The McKenzie Brothers: Windemere Part 1

Windemere.

The McKenzie Brothers.

Kimberly Nee.

Dedication.

For my mother-in-law, Peg. Thank you for everything.

Prologue.

Brunswick, NJ, July 1812.

"SUCH A TRAGEDY."

"A terrible shame."

"And to lose them both that way."

"Horrible."

Emma McKenzie didn't want to stare at the two older ladies standing at the sideboard, their heads bowed together, their voices soft, but not soft enough. After each sentence, each one let out a tsk, tsk sound. What was the point in listening to them? She already knew that terrible shame, already knew what the horrible tragedy was. Not to mention, the tsking annoyed her.

Without making a sound, Mary eased up to her. "Em, Momma is looking for you."

Emma peered down at her younger sister, trying not to be irritated. After all, Mary was only nine. She couldn't help that she turned up at the most inopportune moments.

Moments such as this.

The two ladies offered sympathetic smiles as they moved down along the sideboard, filling their plates. Thankfully, neither one mentioned the terrible tragedy again.

"Emma." Mary tugged at her sleeve.

Normally, Mary was as nosy as Emma was, and for her to pull on Emma's sleeve meant whatever she wanted had to be important enough to interrupt. She gave Mary her full attention. "Why is she looking for me?"

Mary's thin shoulders lifted in a slow shrug. "I don't know. She said something about Drew. No one else seems to know where he's gotten to."

"I'm one who hasn't seen him. Not since church, anyway. But Garrett might know. He always seems to. You should go find him and ask."

Mary glanced over her shoulder toward the empty doorway. "Fine." She shrugged again and skipped through the dining room and into the parlor, deftly avoiding the gathering of somber-looking adults.

Emma watched her disappear and wished she felt like skipping. How lucky Mary was, to still feel lighthearted under such sad circ.u.mstances. Of course, she'd been pasting fake smiles on her face every time a serious-looking adult smiled indulgently at her, so perhaps Mary was pretending as well.

In the end, it hardly mattered and now Emma's ears practically twitched in search of a good conversation to listen to. Lord knows there were enough people in the house, and all of Brunswick buzzed about The Tragedy.

But she wasn't interested in The Tragedy. Too much gossip. Too much speculation. It just made her even sadder and stole the small thrills that accompanied overhearing things she oughtn't-such as Amanda Hastings scolding one of the maids about stealing kisses from one of the stable boys.

It wasn't often people gathered at Stonebridge for such a solemn occasion, and she wished they would just leave. They came for food and drink, and of course gossip. And she'd eavesdropped enough to hear the offerings of sorrow that were given, stood close enough to hear the words that were never meant to reach Julian's ears.

Julian.

She might not know where Drew was, but she'd find Julian. At least, she was fairly sure she knew where he'd be.

Emma wound past the throngs of people cluttering the dining room, and ignoring the stares of the cook and several kitchen maids, made her way out through the kitchen. There, the lawn sloped down, toward the stretch of thick woods just beyond the rough wood fence of Stonebridge's western border. Laundry was laid out to dry here, although it was bare of clothing today.

She paused at the kitchen doorway, her hand hovering at the handle. The last she'd seen Julian, he was pa.s.sing by the parlor window, and she knew where she'd find him.

At the rear of the house, just before the corner of the ballroom, a small stone wis.h.i.+ng well stood, and Emma knew the tall man leaning against the lopsided stone edifice anywhere.

She'd known Julian McCallister almost as long as her brothers. He and Garrett were closer than even Garrett and Drew. She couldn't remember a time when Julian didn't come around Stonebridge. She didn't know when it began, but lately, it seemed her heart skipped a funny beat whenever she caught sight of him.

Even now, her heart did that odd flutter as she crested the small slope to the wis.h.i.+ng well and he looked up. He was dressed in mourning black, and despite the heat, his neckcloth as fresh and crisp as it was that morning at the funeral. If the stifling weather bothered him, it didn't show. It was the steamiest July anyone could recall, but his forehead wasn't s.h.i.+ny, and the only effect the thick humidity had on him was to make his wavy, dark hair a little curlier.

