold of Beth's hands.

"But we can try."

Ian finally looked at her, his mesmerizing gaze meeting hers for a brief instant before it slid away again. "No, my Beth. It won't be the same."

Tears slid down Beth's cheeks, and she reached again for the pieces. She would gather them up, paste the thing back together, try to find its beauty again.

A bite of pain made her jump. Ian lifted her hand and kissed a spot of blood on her thumb.

"Stay here," he said quietly.

He flowed to his feet, leather boots creaking, and walked swiftly out of the room. Beth waited, more tears coming, and she put her thumb into her mouth to stop the bleeding.

She couldn't believe she'd done this, ruined the thing Ian had wanted so much, had worked so hard to find. He'd finally won his heart's desire, and Beth had broken it.

She had to fix it. She had to. If she couldn't repair the bowl, she'd have to find another one. The Russian gentleman might have a similar bowl, or know someone who had. She'd need help--and she knew just which Mackenzie she would recruit to help her. Hart could make the world turn upside down and shake out its pockets if he truly wanted to, and Beth would explain that he truly wanted to. This was for Ian.

Ian returned, carrying a broom and a dustpan. He put out his hand to stop Beth when she tried to climb to her feet, then Lord Ian Mackenzie, youngest brother of the Duke of Kilmorgan, swept up the tiny shards of porcelain and shoved them into the dustpan.