The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie(73)

“I don’t give a damn about Inspector Fellows.” She laughed, and he couldn’t understand what she thought was funny. “Yet you married me to keep him from pestering me for all your secrets. What other reason would you marry a naive widow long in the tooth?”

He had no idea what she was talking about. “I married you to keep him from you. To keep idiots like Mather from you. Hart’s name protects his family, so I made you family, a Mackenzie. No one touches the Mackenzies.” “Because the mighty Duke of Kilmorgan has such pull with the Home Office?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes were so blue. Tears made them even more cornflower blue, breathtakingly blue. His headache stabbed him through the temple, and he rubbed at it.

“I want to help you find out what happened,” Beth said.

“Help you put it to rest.”

Oh, God. “No, no, no. Leave it be.”

“How can I? It’s tearing you apart; it’s tearing me apart. If you tell me, if we think about it, maybe we can decide what really happened.”

Ian jerked away. “This is not a bloody detective story.” She bit her lip, white teeth on red, and his desire rose swiftly, inconveniently. But if he made love to her, if he rode her until she couldn’t breathe, she’d stop asking questions, she’d stop thinking, she’d stop looking at him. “I lived in the East End,” she was saying, her voice floating past him. “I knew game girls, and they didn’t resent me—at least, most of them didn’t. Perhaps some of them knew Sally Tate, knew who would follow her and strike her down, perhaps in a jealous rage . . . .”

Ian finally focused on her words. He grabbed her wrists. “No!” He stared into her eyes . . . so blue, so beautiful, like the skies in the middle of summer.. . .

He slammed his eyes closed. “Stay out of it. Leave them out of it. Why do you think Lily Martin died?” Silence. At last Ian opened his eyes to find Beth still in front of him, her lips slightly parted. Her breasts swelled above the chemise, soft and white and inviting his touch. “She died because she saw too much,” he said. “I couldn’t save her. I don’t want to find you like that, too.” Beth’s eyes widened. “You think he’ll strike again, then?” Ian’s breath hurt his lungs. He jerked away, fists clenching until his nails creased his palms. “Leave it the hell alone. This has nothing to do with you.”

“You made me your wife. It has everything to do with me.”

“And as my wife, you are to obey me.”

Beth put her hands on her hips, her brows rising. “You don’t know much about marriage, do you?”

“I know nothing about it.”

“It’s sharing burdens. It’s the wife helping her husband, the husband helping his wife.. ..”

“For God’s sake.” Ian spun away, unable to stand still. “I’m not your Thomas, your vicar. I never will be. I know you’ll never look at me the way you looked at him.” She stared at him, white-faced. “What do you mean?” He turned back. “You look at me like I’m the Mad Mackenzie. It’s in the back of your mind all the time.” He tapped the side of her head. “You can never forget about my madness, and you pity me for it.”

Beth blinked a few times but remained silent. His Beth, who could chatter on about anything and everything, was robbed of words.

Because Ian spoke the truth. She’d been madly in love with her first husband. Ian understood about love, even if he couldn’t feel it. He’d seen his brothers devastated by love and grief, and he knew Beth had been, too. “I can never give you what he gave you.” lan’s chest hurt. “You loved him, and I know that can never be between us.”

“You’re wrong,” she whispered. “I love you, Ian.” He pressed his clenched fists to his breastbone. “There’s nothing in here to love. Nothing. I am insane. My father knew it. Hart knows it. You can’t nurse me back to health. I have my father’s rages, and you can never be sure what I’ll do—“ He broke off, his headache beating at him. He rubbed his temple furiously, angry at the pain.

“Ian.”

The rest of his body wanted Beth and couldn’t understand why the anger held him back. He wanted to stop this stupid argument and spread her on the bed. Her agitated breath lifted her breasts high, and her hair straggled across her white shoulders. If he rode her, she’d stop nattering about the murder and love. She’d just be his.

She’s not a whore, something whispered in his head. She’s not a thing to be used. She’s Beth.