"Are you hungry?" She held out the small plate of food she was in the process of fixing when Mrs. Chandler and Mrs. Morris started in the horror of The Tragedy. It wasn't much-a slice of bread, a small chunk of ham, and a small pastry-but she hadn't seen him eat anything since returning to the house.

His eyes, which normally hovered between blue and gray, now looked almost as dark as the broadcloth of his frock coat. They were red, but dry as they flicked to meet her gaze. Normally, he teased her, just as Drew and Garrett lived to tease her. But not today. Instead, he just shook his head. "Thank you, but no."

"I'll just leave it. In case you change your mind."

He dropped his gaze to his hands, which were resting against his thighs, fingers interlaced.

She stood there, s.h.i.+fting her weight from one foot to the other. The silence was uncomfortable, and yet she didn't know how to fill it. The situation didn't call for idle chatter, but the right words just wouldn't come. Everything seemed pointless today. Inane and hopeless. Perhaps saying nothing was exactly the right thing to do.

The perfume from the honeysuckle winding through the wis.h.i.+ng well's canopy tickled her nose. Papa called it a nuisance and wanted it all removed, but she wheedled him into relenting. She adored honeysuckle. It was one of the most wonderful scents of summer, almost as delicious as the delicate lilacs that bloomed in May, and it thickened as she stepped up alongside Julian to set the plate on the uneven stone.

Taking a deep breath, she carefully hoisted herself onto the well's lip. The blocks were wide enough that she still fit on them, although it wouldn't be long before that became a thing of the past. The stone's rough edge caught at her skirts, and she winced as she s.h.i.+fted and the fabric sc.r.a.ped. "What are you going to do now?"

He shook his head, not looking up. "I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."

"Did Garrett tell you that you're welcome to pa.s.s the night here?"

"He did, but I doubt I will. I have things waiting for me at Cheltenham. Papers to sign. Belongings to-" His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Things to do."

"I can help."

He smiled, but only at the corners of his lips. "Shouldn't you be off giggling with your friends?"

"I can do that later." She leaned into him, b.u.mping his upper arm with hers. "I'd rather stay here if you need me."

He glanced down. "You shouldn't be here without one of your brothers."

"Why?" She c.o.c.ked her head to the right. "Am I in danger being alone with you?"

His laugh was a rough bark, bitter at its edges. "Hardly."

He was eighteen, a year younger than Garrett and one older than Drew, which made him almost six years older than she, but over the past few days, he'd aged. As her hand skimmed over the firm curve of his upper arm, she wished more than ever that she was older, that he would see her as something more than the younger sister of his best friend.

The sun slanted through the leafy canopy of oak and maple trees, splas.h.i.+ng gold over his thick dark hair and across his broad shoulders. He glanced up, and in that moment, he looked so lost, so forlorn, that her heart broke with the need to comfort him. There had to be something, some way, to ease his pain and sorrow. She slipped her arm beneath his and she squeezed.

His arm stiffened beneath her touch. Fabric rubbed stone as he s.h.i.+fted to pull free. "You should go back, Emma. Your mother is going to send Mary looking for you if you're not careful."

"Probably. Mary is usually good at ferreting out people. But even so, I don't want to go back." She hopped down from the well to move in front of him as he stepped away from the well. "Wait, where are you going?"

"I need to return to Cheltenham. I bought a s.h.i.+p yesterday. As soon as I'm able, I'm offering my services to the navy."

"No!" President Madison had asked for a declaration of war on England only a few weeks earlier. She only knew this because her father's s.h.i.+pping company, Eagleton, felt the direct effects of the troubles between the United States and England.

And now Julian wanted to leave? What if something happened to him? What if he was killed? It made her belly hurt to think about it.

"You're leaving?"

"There's no reason for me to stay."

"I want you to stay." Her voice cracked. She wanted to clear her throat, to make sure that didn't happen again, but she couldn't. Her throat was far too tight, and if she tried to clear it, the inside would split right down the middle.

He paused, staring down at her as if she'd lost her mind. Well, maybe she had, but she didn't care.

She squared her shoulders as she faced him. The words were out and she wouldn't take them back. Her hands twitched, so she shoved them into her voluminous skirts to steady them.

A dullish brick flush rose along his high cheekbones. "I have to go. Thank your mother and father for me."

