The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie (39 page)

“Dad?” Daniel nodded quietly. “Aye, I know. He’s awkward about showing it, but I know.” Cameron had always been gruff, and slow to show affection, but Daniel had always known love was there, even in the frustrating times.

“He wasn’t awkward when we thought you were dead,” Violet said. “He cried.”

“Poor man. And then I lived.”

“Don’t make fun. He thought he’d lost you. So did I.” Violet’s voice broke, her eyes filling with tears.

Daniel touched her cheek. “I told you before, love, I’m resilient. I stayed alive so I could be with you.”

“You had a fever, a terrible fever. The surgeon thought you wouldn’t survive. I was so afraid.”

“Don’t fret, my sweet. I’m very good at recovering.” Daniel caressed her cheek again, thumb brushing away tears. “You know, if Jacobi is dead, you truly are free now.”

“Yes.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Violet’s lips curved into her smile. “Yes.”

“I’ll see if I can’t make ye stay, Mrs. Mackenzie.”

“I’m not . . .”

“Not yet. But you will be.”

Violet bit her lip, the light in her eyes dying. “Daniel, I killed him. I had the gun in my hands, and I turned it around and fired it at him.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Mac told the police that Ian and Simon struggled with Jacobi for the gun after he shot me, and the gun went off. Simon corroborated, and Ian . . . just said nothing.”

“That’s Ian. Has trouble lying, so he shuts up.” Daniel scowled. “Wait.
Shot you?
”

Violet moved aside a fold of her dressing gown to show a thick bandage around her thigh. “The surgeon said it was clean and did little damage. It just needs to knit. Same with Ian’s arm.”

Daniel’s anger surged, which made his head pound. “Bloody hell, woman. Ye were supposed to go with Simon back to the hotel. Not run in after me to get yourself shot.”

Her blue eyes sparkled. “If I hadn’t stayed, Simon wouldn’t have been there to save your life.”

“But if you had died, love, I wouldn’t have wanted to live.”

Violet stilled. Daniel caressed her face again, his heart pounding and making him sick. If he’d lost her . . .

He cupped his hand around the back of her neck, pulled her down to him, and kissed her. The kiss grew long, warming, seeking.

“I almost lost you,” Violet whispered. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“Never.” Daniel kissed her softly again. “Marry me, Violet Devereaux.”

Violet caught her breath. “Marry . . . ?”

Daniel attempted a shrug, flinched from the wash of pain the movement brought, and stilled until it receded. “We’ve been pretending to be man and wife. Why not make it real?”

Her look turned cautious. “I’m not the sort of woman a man like you marries. It would be a misalliance.”

Daniel stopped smiling. “Listen to me, love. The Mackenzies are aristocrats only because one of our ancestors saved the life of a king in 1300 and something. The king was grateful, so he called that Mackenzie a duke. Queen Vicki decided she’d show how much she loved the Scots by making my grandfather duke in the English peerage about fifty years ago. But we’re Scottish, not English, and we’re not obsessed with titles. The great Hart Mackenzie, Duke of Kilmorgan, isn’t even clan leader. Oh no, Hart bends his knee and pledges fealty to The Mackenzie at every clan gathering, and he’s not ashamed to do it. My family would be far happier if I married you, an intelligent woman with the fortitude to stand up to me, than if I married someone like Lady Victoria Whatsit, a wisp of a girl who only wants a rich husband. They’d have to have dinner with her, you see, and your conversation is so much more interesting.”

Violet was laughing. “Daniel.”

“Therefore, you should marry me, Violet. It’s the only reasonable solution.”

“I’m older than you.”

“I prefer it that way. I grew up fast, and I have no patience with girls fresh out of the schoolroom.”

“And I’m a fraud. You knew that the moment you met me. I’ve been so many different people.”

“And now you’ll be Violet Mackenzie.” He touched the tip of her nose. “I know exactly who you are. And so do you.”

“Yes.”

Daniel’s heart beat faster. “Yes, you know who you are?”

