She barely had time to take in the castle on the hill and the avenue that led between castle and palace before she had to hurry, sandy-eyed, into another train that chugged slowly northward.
At long last, many miles and countless hours since they’d left Paris, the train pulled into a small station on an empty, rolling plain. A mountain ridge rose like a wall to the north and west, cool air flowing from it even in the height of summer. Ian returned from his pacing up and down the corridor in time to hand her out of the train. The sign announced they’d arrived at Kilmorgan Halt, but other than that the platform was empty. A tiny station house crouched beyond the platform, and the station master scuttled back to it after he’d waved his flag for the train to move on.
Ian took Beth’s arm and steered her down the steps past the station house to the small drive beyond. A carriage waited there, a lush chaise with the top folded down to expose plum-colored velvet seats. The horses were well-matched bays, the buckles of the harness gleaming. The coachman, dressed in red livery with a brush in his hat, leapt from his box and tossed the reins to a boy who climbed up to take his place.
“Ye’ve arrived, then, m’lord,” the coachman said with a broad Scots burr. “M’lady.”
He opened the door and Ian boosted Beth in. She settled herself, marveling at the luxury of such a vehicle up here in the wild end of the world.
But Kilmorgan belonged to a duke, one of the most prominent dukes in Britain. In order of precedence, she’d learned from Isabella, the Duke of Kilmorgan came behind only the Duke of Norfolk and the Archbishop of Canterbury. Small wonder the coach that took them to the duke’s seat would be the most sumptuous she’d ever beheld. “I suppose Curry arranged this, too,” she said to Ian as the coachman climbed back to his box.
“We have the telegraph even in Kilmorgan,” Ian answered gravely.
Beth laughed. “You’ve made a joke, Ian Mackenzie.” He didn’t answer. They rolled through a village of whitewashed houses, an inevitable pub, and a long, low building that might be a school or a council house or both together. A stone church with a new roof and a spire stood a little way from the village with a steep path leading to it. Beyond the village, the land dipped to a wooded valley, and the carriage thudded over a bridge that crossed a rushing stream. Up into hills again, the earth undulating in green and purple waves to the sharp mountains in the background The hills were covered in mist, but the sun shone, the afternoon soft.
The carriage turned from the country road to a wide, straight lane lined with trees. Beth sat back and breathed the pure air. The pace Ian had kept since Paris exhausted her. Now, in this still place with birdsong overhead, she could at last rest.
The coachman turned through a wide gate to a lane that led to an open park. The gatehouse was small and square with a flag flapping above it—two lions and a bear on a red background. The lane sloped downward in a wide curve toward the house spread across the bottom of the hill.
Beth half rose in her seat, hands pressed to her chest.
“Oh, my dear Lord.”
The place was enormous. The building rose four stories in height, with tiny windows peeking out of round cupolas under the vast roof. Rambling wings reached left and right from the central rectangle of the house, like arms trying to encompass the entire valley. Windows glittered across the monstrosity of it, punctuated here and there by doors and balconies.
It was the largest house she’d ever seen, comparable only to the Louvre she’d just left in Paris. But this wasn’t a remote palace she’d never be invited into. This was Kilmorgan. Her new home.
The coachman pointed at the pile of house with his whip.
“Built just before the time of Bonnie Prince Charlie, m’lady. The duke then wanted no more drafty castles. Employed th’ whole village and laborers for miles around. The bloody English burned the place after Culloden, but the duke, he built it back again, and his son after. Nothin’ keeps down a Mackenzie.”
The pride in his voice was unmistakable. The lad next to him grinned. “He’s clan Mackenzie, too,” the boy said. “Takes credit for it, like he was there.”
“Shut it, lad,” the coachman growled.
Ian said nothing, only adjusted his hat over his eyes as though he meant to doze off. The restlessness that had kept him roving the trains had vanished.
Beth clutched the edges of the seat and stared, drymouthed, as they approached the house. She recognized the Palladian elements—the oval windows wreathed with stone curlicues, the arched pediments, the symmetrical placement of every window and door across the enormous facade. Later generations had added things, like the stone balustrade that encircled the marble entranceway, the modern bellpull beside the front door.
Not that Beth had to ring to get in. As Ian handed her down, the double doors opened to reveal a tall, stately butler and about twenty servants waiting in a marble-tiled hall. The servants were all Scottish, all red-haired and big-boned, and all smiled with enormous pleasure as Ian led Beth through the door.
Ian didn’t introduce her, but as one, every maidservant curtsied and every man bowed. The effect was marred by five dogs of various sizes and colors that barreled through the hall and headed straight for Ian.
Not used to dogs, Beth pulled back, but laughed as they reared up on Ian, burying him in paws and waving tails. Ian’s face relaxed, and he smiled. And, to her astonishment, he looked direcdy at them.
“How are you, my bonny lads?” he asked them, The butler ignored this, as though the canine welcome was commonplace. “M’lady.” He bowed. “If I may say, on behalf of the entire staff, we are verra pleased t’ see ye arrive.”
From the smiles that beamed at her, the staff obviously agreed with him. No one had ever been this happy to see Beth Ackerley before.
Lady Ian Mackenzie, she corrected herself. Beth had known from the first moment she met Ian Mackenzie that her life would become entangled with his. She felt the tangle grow, winding around her.
“Morag will lead ye to your rooms, m’lady,” the butler continued. He was tall and large-boned, like the rest of them, his red-blond hair going to gray. “We have a bath prepared and the bed made up so ye can rest after your long journey.” He gave Ian a bow. “Your lordship, His Grace is waiting in the lower drawing room. He asked that ye see him as soon as ye arrived” Beth had taken two steps with the beaming Morag, but she pulled up in alarm. “His Grace?”
“The Duke of Kilmorgan, m’lady,” the butler said patiently.