A Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift(21)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Daniel shrugged, not offended. "Fair enough. After Christmas then."

"And learn to fight better," Cameron said. Daniel made friends, yes, but he also tended to defend those who couldn’t defend themselves and sometimes got beaten for his troubles. "Here, look."

He faced Bellamy, fists raised. Boxing within the rules was all very well, but street fighting was another matter. At Daniel’s age, Cameron had been a formidable bare-fist fighter.

Bellamy, always the professional, raised his hands and defended. "You keep your fists up, not down," Cameron said. "That way when you punch, your arm twists with the forward thrust, giving it that much more momentum."

He brought his fist forward in slow motion, straight at Bellamy’s jaw. Bellamy blocked with his arm, swinging his own fist straight upward, under Cameron’s reach.

"And that," Cameron said, dancing back out of the way, "is why defensive moves are sometimes better than offensive. You watch what your opponent does, find his weakness, and then strike."

Cameron spun away from Bellamy’s hit, came back, and jabbed his fist behind Bellamy’s ear. Bellamy, the experienced fighter, blocked that too, but only just.

Daniel watched, a grin on his face. "I’ll think on that, and have Bellamy give me more lessons. But I’ve had a spectacular idea just now."

Daniel’s spectacular ideas sometimes left them all breathless, or furniture broken. "What?" Beth asked, sounding worried. Wise woman.

"A boxing match," Daniel said. "Between Dad and Bellamy. You know, for Boxing Day."

Beth laughed. "Danny, it’s not called Boxing Day because of boxing."

"I know that. But it would be a good pun. How about it, Bellamy? Everyone would be allowed to watch–guests, servants, guests of servants. You and Dad could show how a match is really done."

Color stained Bellamy’s cheeks, but he didn’t answer. He wanted to, Cameron could see that. Bellamy had once been celebrated throughout Britain then chucked out by his trainer when the trainer saw no more use for him. In his last fight, Bellamy was supposed to have taken a fall, thus gaining his trainer and cronies much money, but Bellamy had wanted to go out winning. He had won the bout, to the joy of Bellamy’s followers.

The trainer, on the other hand, furious and in debt to dangerous men, had Bellamy followed home and beaten. They’d have beaten him to death had not Mac and Cameron, who’d been at the match, come upon the fight.

They had sent off the thugs, then Mac had taken Bellamy home and sent for a surgeon to patch him up. Because Bellamy had nowhere to go, and no job any longer, Mac hired him. Bellamy had paid Mac back for that kindness with his loyalty ever since.

Ainsley would like it if Cameron let Bellamy, a reserved and somewhat shy man, shine in front of the others. Ainsley rewarded kindness with a smile, a delighted kiss, a nibble on the ear . . .

"Aye, it might be a treat for all," Cameron said. Cameron could win still more praise from Ainsley if he let Bellamy triumph. Bellamy had become smitten, Curry had said, with the maid called Esme, who’d come to the door looking for charity, and had been hired on by Mrs. Desmond and Isabella to help with the frantic preparations for Christmas. Bellamy would welcome a chance to show off in front of her, and Ainsley would enjoy the fact that Cameron had played matchmaker.

And perhaps Ainsley would retreat from her terrible worry about Gavina, who was, at the moment, tugging Daniel’s hair and laughing. Daniel, in spite of his tendency toward trouble, had turned out rather well. Between the three of them, Gavina should be all right.

"Your Uncle Hart might not approve, you know," Beth was saying. "It is his house after all, Danny."

"Oh, that’s no trouble." Daniel grinned and waved away his formidable Uncle Hart. "He’s busy looking after Aunt Eleanor, and I wasn’t going to bother mentioning it to him."

*** *** ***

"You’d love it here, Maggie," Sinclair McBride said under his breath. He gazed out of the vast, empty library to the vast, empty garden, dusted now with snow, glittering like diamonds under a brief visit from the sun. "Such beauty. And quiet."

Maggie, whom he’d called Daisy in intimate moments, had been gone from him five years now. And still the pain was as sharp as on the day she’d died.

Outwardly, the Scots Machine rolled on–Basher McBride–the criminals called him. Cool, sticking to facts, proving beyond a doubt that the man or woman in the dock had committed the abominable murder, rape, or battering and deserved to be punished. Juries warmed to him, the family man who wanted to protect his children and theirs from harm.

Not that Sinclair couldn’t be kind. A first-time young thief who’d stolen an apple to feed his mother would win the Basher’s compassion, and he’d argue for leniency. The juries liked that too, even if the judges did not.

Inwardly, Sinclair ached. His heart had stopped beating when Maggie’s had, and he wasn’t certain it had ever started again.

She’d have loved the gigantic Mackenzie house, with its horde of splendid rooms and spread of grounds, all made beautiful for Christmas. Maggie had loved Christmas. These days, the only interest in the holiday Sinclair could muster was to slip a chunk of money to his valet and instruct the man to buy all the toys Andrew and Catriona could want.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. McBride."

Sinclair turned reluctantly from the window at Nanny Westlock’s interruption. He saw the look on her face and held up his hand to forestall her words. "What have they done now?"

"Started a fire. On a bed. They might have taken down the entire nursery."

Sinclair smothered a sigh. Andrew, no doubt. Catriona would have watched the mayhem with her usual quiet detachment. Andrew wouldn’t have meant to start the fire. He wasn’t an evil lad, just mischievous, reckless, and too curious for his own good.

"My apologies, Miss Westlock. I’ll speak to Andrew."

"I have already dealt with the matter, sir." By the pinching of her lips, Andrew must have fought long and hard against being dealt with. "But I must recommend that these children be taken in hand."

Well, of course. And if Sinclair had been capable of taking them in hand, he already would have. "Again, I apologize for Andrew’s behavior," Sinclair said. "My wife took care of these things, you see."

Maggie, with her laughter, the Irish lilt to her voice–every "T" a precise stop with her lovely tongue behind her teeth, had been able to do anything with her children. She’d been so beautiful, black Irish, she was called, with dark hair and dark lashes framing deep blue eyes. Catriona had her coloring, while Andrew was pure blond Scots, like his father.