“Yes, I’ll marry you.” Violet’s smile broke through, the look in her eyes telling him all he needed to know.

“Vi.” Daniel closed his eyes. The emotions pouring through him made his body ache like hell, but the pain was a small price to pay. He opened his eyes again. “Vi, you’re . . .” Daniel gave up and pulled her down to him. “Don’t ever go,” he said, voice harsh. “Without you, my life would be . . . just going through the motions.”

Words died as Daniel held her. Violet rested her forehead against his, her tears falling to his cheeks. “I can’t go back to being without you,” she said. “I can’t.”

“Then we won’t ever be apart.” Daniel slid his hand beneath her hair. “We won’t ever.”

“I love you, Daniel Mackenzie.”

“I love you Violet . . . Whoever you might be today.”

“Mackenzie,” she said, and her smile filled his world. “I will always be Violet Mackenzie.”

“The best name I’ve ever heard,” Daniel said, and lost himself in her kiss.

Chapter 32

The next several months were a whirlwind. Daniel recovered, then recruited Simon to help him finish the last task he wanted to accomplish before he left France.

Daniel fairly quickly ran the red-bearded man to earth. Jacobi had given him the name Edmund Collard, who, it turned out, owned several bistros and gambling establishments in Paris. Collard also loaned money to gentlemen at high rates of return—usually to use at his roulette tables—then threatened dire fates if the men couldn’t pay him back.

Daniel had spent his convalescence learning much about Collard’s day-to-day routines, and he entered one of Collard’s bistros one night when he knew the man would be there.

Collard sat at a private table in a corner, a few gentlemen with him. His finely tailored suit, well-made gloves, and neatly trimmed beard and side whiskers made him look like any other respectable Parisian businessman. He held a thick cigar in one hand, a glass of tawny port in the other as he spoke to the gentlemen at his table.

Collard appeared to be perfectly ordinary, with the exception of his eyes, which were like cold steel.

Daniel saw those eyes turn to him as he walked to Collard’s table. Collard took in Daniel’s expensive suit and gold-headed walking stick with the air of one who could calculate worth in the space of a moment. Daniel looked like a wealthy Briton come to Paris to spend his money, which was exactly how Daniel wanted to appear.

As Collard assessed him, Daniel reached the table and leaned to him. “A word in private, if you please, Monsieur.”

Collard looked him over again. Daniel had set this up carefully, making certain Collard learned that a young, wealthy Scotsman who liked to gamble sought to borrow money from him. The young man had gotten himself into a bit of a bother, went the rumors Daniel had made sure circulated. He would put himself completely into Collard’s hands.

Collard nodded, unhurriedly laid aside his cigar, excused himself to his friends, and led Daniel through a door in the back of the restaurant. On the other side was a room full of ladies and gentlemen gathered around five roulette wheels. The clacking of the wheels, the heat of the bodies, the scent of smoke and perfume, and the groans or laughter of the players filled the space.

Daniel followed Collard through another door and into an office, where Collard offered Daniel a brandy and poured it himself. Daniel accepted the brandy, took a sip, then dashed the rest of the liquid into Collard’s face.

Collard blinked a moment in surprise, then dangerous rage flared in his eyes. He reached for a bell on his desk, but Daniel brought the walking stick down on Collard’s wrist. Collard struggled, but Daniel held his wrist firmly.

“I’ve come on behalf of a friend,” Daniel said, amazed his voice was so steady. “You knew her as Violette.”

Collard’s face remained blank. He’d never heard of her.

This was the man whose face Violet had seen as she’d lost her innocence, as well as any sense of comfort in the world. Because of him, Violet had faced pain, terror, and humiliation, followed by years of fear, confusion, and shame. Collard and Jacobi between them had robbed her of a normal marriage, a family, and any idea that life could be punctuated with moments of happiness.

And Collard couldn’t remember her name, if he’d even bothered to learn it.

Collard had ruined Violet in all ways, and Daniel wasn’t about to let him get away with that. And who knew how many other young women he’d destroyed before or since? Or would destroy in the days to come?

