Ian released her wrists to let her turn the bowl this way and that, but he remained behind her, his warmth on her back. Her bustle crushed against her legs, Ian's arm coming around her waist. He leaned to kiss her neck, the love in the kiss rippling heat through her.
Beth held the bowl up again, her fingers trembling. She needed to tell Ian of the outcome of their nights in bed this autumn, but she'd not had the chance yet. But now . . .
Beth started to turn, to lower the bowl, to hand it back to him.
Her shoe caught on the edge of the Aubusson carpet, its fringe snagging the high heel of her boot. She rocked, and Ian caught her by the elbow, but the bowl slipped from her fingers.
She lunged for it, and so did Ian, but the porcelain evaded their outstretched hands.
Beth watched in horror as the blue and white bowl fell down, down, down to the wooden floor beyond the rug, and smashed into shower of beautiful, polished bits.
Chapter Two
Beth followed the bowl down, her dark skirts spreading as she sank to her knees. "Oh, Ian." Her breath caught on a sob. "Ian, I am so, so sorry."
Ian remained fixed beside her, his polished boots an inch from her skirts. His large hand curled against the blue and green plaid of his kilt, a silent sign of his anguish.
Beth reached for the pieces, tears in her eyes. What had she done? What had she done?
She found Ian on his knees next to her, his hands gently lifting hers from the broken shards. "You'll cut yourself."
His voice was even, almost a monotone. Ian's gaze fixed on what was left of the bowl, his whiskey-colored eyes taking in every piece, as though he knew exactly where each of the bits fit together.
"We can fix it," Beth said quickly. "I'll have Curry find some glue, and we can put it back together again."
"No." Ian kept hold of Beth's hands.
"But we can try."
Ian finally looked at her, his mesmerizing gaze meeting hers for a brief instant before it slid away again. "No, my Beth. It won't be the same."
Tears slid down Beth's cheeks, and she reached again for the pieces. She would gather them up, paste the thing back together, try to find its beauty again.
A bite of pain made her jump. Ian lifted her hand and kissed a spot of blood on her thumb.
"Stay here," he said quietly.
He flowed to his feet, leather boots creaking, and walked swiftly out of the room. Beth waited, more tears coming, and she put her thumb into her mouth to stop the bleeding.
She couldn't believe she'd done this, ruined the thing Ian had wanted so much, had worked so hard to find. He'd finally won his heart's desire, and Beth had broken it.
She had to fix it. She had to. If she couldn't repair the bowl, she'd have to find another one. The Russian gentleman might have a similar bowl, or know someone who had. She'd need help--and she knew just which Mackenzie she would recruit to help her. Hart could make the world turn upside down and shake out its pockets if he truly wanted to, and Beth would explain that he truly wanted to. This was for Ian.
Ian returned, carrying a broom and a dustpan. He put out his hand to stop Beth when she tried to climb to her feet, then Lord Ian Mackenzie, youngest brother of the Duke of Kilmorgan, swept up the tiny shards of porcelain and shoved them into the dustpan.
"What the devil?" Curry ran into the room, taking in Ian then Beth on the floor. "M'lady, what happened?"
He asked Beth, because Curry knew that if Ian didn't choose to answer, he wouldn't.
"I broke the bowl," Beth said, miserable.
Ian carried the broom and dustpan to Curry. "Throw the pieces away."
"Just like that?" Curry bleated. "Throw the pieces away?"
Ian gave him an impatient look, shoved the dustpan and broom into Curry's hands, and turned for the open door.
"Where are you going?" Beth called after him.
Ian glanced back at Beth but didn't meet her gaze. "Jamie and Belle will be awake from their naps in five minutes."
Because Ian knew his son's and daughter's routines by heart, and never let anyone vary them, he would be right.
Beth didn't relax. "Tell them I'll be up soon," she said.
Ian nodded once and walked away.
Beth got to her feet, picking a minute piece of porcelain out of her skirt.
Curry stared at her, round-eyed, still holding the dustpan. "What happened?"
"I don't know. It slipped out of my hands." Beth dropped the last piece into the dustpan, her breath hurting as she spoke. "Oh, Curry, I feel so very awful."
"No, m'lady, I mean, what did 'e do?"
"He . . . fetched a broom and swept up the pieces. But I could see he was upset."
"That's all?"
"I wouldn't say that was all. He had trouble looking at me, and I know I've hurt him. He wanted that bowl so much."
Curry turned away, laid the dustpan next to the opened box, and propped the broom against the table. "'E broke another bowl once," he said in a slow voice, "about a year before 'e first clapped eyes on you. It were 'orrible, m'lady. Screaming like . . . I've never 'eard a sound like that come out of a 'uman throat. Me and Lords Mac and Cameron had to sit on 'im to keep 'im from 'urting 'isself. 'Is Grace wasn't 'ere--off politicking at the time--but 'Is Grace had to come back from wherever 'e was to calm Lord Ian down. It were days to get 'im to quiet, and none of us slept a wink."