Isabella had never once thought Mac inadequate.
“I do love her,” Mac said, his anger stilling to a point of calm.
“Then why didn’t you stay with her? Why did you keep running away, leaving her vulnerable to every man with designs on her? This is how I know I am the real Mac Mackenzie. Because I would never have done those things to Isabella. I’d have treated her like an angel. You never understood what you had in her.”
Damn, the man was mesmerizing. Mac needed to concentrate.
“She’ll never come to you,” Mac said. “She’ll know the difference.”
Payne rose swiftly to his feet, cocking the revolver.
Well done, enraging the madman with the gun.
“She will come. She will come, and she will stay with me.”
Isabella, be sensible, don’t come. Let me rot.
Payne walked away, his Mackenzie plaid swirling around his knees. Mac’s vision began to cloud, and despair washed over him.
He would never see Isabella again. He’d never see her bend over him, her red hair falling to tickle his face, never see her green eyes flash in anger, never smell the attar of roses that clung to her skin. He’d never again touch the petal-soft smoothness of her, never cup the firm perfection of her breast.
His senses drifted, and he was dancing with her again at Lord Abercrombie’s ball, when she’d been dressed in the blue satin ball gown with yellow roses in her hair. The beauty of her cut like a knife. She’d talked to him in a voice smooth like fine wine, and he’d drunk her in.
Bare your soul,
Ian had advised.
Mac hadn’t done it yet. He’d let her love him again, but he’d not surrendered the entirety of himself to her. He knew that, and the knowledge beat at him.
I dragged her off and married her, because if I hadn’t simply taken her, if I’d given her the choice, she never would have chosen me.
But Mac had changed. He’d given up everything but moving doggedly through life. For her.
For her?
The nagging thing inside asked.
Or so that she’d feel sorry for you and acknowledge your martyrdom?
Hell and damn, he couldn’t even win an argument with himself.
Isabella, please, I need to see you one more time.
He’d loved the determined and naïve debutante he’d met that first night. He’d loved the young woman she’d become, bold enough to fall into step with Mac’s life, putting up with his dissipated friends and his skin-baring models. Mac had loved showing off how well his proper young wife took Mac’s scandalous life in stride, and he’d never realized just how strong Isabella had been to do it. Nothing in her upbringing or education at her select academy could have prepared her for someone like Mac, not even the redoubtable Miss Pringle. And yet, she’d done it.
Mac had loved the woman she’d become: admired by society, able to stand on her own and look her neighbors in the face, notwithstanding that her family disowned her and her marriage fell apart. The world hadn’t blamed Isabella; they’d blamed Mac.
Perceptive of them.
I want to love you, Isabella. Not as Mac the scandalous, or the reformed Mac, but as myself. The Mac I truly am.
The one who loves you.
I love you, Isabella.
And he’d never have the chance to tell her.
Chapter 22
Delicious rumor puts the Scottish Lord having moved in with his Lady in North Audley Street. The Lord’s Mount Street house was sadly burned, but observers say the Lady welcomed him with open arms. They have been seen about Town together in a most friendly fashion.
—September 1881
Time ceased to have meaning. The room gently spun around him, the women who were not Isabella staring down at him in their garish, erotic glory. The artist in Mac whispered that the pictures were quite well done—Payne was exactly the sort of man Mac would have taken under his wing once upon a time, and helped build his career.
No chance of that now, Mac thought dryly.
Darkness came and went, though there was no change in the level of gaslight. The fading was his own vision sliding in and out. Mac had no more feeling in his legs and feet. Payne was going to let him die here.
Mac heard his own voice issue from between his cracked lips.
In bonny town, where I was born.
There was a fair maid dwellin’.
Made every youth cry, “well-away!”
Her name was Iiiis-a-bella.
The last time he’d sung that, Isabella had slammed open the door of the bathroom and fixed him with an outraged stare. His skin had prickled as her gaze had roved his body spread in her bathtub, and he’d had the absurd fear that she’d not be impressed by what she saw.
Will she still want me?
he’d wondered.
