Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift

swollen ankle. Lowering her foot to the mattress, Hart held it lightly with one hand while he slid his other hand up her leg to her inner thigh.

His fingers lingered just below the join of her legs, his eyes warm as he watched her. He stroked his thumb over the inside of her thigh, not touching her more intimate places, but coming very close. The whisper of air he stirred, the stroke of his oiled fingers, made Eleanor let out a slow breath.

She started to move, lifting to his touch, but Hart pressed her firmly back to the mattress. 'No, love.

Stay still. I'll do everything.'

Eleanor let herself sag again. Difficult when Hart's touch, light yet confident, sent ripples of hot pleasure through her body.

She'd learned not to fight him. To fight him brought out his wicked side--the feral smile, the look in his eyes that would frighten a lesser woman. Sometime, when she was feeling brave, Eleanor deliberately disobeyed him, to see what he'd do.

And the things he'd do . . . He'd become firm, no longer tender, tie her wrists with a cravat, or fasten her hands to the bed, or roll her over and chastise her backside. It would start as a game, and then Eleanor, who prided herself on her presence of mind, would become a begging pile of emotion. She'd dissolve into pure pleasure, crying his name, pleading for him, hearing his dark laughter, the bite of his teeth in her flesh, the sting of his hand.

He'd been kind to her, Hart said, during her pregnancy, but he promised he was storing up all kinds of things for later.

For now, his touch was light, warm, tracing pleasure onto her skin. He circled his thumbs over her inner thigh, just brushing the curls at the join of her legs. One finger flicked her opening, so sensitive now.

She dragged in a breath, then another even more sharp as Hart leaned down and kissed where he'd touched.

His breath tickled her skin, hotter than his hands. The cool of the wedding ring on his left hand contrasted the heat, making her remember the intoxicating moment when she'd slid it onto his finger.

A knock at the door made Hart's body tighten, but he never roughened his touch on Eleanor.

'Your Grace,' a faint voice came through the wood. 'It is Wilfred.'

Hart said nothing, but the soft light left his eyes, angry hardness filling them. No one, but no one, disturbed the duke when he was alone with his wife.

'Poor Wilfred,' Eleanor said. 'You'd better see what he wants. He would never dream of bothering you if the matter weren't terribly important.'

Hart heaved a long sigh. He pressed a kiss to the inside of Eleanor's knee, got himself off the bed without jostling her, snatched up his shirt, and dragged it on as he went to the door in it and his kilt.

He jerked the door open only enough to slide out and close it again, never letting Wilfred catch a glimpse of Eleanor in the bed.

Eleanor rested her hand on her abdomen as she waited impatiently. Drat her uncooperative body. She was dying to know what Wilfred had to say, but she couldn't rise from the bed to find out.

A long time passed before Hart returned, keeping the door partway closed as he entered. He turned the key in the lock, then paused to skim off his shirt and unpin his kilt, letting the plaid fall to the floor.

Naked, gloriously so, Hart climbed back onto the bed, again not disturbing Eleanor, and snuggled down in the covers next to her.

'Well?' Eleanor asked when he remained silent. 'Tell me at once, before I go mad.'

Hart deliberately settled the covers around both of them, ending up resting his elbow on Eleanor's pillow, his hand on hers on her abdomen. He took another minute or so after that, simply looking at her, before he spoke.

'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