Mackenzie Family Christmas (The Perfect Gift)(8)

"Beth broke the bowl."

"Oh, no." Eleanor sat up, or as upright as she could. Hart didn't have to explain which bowl. "What happened? Is Ian all right? Is Beth?"

"Apparently, Ian took it in stride. Beth is more upset, from Curry's reports."

"Well, she would be. How awful." Eleanor started to push back the sheets. "We must make sure she's all right."

Hart stilled her with a strong hand. "You must stay here and rest. Beth and Curry have things in hand, and Ian is with his children."

"And he's not . . ."

"He hasn't done anything at all, Wilfred said. Don't worry, love." Hart pressed a kiss to her lips, his body curving around hers protectively. "We'll watch him, and make sure all is well."

"We must find him a new bowl. One just like it."

"So Beth says." Hart softened enough to give Eleanor a smile. "She already told Wilfred I am to assist. I hear and obey."

"Because you're worried about Ian too."

"Yes." His smile vanished. "I am. The last time this happened it was a bloody disaster, and I was no help at all." He closed his eyes, shutting out remembered pain. "I hated that Ian wouldn't respond to me. I'm one of the most powerful men in Britain, I have foreign princes afraid to cross me, and I couldn't reach my own brother."

Eleanor stroked her hand through his hair, the warm silk of it soothing. She'd seen his frustration and hurt when he looked at Ian, great worry, and love.

"Ian's much better now. He has Beth."

"I know." Hart opened his eyes again, trying to hide his pain, but Eleanor always saw it.

"You'll find another bowl," Eleanor said with confidence. "You know so many people, and I'm certain they all owe you favors."

"They do. And I will."

"After you finish my foot rub."

Hart's smile returned, and with it, a glint of wickedness. "You're a demanding thing."

"Greedy." Eleanor ran her finger down his nose and tapped its tip. "Hungry for you. And sore."

Hart pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her lips. "I'll give you your foot rub. But my way."

He ran his hand down to her thigh, fingers doing their dance on her sensitive skin. Eleanor leaned back on the pillows and gave herself over to the very talented ministrations of her husband.

*** *** ***

Isabella Mackenzie finished writing yet another letter the next evening, and stretched her aching fingers. The windows in her private sitting room were dark, and the air had turned frigid, though the coal stove kept her toasty warm.

Planning the large holiday festivities was a long and tedious process, but she, Ainsley, and Beth were determined to make Hart and Eleanor's first Christmas together memorable. The Scots, Isabella had learned from years of being married to one, didn't pay as much attention to Christmas Eve and Day as they did Hogmanay--New Year's. However, Hart had two English sisters-in-law and often had a houseful of English guests who expected Christmas crackers, plum pudding, and feasting on Christmas Day. Therefore, they had to plan two large celebrations, one at Christmas, one for Hogmanay, and yet another for Twelfth Night.

Isabella wanted this Christmas to be memorable for Eleanor in a good way. Some past Mackenzie Christmases had been out-and-out disasters, most of which had been caused by Mac's drunken debauches and his and Cameron's equally debauched friends. Half of these friends had ceased to be welcome at Kilmorgan--any Mackenzie household--after they'd decided it amusing one year to lock Ian into an attic room.

Isabella shuddered at the memory. Hart had been livid, and he and Cameron had had a punch-up, Hart blaming Mac for the friends' antics, Cameron defending Mac, who could barely stand up from a hangover. Only Isabella's persuasion had kept Hart from slinging his two brothers out into the snowy night.

This year, the house would be full of rejoicing. Babes filled the nursery, more family and friends would pour in on them soon, and the Mackenzie men were . . . well, not exactly tamed. But at peace with themselves, no longer fighting life.

Ian's broken bowl was on everyone's mind, however. He'd said not a word about it, appearing at breakfast with Beth as composed as ever. Beth's flushed face and little smile told Isabella how Beth might have been soothing him, but the brothers were still worried.

She felt Mac's presence behind her before two strong arms came around her, and Mac's lips brushed a warm kiss to the curve between her neck and shoulder. The scarf that he wore over his hair when he painted touched her cheek.

"What are you doing out of your studio?" Isabella asked. Mac had retreated there after breakfast and hadn't been seen since. He still wore his painting kilt and boots, though he'd donned a shirt. Most of the time when painting, he didn't bother with the shirt. "Has something happened?'