Will I still be the man whose body she likes to admire? To touch?
He hadn’t been timid with a woman since age fifteen, but Mac had worried that Isabella would sneer at him and turn away.
Her name was Iiiis-a-bella.
“Mac?”
I’m here, love. Come to bed, my sweet, I’m cold.
“Mac? Oh, Mac.”
Mac forced his eyes open, wishing the blackness would clear. He felt a silken touch on his skin, smelled the faint odor of roses. Her beautiful face hovered above his, eyes burning beneath red curls.
“Isabella,” he whispered. “Love you.”
“You’re bleeding. Mac, what happened?”
The world went black for a moment, and when it became light again, he felt a towel or blanket or something being pressed hard into his side. It hurt like hell, but that was good, because the pain meant that he was still alive.
Awareness cut through the fog. Then fear. “No,” he croaked. “Isabella. Run. Go!”
“Don’t be stupid. Cam’s here. And Inspector Fellows.”
“Payne?”
“They’re looking for him. Mac, don’t fall asleep. Keep looking at me.”
“My pleasure.” It hurt to smile, but his beautiful wife was by his side, her scent overriding the terrible coppery smell of blood. “I need to bare my soul, my love. Will you let me bare my soul to you?”
She leaned closer. “Hush, darling. We’ll take you home, and everything will be all right.”
“No, it won’t. I’ve been lying to you. I haven’t bared my soul.”
Her hot tears fell on his face. “Mac, don’t die. Please.”
“I’ll do my damnedest.”
Mac heard his words come out a slurred mumble. Isabella wouldn’t be able to understand him. He had to make her understand him.
“I can’t lose you.” Isabella stroked his hair, her touch so dear to him. “I don’t want to live without you, Mac. I never was a whole person until I met you.”
Whole. That’s what Isabella had made
him
. She’d been the best part of him, and when Mac had lost her, he’d had nothing left of himself. That was what Ian had been trying to tell him.
Mac reached for her hand, relief flooding him when she took it. “Need you, love.”
“Don’t leave me.” Isabella’s voice was becoming desperate.
“Isabella.”
Mac blinked, because the word hadn’t come from him. Rage flooded him again as a shadow fell over them, cast by the tall form of Payne.
“Run,” Mac tried to say. “Get away.”
Instead, his beautiful lady rose to her feet to confront him. “You shot him. Damn you.” She struck out with her fists, and Payne suddenly found himself having to fend off a hundred and twenty pounds of enraged female. Mac was torn between panic and laughter. Isabella was strong, he had cause to know.
But not strong enough. She got one shout out of her mouth before Payne clapped a hand over it and lifted her from her feet. Isabella fought, her eyes wild.
All of Mac’s rage focused on one single point. He heard the cries of his ancestors ringing in his head, urging him to take his enemy, to kill him. If he’d had a claymore in his hand, Mac would have sliced off the bloody Sassenach’s head with it.
As it was, he had to make do. The wild strength let him haul himself to his feet. He was cold, his vision blurred, but Mac would perform this one last act to save the woman he loved. If he died of the deed, so be it.
Snarling, he threw himself at Payne. Payne had to release Isabella, who stumbled back and wasted no time screaming at the top of her lungs.
Payne brought his pistol around and pointed it at her.
No!
Mac grabbed the man’s arm, striking him on the hand so that his grip went slack. Payne fought hard, seizing the pistol again even as he dropped it, shoving the barrel into Mac’s ribs. Isabella shouted something, running at the pair of them as they grappled.
The pistol’s barrel scraped away from Mac’s body, but now it pointed at Isabella. Mac wrenched himself into her, sending Isabella to the floor as the pistol went off. A second roar followed.
Mac expected oblivion. Or excruciating pain. Maybe one first then the other.
Instead, Payne crumpled on the floor, a stunned look on his face. Blood spouted from a wound in the exact center of his forehead.
What the hell?
He saw through a haze of smoke the cold eyes of Inspector Fellows over the barrel of another Webley. Behind him was his brother Cameron, a hulking brute of a man, also with pistol in hand. Cameron’s eyes reflected the rage Mac felt.
