Mackenzie Family Christmas (The Perfect Gift)(45)

His brothers had drilled into him that, when someone gave him a present, Ian should acknowledge it. Perhaps that's what she was waiting for.

"Thank you, my Beth."

Beth swallowed, more tears moistening her eyes. "You're welcome, Ian."

Ian closed the box. End of the matter.

"Ian." Mac laid a heavy hand on Ian's shoulder. "A word with you, if you don't mind. Alone."





* * * * *





Chapter Fourteen





Ian tried to ignore him. He didn't want to leave Beth, who was still crying. He wanted to kiss away her tears, to feel the moisture on her lashes brushing his lips. He needed to discover what was the matter, to make her happy again. He'd thought he'd done so with Jamie's Christmas gift, but he'd been wrong.

Mac's hand firmed. "Now."

Ian smothered a sigh, pushed the box away, rose from the table, and let Mac lead him out into the hall. The others closed on Beth--if they didn't leave her alone, they'd suffocate her.

"Ian." Mac shut the door, cutting off Ian's view of Beth. "Sometimes, my little brother, you can be incomparably cruel."

"What are you talking about?" This was what happened when his family wouldn't let Ian and Beth be alone. When Ian could wrap himself in Beth's presence, he was at peace, in a blissful place where all was stillness. Now there was turmoil, tears. "I said 'thank you'."

"How can I explain this? Beth feels terrible that she broke your blasted bowl. She's been hunting everywhere for one like it, Hart bullied half the country until he located a Ming bowl with blue dragons on it, and he sent Fleming to lure Glastonby into a compromising position so Glastonby would hand it over. Fleming rushed it to Hart, who rushed it to Beth, who rushed it to you. She wanted to make up for what she'd done. Do you see?"

"But the bowl was irreplaceable," Ian said. Perhaps if he spoke slowly, he could make himself clear. "It was very rare. Glastonby's is not as good."

"Not the point. Beth was very unhappy that she broke the bowl. She knew how much it meant to you. Hell, for months you wouldn't talk about anything else. And then she broke it. The woman who loves you broke it. How do you think that made her feel?"

"I know Beth was upset. I told her it was all right."

Mac scraped his hands through his hair. "Yes, yes, you told her. But every time she thought of a way to make up for it, you said she never could. You told Curry he needn't have bothered sticking the damn thing back together, as Beth asked him to. And now, she goes to the trouble of finding you another bowl, and you tell her it isn't good enough."

"It isn't as good. But I said I'd keep it . . ."

"And I want to break the bloody thing over your head. Focus, Ian. Look at me."

Ian shifted his gaze, which still rested on the door that blocked him from Beth, to Mac's copper-colored eyes.

"Beth is hurting," Mac said. "Because she thinks she hurt you."

Bewildering. "She didn't."

"But she doesn't know that."

Ian couldn't look away from Mac as his thoughts spun around and the events straightened out in his head. A mathematical problem. A = x and B = y; if A + B = C, then C = x + y.

"She thinks she hurt me because she broke the bowl," Ian said.

"Yes!" Mac threw up his hands. "Ian wins the race."

"What race?"

"Never mind. Forget about races. Let's return to Beth being upset. You love your bowls, and Beth destroyed something you love." A + B = C. Except that A was flawed.

"I don't love the bowls."

"You're overly fond of them then."

"No." Ian thought a moment. "They please me." Uniform, their gentle shape, the intricacy of the designs.

"Fine. Beth destroyed something that pleased you. Therefore, she is unhappy."

Ian did not like Beth being unhappy. Her sorrow was his, he ached when he saw her tears.

Ian looked again at Mac, his unruly, teasing brother, the one he understood least. Mac was the opposite of Ian--he was impetuous, reckless, volatile, wild, whereas Ian needed his life to be neat and exact, his routine unbroken unless absolutely necessary. Mac's artistic talent had earned their father's wrath, and he'd run away from the cloying household at a young age. Ian's exactness had also earned his father's wrath, the old duke believing Ian mad, and punishing him for it.

"What do I do?" Ian asked. He was swimming, uncertain, trying to find the current.

"Tell Beth you're not upset at her for breaking the bowl. Simple as that."

"But I told her."

"Tell her again. And again. As many times as it takes for her to believe you. Explain why you are not upset. In great detail--you are good at details."