“I’m not going to tell you about her,” Daniel said. “Who she is and what she’s like. Because you don’t deserve to know. I’m not going to share one single second of her with you. I’ll just say that though you did your best to destroy her, she wouldn’t stay destroyed. Because she’s far stronger than you, far better than you can ever hope to be. And the fact that you don’t even know what a monster you are means I’m ending this conversation right now.”

Daniel let up on his walking stick but drew it back and swung it at Collard’s head. Collard raised his hands, snatching the stick as it came down, jerked it from Daniel’s grip, and tossed it aside.

Daniel didn’t mind. Before Collard could recover, Daniel was on him, his fists coming down on Collard’s face again and again. The man fought back, and Daniel struggled with him, his still-healing torso aching.

Daniel’s ancestors had been warriors. Old Malcolm Mackenzie had survived Culloden by cutting his way out of a pack of Englishmen who’d just slaughtered his four brothers and his father. Then he’d turned around, killed his family’s killers, and gone on a rampage of revenge.

Only a few generations stood between Daniel and Old Malcolm, who hadn’t been old at the time. Malcolm had been twenty-five when he’d cut his way to freedom, the same age Daniel was now. Tonight Malcolm lived again in Daniel, and Daniel’s bloodlust responded. Revenge was something Scotsmen knew all about.

Daniel had little memory of what he did in that room. He only saw the bearded man’s face, which quickly grew red with blood, and Collard’s eyes, which lost their anger and filled with fear and desperation. Daniel heard Collard begging for mercy. But Violet had asked for mercy too, and Collard hadn’t given it to her.

People did come; the fight wasn’t silent. Hands tried to pull Daniel back—French police, he saw dimly—but Daniel’s madness had taken over.

Ian felt this way, a part of Daniel realized. This same black rage had risen within the younger Ian when he couldn’t make himself understood—when Ian hadn’t understood himself what he was feeling. The rage had come out in violence, the only thing that could assuage it.

Even stronger hands pulled at Daniel now. Daniel thought he recognized Hart Mackenzie, but when his vision cleared a little, he realized the man was Lloyd Fellows, Hart’s half-brother and a Scotland Yard detective.

Daniel shook off Fellows and kept fighting. Collard had curled into a ball, whimpering and bloody. Daniel was bloody himself, his beautiful new jacket a mess, and he didn’t give a fuck.

“Daniel.” Fellows shook him. “You’ve got to
stop
.”

Daniel swung to him, feeling blood on his face, madness in his heart. “Why? He didn’t stop for Violet.”

Fellows’s hands clamped down on Daniel’s shoulders, and he spoke loudly and carefully. “You have to leave, Daniel. If you stay, I might have to arrest you for murder. Go. I have this.”

Daniel looked up at the uncle who’d lived the first part of his life enraged at the Mackenzies for robbing him of what he thought was his. The anger was gone from Fellows now, replaced by contentment, especially now that he’d married. But he too possessed the steely rage of the Mackenzies. The blood of Old Malcolm ran in his veins as well.

“I need to do this,” Daniel said, out of breath.

“You
have
done it. He’ll not last much longer. But you have to let me finish it.”

“Why?” This was personal.

“Because I’m a policeman,” Fellows said, his feral smile worthy of any Mackenzie. “I have friends in the Sûreté. This man is running an illegal gambling house, and I’ll wager he’ll resist his arrest.”

Daniel still didn’t want to go. His blood was hot, and his temper wasn’t mitigated.

But the logical part of Daniel knew Fellows was right. If Daniel killed the man, as low a life as he was, Daniel would be arrested and tried for murder. Fellows, on the other hand, a detective chief inspector of Scotland Yard, with many friends and connections in the Sûreté, would be lauded for bringing down a criminal.

Daniel nodded, still struggling to breathe. He ached all over, though his berserker madness barely let him acknowledge it.

“Don’t let him get away,” Daniel said.

“No,” Fellows answered. “You can trust me.”

Daniel nodded again. Even more than his uncles, even more than his father, Fellows understood. He’d battled the dark for a long time.

