The Duke’s Perfect Wife

Mackenzie. No tall Scotsman staring at water moving through the locks, or idly fishing, or walking restlessly up and down the banks.

Ian could be anywhere. Holed up in a barn to sleep or climbing aboard a train to who-knew-where. Ian followed no rules but his own, and he might not bother to buy a ticket for the train until he was on it. He would eventually wire Beth to tell her where he was, but it might be some time before he did. Ian would know he was all right, but he did not always remember to reassure others or even understand why he should. Ian was better about all this now that he was with Beth, but he still liked to sometimes disappear on his own.

As a child, Ian had bolted from crowds that frightened him or even from the supper table at Kilmorgan, running, running to rid himself of terrors he didn’t understand. Hart would follow him, find him, and sit with him in silence until Ian calmed down. Only Hart had been able to stop Ian’s frightened tears and intense rages. Only Hart had been able to put a comforting arm around Ian’s shoulders—for the brief moment Ian allowed it—to reassure him that he was not alone.

When Ian had first come home from the asylum, he often would walk away from the house and stay away for days. Hart had gone insane with worry, but Ian always returned, in his own time. Hart would shout at Ian and command him not to do it again. Ian would listen in silence, gaze averted, but when Ian decided he needed to be on his own again, he simply went. All the shouting in the world could not change his mind.

Things were different now. Ian had Beth, and his need to withdraw had dwindled. Ian did not like to spend too much time away from Beth and his children, in any case, and he mostly stayed home, drawing comfort from them.

So, why had he gone this time?

I will never let anything happen to you, Ian Mackenzie, Hart vowed as he rode through yet another village. I promised you that, and I’ll keep the promise until I die.

Hart became separated from his men. He wasn’t certain when it happened, but in the dark, with Hart well in the lead, he must have ridden over a canal bridge they hadn’t seen him take, or perhaps they’d ridden over one, assuming Hart had crossed it.

Hart debated doubling back but decided against it. He’d not seen anything today to indicate assassins lurking behind every bush, and no one he’d spoken to had noticed strangers in the area. His men would catch up to him when they could.

The lack of obviously dangerous people did not alleviate Hart’s anxiousness for Ian. He kept searching.

He clattered into quiet villages, inquired in the local pubs, asked at farms if a gentleman had put up with them for the night. Most of the people around here knew Ian or had at least heard of him, but none could help.

A church clock was striking four when Hart rode over yet another canal bridge. He was exhausted, and his men were long gone, probably returned to Waterbury by now. Hart’s muscles ached from the long day in the saddle, and his eyes kept drooping in spite of his efforts to keep them open.

He should stop and rest, then resume looking again at sunup. His worry wanted him to keep going, but his reason told him he’d be sharper if he broke for a few hours and waited for daylight.

Hart unsaddled his horse, pulled off the bridle, and slid the halter he’d brought with him over the horse’s head. He tied the horse to a sturdy sapling, giving the beast enough rope so it could graze, then Hart lay down with his head on the saddle, his cloak wrapped tightly around him.

He woke on a sudden to the same church clock striking eight, the sun in his eyes, and the bulk of Ian Mackenzie looming over him.

Chapter 13

“Damn you, Ian,” Hart said.

He sat up, rubbing his neck, stiff from lying against the saddle. The horse had broken free and now wandered a little way from them, head down, cropping grass.

Ian said nothing. He didn’t ask what Hart was doing here or why he’d been sleeping on the ground in the middle of nowhere beside the canal. In continued silence, Ian turned away and caught the horse.

The horse shoved his face against Ian’s side as Ian removed the halter and buckled on the bridle. Animals liked Ian—Cameron’s horses and the Mackenzie dogs followed him about with affection.

Hart rubbed his jaw, feeling the scratch of whiskers as he climbed painfully to his feet. He lifted the saddle that had served as his pillow and carried it to the horse. “What are you doing out here, Ian?”

Ian took the saddle from Hart and set it on the horse’s back, then reached beneath the horse and caught the girth, tightening it with the expertise of a long-experienced rider.

“Looking for you,” Ian said.

“I thought I was looking for you.”

Ian gave Hart a you-are-hopelessly-behind-in-this-con-versation look. “They said you were trying to find me.”

“Who did?” Hart scanned the empty countryside beyond the line of trees that bordered the canal. “Did you find my bodyguards? How did you even know I was back here?”

Ian took up the horse’s reins, then he stopped and looked at Hart, straight into his eyes. “I can always find you.”

They stood like that for the barest moment, brother staring at brother, until Ian broke the contact and turned away, leading the horse back to the towpath.

I can always find you.

The words echoed in Hart’s head as he watched his brother walk away, kilt stirring in the wind. No boats moved on the quiet canal in the dawn, and mist curled under the overhanging trees and the bridges.

I can always find you. Knowing Ian, he’d simply been stating a fact and not implying that he had a special connection to Hart.

But Hart felt the connection to Ian, the tether that had stretched between himself and his brother from the moment Hart had realized that Ian was different, special, and that Hart had to protect him. He’d sensed the connection through the years Ian had spent at the asylum and every year since Ian’s release. Hart felt it so strongly that when Ian had been accused of harming someone eight years ago, Hart had done everything in his power to shield Ian from the consequences and had been prepared to take the blame on himself.

Not that Ian would bother talking such matters through. He continued leading the horse westward along the path without waiting to see whether Hart followed.

Hart caught up to him. “Cameron’s house is the other direction.”

Ian kept walking. He did not look at Hart, only watched the canal or nudged stray branches out of the way so the horse would not trip on them. Hart gave up and walked in silence beside him.

Ian’s destination became clear when, after about a mile, he led the horse over a narrow bridge and down to a long canal boat moored on the far bank. The boat’s foredeck contained several children, two goats, three dogs, and a man dangling his feet over the bow and smoking a pipe. The large horse that pulled the boat grazed, untethered, along the side of the canal.

Without a word, Ian dropped the reins of Hart’s horse and stepped onto the deck of the boat. One of the children, a girl, climbed off at the same time to catch Hart’s horse. She stroked the horse and crooned to it, and the horse seemed happy to let her.

Hart went on board after Ian, because Ian clearly expected him to. The pipe-smoking man nodded once at Hart but didn’t bother to get up. The children stared, as did the dogs. The goats didn’t care one way or the other.

An older woman came out of the cabin. She was shrunken to almost the size of the children, and she was dressed all in black with a black scarf over her hair. Her eyes were as black as her clothes and alert and sparkling.