A family affair. Nice shooting, Inspector.
Isabella was on the carpet, her black skirts spread around her, eyes wide with fear. Mac rocked on his weak legs, Payne’s pistol somehow still in his hand. He dropped it.
“Mac!” Isabella scrambled to her feet, her arms coming around him even as Mac crumpled.
He turned on her a look of fury. “What th’ bloody hell were ye playing at, woman?” he roared. “When a man has a pistol, ye run t’other way. That could be you shot daed on the floor, not him.”
“Mac, shut up.” Tears were streaming down her face. “Cease talking and stay alive for me. Please.”
Mac sank into the warmth of her body, even as Cameron’s strong arm supported him on his other side.
“Anything for you, Isabella, love,” Mac said. “Anything at all. You just ask me.”
“I love you, Mac.”
Mac turned his head and kissed her smooth cheek. Did anything smell better than this woman, so warm and sweet? “I love you, my Isabella.” He sighed. “I do believe I will lose consciousness now.”
The last thing he remembered was Isabella’s lips in his hair, her soft voice saying over and over that she loved him.
THREE WEEKS LATER
Isabella sat in Mac’s studio in her black dress with her hands in her lap. A bowl of yellow hothouse roses rested on a table next to her, a mix of rosebuds, full-blown flowers, and those that had already started dropping petals.
Mac was half-hidden behind his large easel, his painting boots and strong legs showing below the canvas, his formidable frown and red kerchief above it. He held the palette against his bare, tight arm, and scowled at the canvas as he slapped on paint. He still wore a bandage on his side where the bullet had barreled through his flesh, but he was healing well. A strong constitution, he’d said with a shrug. That was Mac, careless about the most important things.
Isabella’s limbs had grown at bit stiff with the sitting, but she knew better than to move. Mac might be focusing on one crook of her finger, and if she shifted, it would break his concentration. A petal fell from a flower, and she silently admonished it.
Mac lowered his brush and stepped back. He studied the painting for a long time, so long, frozen in place, that worry gnawed at her. She jumped up, damn the pose.
“Mac, what is it? Is it the pain?” She knew he hadn’t quite finished healing, no matter how robust he pretended to be.
Mac didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the painting. Isabella glanced at it in curiosity, but she could see nothing wrong with it. It was a Mac Mackenzie painting, muted browns and blacks highlighted with brilliant tones of red and yellow. Isabella sat a bit primly, her coppery curls piled high on her head, one ringlet drooping down her cheek. A little smile hovered about her mouth, and her eyes sparkled with good humor. The painting wasn’t finished, but already it glowed with life.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “What is the matter? Do you not like it?”
Mac turned to her, a strange look in his eyes. “Not like it? It’s bloody wonderful. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”
Isabella made her voice light. “What, even more than the erotic pictures?”
“Those were different.
This . . .
” Mac pointed at the painting with the handle of his brush. “This is beauty.”
“I’m pleased that your high opinion of yourself has returned.”
Mac dropped the brush and caught her shoulders, never mind that he smeared yellow paint on her black gabardine. He studied her intently, the strange look still in his eyes.
“My love, Ian told me right after your father died that I needed to bare my soul to you. Well, here it is, the good and the bad of it.” He pointed to the portrait. “That’s my soul right there, crying out for you.”
Isabella looked at it again. The woman who was herself through and through smiled out at Mac.
“I don’t understand. It’s just a picture of me.”
“Just a picture.” Mac laughed, but tears wet his eyes. “It
is
just a picture. Of you. Painted by me, with love in every stroke.” He drew a breath. “That’s what I didn’t understand before. This is why my talent went away and now has come bursting back.”
He looked so joyous that Isabella wanted to kiss him, but she still didn’t understand. “Explain?”
“I can’t, love. I always thought my ability came from astonishing luck, or a drunken stupor, or lust for you. When I painted the erotic pictures, I assumed they came out well because I wanted you so much.”
She shot him a sly look. “But you discovered you didn’t want me so much?”