Daniel looked down at Collard. The man’s face and head were bleeding freely, his hands swollen and broken. He looked up at Daniel in dire fear, which made Daniel feel slightly better.

Collard then threw Fellows a look of hope and calculation, which made Daniel laugh. The man had no idea what Fellows was capable of.

Laughing hurt, though, so Daniel only gave his uncle a salute and made his way out of the room. One of the policemen guided him to a back door that led out into the night.

Simon, waiting in the little lane behind the building, got Daniel into a coach. Daniel was a mess, and he was pretty sure he’d opened up the gunshot wound again, but he didn’t care.

He didn’t want to go to Violet like this, so he went to his father instead. Violet wasn’t at the hotel in any case, it turned out—she’d gone out with Ainsley and Daniel’s aunts for shopping and supper.

Cameron came down and helped Simon and the doorman get Daniel up the back stairs to Cameron’s suite.

Daniel, spent, collapsed onto a sofa. “I did it,” he said as Cameron shoved a full glass of whiskey into his hands. “I avenged her.”

“l know you did, Son,” Cameron said, and the pride in Cameron’s eyes was all Daniel needed.

The wedding of Daniel Mackenzie and Violet Devereaux took place in May at Kilmorgan Castle. No longer a castle, Kilmorgan was a giant of a Georgian-style house, stretching itself across a green expanse before a backdrop of distant mountains.

The wedding was conducted in the ballroom. The entire house streamed with white ribbons, lily of the valley, pink and white roses, and blue forget-me-nots. Violet’s gown had a close-fitting creamy silk bodice beaded with mother-of-pearl and a smattering of real diamonds, and sleeves of fine lace. A silk skirt, decorated with more lace, flowed gracefully from her waist. She wore a veil, sheer gauze suspended from a crown of roses and forget-me-nots. The entire ensemble was stunning—Violet gazed at herself in the mirror after the Mackenzie ladies and daughters dressed her and scarcely recognized herself.

So many things had happened between her finding Daniel shot in the kitchen in Montmartre and Violet standing at the end of the crowded ballroom, guests turning expectantly as she walked in on Cameron’s arm.

They’d won the uphill race at Nice in Daniel’s newly repaired motorcar, Violet driving it to victory. They’d returned to Berkshire, where Cameron and Daniel threw themselves into training the horses, and Violet became swept up in that as well. She traveled with the family to the opening race in Newmarket and realized that this was the first of many times she’d come here with the Mackenzies. This was part of Daniel’s life, and now she was part of it too.

Then they’d gone to Kilmorgan, where Violet had stood a full minute after she stepped out of the carriage to stare at the vast house in shock. She’d learned quickly, though, that the large place warmed when filled with the entire family, ten children, and six dogs.

Daniel would not talk about how he’d injured himself again in Paris, why his hands were a skinned mess and his chest had to be restitched. Only once did Daniel mention where he’d gone to get into such a state, and that was on the train after Nice and the hill race.

“This chap with the red beard,” he’d mentioned casually as he and Violet sat alone in a first-class compartment. “You’ll never have to worry about him again. I hear he’s dead.”

“Dead.” Everything around Violet seemed to stop, despite the train rushing onward.

Daniel leaned back in the seat, as casual as ever, a glass of his favorite whiskey in his hand. “Apparently he ran illegal roulette rooms in Paris. His other crimes included usury and extortion, plus involvement in a few murders of gentlemen who couldn’t pay him back. He got himself killed while resisting arrest, I heard. I had this from my uncle Fellows, who was there.”

Daniel was lying to her. Blatantly and glibly. He was aware Violet knew he was lying, and he didn’t care.

The red-bearded man was gone. No matter how it had happened, the result was the same.

Violet wasn’t certain what she felt—relief, triumph? Nothing. Or maybe something. But she was numb.

It was over. Daniel had made certain of it, whatever he’d done. For her.

Violet kissed him softly, lifted his glass of whiskey and took a sip herself, then snuggled down onto his shoulder.