Panic darted through her as he stepped around her. She couldn't let him leave, not without at least telling him how she felt. Perhaps then he'd change his mind. "Julian, please." She held up both hands to brace against his belly. "Please don't go. Something could happen to you."

"Emma-"

"Please don't go." She sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes. Before she lost her nerve, she blurted, "I-I love you."

The words hung between them, like a silvery thread of spider's silk, floating on the thick air for only a moment before being swept away by the breeze.

But then Julian did something she never thought him capable of.

He laughed.

She winced, but again, the words were out there and she was not taking them back, either. Julian could stare all he wanted.

And he did. Maybe in disbelief. Maybe because he thought she'd lost her mind. And perhaps she had, but she had to tell him.

"That made my day, Emma," he said, bringing his hand to rest atop her head. A quick pat and when he stepped around her again, she didn't try to stop him. "I thank you. Especially today."

"But-" The protest died on her lips, and she twisted about as he walked away. Then the heat swept through her, all the way from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. She'd made such a fool of herself. He thought she was amusing. A pesky little sister, just as Drew and Garrett saw her.

Just like that, he was gone.

Chapter One.

December 1821.

EMMA MCKENZIE DREW THE BACK of one wrist over her forehead. "Please hurry, Rose. I'm going to faint if I have to stay in here much longer."

"I'm almost finished." Rose pawed through bolts of lace, looking more excited about lace than one really should look. "I want to get this before Darcy does."

It was stifling inside Scotch's, enough that she'd s.n.a.t.c.hed her bonnet from her head, crumpling it in her fist. A stubborn lock of hair refused to remain pinned in place and each time Emma tucked it back, it slipped from behind her ear to dangle before her eyes. She blew out a hard sigh to send it fluttering up then shoved it back behind her ear. "I'm going outside. I'm going to melt if I don't."

Of course, she couldn't go outside with a bare head, so she jammed the bonnet back onto her head and tied the ribbons as she brushed by several older ladies to get out into the fresh air. Snow swirled through the air. Nearly an inch had already whitened the streets, but she didn't mind the chill. It was a nice change from the emporium, where Betsy Stonewall had every fireplace roaring. Today she had cranberries simmering over most of the fires, which meant the air was more cloying than normal, and that didn't help.

Crisp air slid over her as she closed her eyes and leaned against the railing on the far side of the walkway, fanning herself.

"Good morning, Miss McKenzie. A bit chilly to be lingering outdoors, don't you think?"

The voice came from behind her, low and smooth, like finely polished leather, and she would know it anywhere for, to this day, it sent a ripple of chills along her spine, just as it had when she was twelve.

The chill faded, her heart skipped the same beat it always skipped when she saw him after a long absence, and she turned to smile at Julian. "Good morning to you, Mr. McCallister. You're out early this morning."

"As are you." He stepped up from the cobbled road onto the covered porch of Scotch's Emporium. Snow dusted his shoulders, clung to the heavy dark gray wool, and his cheeks were ruddy from the cold. Several ladies pa.s.sing by offered up appraising glances as they smiled at him and hurried by, but he didn't seem to notice. "What brings you out this early?"

"Lace, of all things." She stretched, then flexed, her fingers. Her gloves were fur-lined and soft against her skin. The snow fell harder, and she spotted Joseph, the driver, slipping on the far side of the street as he approached the McKenzie carriage. "I didn't even know you were back in Brunswick."

"I only arrived yesterday morning, but I'm readying the Amelia for a trip to Boston."

"Boston? But you just got here."

He brushed snow from his right shoulder. "I know, but it can't wait much longer. Although-" he squinted up at the snow "-I'm not going anywhere if this doesn't stop."

"When are you planning to go?"

"If the weather holds, with tomorrow's evening tide."

She peered over her right shoulder into the distance where, on the hillside, a handsome red-brick manor house rose up from the swirl of white. Even at a distance, the house looked lonely and neglected. She s.h.i.+vered and brought her attention back to him. "Do you ever go home?"

"To Cheltenham? No." His expression darkened as he followed her line of sight with his own. His jaw tightened and that tightness seemed to cord through his entire body. "I prefer my house. It's still half-empty, but as far as I'm concerned, it's home."

His house was a small white clapboard on Witherspoon, a far cry from the sprawling brick mansion where he was raised. "Do you ever go up there at all?"