The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

Violet gathered that to her as she gathered Daniel into her arms. They fell together to the bed, spent. In love. Trusting. Daniel would never hurt her.

The beauty of that streaked through her, and told Violet she was home at last.

“Ready, love?” Daniel watched Violet as she grabbed hold of the balloon’s basket, her eyes lighting with anticipation. “All right then.” Daniel called down to the men who held the massive bubble of the balloon as it strained for freedom. “Let her go!”

The men released ropes, sandbags dropped away, and the balloon rose. The cool Scottish air grew colder, the wind from the mountains and the sea beyond it catching them.

Daniel put his arm around his wife as they went higher and higher. The small farms became square patches in the rugged country of the Highlands, and tree-covered hills spread before them. Far away was the misty gray blue of the northern sea.

Violet took in every bit of it, the delight on her face beautiful.

“As promised,” Daniel said. “Ballooning over northern Scotland. Nothing else comes close to being more stunning.”

Violet’s expression was one of delight and sheer joy. No more fear, no more dread.

“You like it?” Daniel asked her, knowing the answer.

“It’s marvelous.” Violet turned away from him, tipping the basket, but she laughed and caught the ropes to steady herself. “You’re right. It’s the most beautiful thing in the world.”

“Next to you,” Daniel said, meaning it.

Violet laughed again as she spun around. The Highlands floated quietly beneath them, the balloon rising ever higher.

“How do you feel?” he asked her.

“Free.” Violet flashed a smile that made Daniel’s life worth living. “Effortless. In love with you.” Another smile, this one warm and serious. “I saved this up to tell you now—we’re going to have a baby.”

Daniel stopped. The wind sighed around them, the roar of the modified wind machine breaking the silence.

Then a wave of pure happiness hit him, a new kind of happiness, one Daniel had never known before. “Are we?”

“Yes.” Violet touched his hand. “Thank you.”

A child. A wee one. First it would be an adorable baby, then a child like Stuart and Gavina, then a lad or lass to grow into a tall young man or woman, the pride of the family.

Daniel threw his head back, looked at the heavens, and let out a whoop that should be heard all the way to the Orkneys. He caught Violet around the waist and pulled her close.

“Anytime, love.” He laughed. “Anytime.”

Violet laughed with him. Daniel slid his arms around her as Violet gazed at the land flowing below them and stretched out her arms to embrace the world.

And she soared.

Turn the page for a preview of the next historical romance from Jennifer Ashley

Rules for a Proper Governess

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation

His voice drew her. Bertie leaned forward from the gallery and watched the man standing upright and arrogant on the floor, one hand touching an open book, the other gesturing as he made his argument.

He wore one of the silly wigs, but his face was square and handsome, far younger than that of the judge who sat above him. A wilted nosegay reposed in a vase in front of the judge, both judge and flowers looking weary in the extreme.

The case had caught the attention of journalists up and down the country—the sensational murder of a lady in Surrey by one of her kitchen maids. The young woman in the dock, Ruthie, had been accused of stabbing her employer and making off with a hundred pounds’ worth of silver.

Bertie knew Ruthie hadn’t done it. The deed had been done by Jacko Small and his mistress, only they’d set up Ruthie to take the blame. Bertie had known, had heard Jacko’s plans, but did the police listen to the likes of Roberta Frasier? No.

Not that Bertie was in the habit of talking to constables most days. She stayed as far away from them as possible, and her dad and Jeffrey made sure she did. But she’d tried for Ruthie’s sake.

Hadn’t mattered. They’d arrested Ruthie anyway, and now Ruthie would get hanged for something she didn’t do.

The barrister with the mesmerizing voice was busy making the case that Ruthie had done it. Ruthie couldn’t afford a defense, so she was up in the dock on her own, thin and small for her age, a maid who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bertie could only clench her fists and pray for a miracle.

The barrister, despite his dire statements, had a delicious Scots accent. His voice was deep and rich, rolling over the crowd like an intoxicating wave. Even the bored judge couldn’t take his eyes off him.

The man had broad shoulders and a firm back, obvious even under the black robes. His accent wasn’t so thick Bertie couldn’t understand it, but his R’s rolled pleasantly, and his vowels were long, especially the U’s.

“If your lordship pleases,” the barrister said. “I would like to call Jacko Small back to the witness box.”

Bertie swallowed. Jacko had already given his evidence that he’d found the body in the sitting room of the London house, then seen Ruthie down in the kitchen, crying, with blood on her apron. The silver was gone, and no one had found it, so Ruthie must have hidden it somewhere, hadn’t she? The police had tried to get its location out of her, but of course Ruthie didn’t know, because she hadn’t stolen it in the first place.

The judge sighed. “Is it relevant, Mr. McBride? This witness has already told us his version of events.”

“One or two more questions, your lordship,” Mr. McBride said. “You will understand my reasons in due time.”

In duuui time. The vowels came out of his mouth in a round, full sound.

Jacko came back in, was reminded he was still under oath, and faced Mr. McBride with all innocence on his face.

“Now, then, Mr. Small.” Mr. McBride smiled pleasantly, but Bertie saw a gleam in his eyes that was a cross between anger and glee.

Now, what was he up to? She leaned forward to watch.

“Mr. Small,” Mr. McBride said smoothly. “You say you opened the door of the sitting room to find the lady of the house on the floor, her dress covered in blood. You’d been asked to refill the coal bin on your return from your day out and had gone up there to do so.” Mr. McBride glanced down at the notes on his bench. “That day was the seventh of July. The middle of the afternoon, in the middle of summer. Quite the warmest day anyone could remember, the newspapers reported. A bit too warm for a fire, wouldn’t you say?”

Jacko blinked. “Well . . . I . . . the nights were still nippy. I remember that.”

“Yes, of course. Bloody English weather. Begging your pardon, your lordship.”

People tittered. The judge scowled. “Please get on with it, Mr. McBride.”

“You say in your statement that you saw quite a lot of blood,” Mr. McBride said without pausing. “On the sofa, on the floor, smeared on the door panels and on the doorknob.”

“Yeah,” Jacko said. He put his hand to his heart. “Gave me a turn, it did.”

“So you fled the room and went down to the kitchen, where you saw the accused wearing an apron stained with blood. She says she got the blood on her because she thought she’d help out the cook by stuffing the chickens for dinner. The chickens were still a bit bloody, and she wiped her hands on her apron. Correct?”

“It’s what she said, yeah.”

“Now, I need your help, Mr. Small. I must ask you a very important question, so think hard. Was there any