Eleanor handed Alec to him, turned swiftly, and started chivying the others into position as only Eleanor could chivy. They finally got settled, and the photographer said, “Still now. And… done.”
The portrait of the entire Mackenzie family, seventeen of them, with five dogs, was printed on a large sheet, framed, and hung in the foyer of Kilmorgan Castle.
But that was to come. Today, the children, released from the restriction of having to stand still, now ran about the garden, screaming and shouting, in a game of tag that seemed to have no rules. Mac and Daniel dodged after them to make sure no one was hurt in the fray.
The ladies served tea and talked. And talked and talked. Cameron, Ian, and Hart exchanged a glance, went inside to discard their finery, and took out their fishing poles.
As it was, Hart did not have the chance to give Eleanor her present until late that night, which was fine with him.
Eleanor, in her silk dressing gown, gave Hart a curious look as she opened the wrappings of the square box he presented her. They were in the bedchamber Eleanor had been given when she’d become Hart’s wife, which Hart had adopted as their bedchamber. No longer would he sleep in that mausoleum of a room when he could curl up cozily with Eleanor.
“Oh, Hart, it’s lovely.”
It was a small camera, so small as to fit into Eleanor’s hand. She turned it around and around, examining the lens, the leather case, and the brass fittings that would let glass plates slide across its back.
“You said you liked handheld cameras.”
“But this one is so tiny.” Eleanor smiled at it. “How very clever. I can carry it about in my pocket.”
“There is a box of dry plates in the drawer of the table behind you.”
Eleanor went to it and pulled out the box. She withdrew a plate and quickly worked out how to slide it onto the back of her little camera. “Now,” she said. “What on earth can I take a picture of?”
She smiled at Hart, her eyes sparkling. Hart unfastened his dressing gown and let it fall. “Let us think.”
Eleanor laughed. “Do hold still.”
Hart drew himself up and gave her his best portrait glare, a Mackenzie in all his dignity. Except that he wasn’t wearing a stitch.
Eleanor took photo after photo, until Hart took the camera from her. “Your turn.”
She hadn’t paid her dues yet. Eleanor had begged off any photos while she carried Alec, as much as Hart argued that he’d never seen her so beautiful. She’d only given him the look women reserved for men they thought hopeless.
After that, they’d been busy—with Alec, with the estate, with Hart working with Ian at the distillery, with the fêtes and balls Hart still hosted as duke and supporter of his party. Never mind that the party had gone down in defeat, and Gladstone had once more returned to the fold. David Fleming vowed to carry on.
“I’m not sure I can,” Eleanor said. “I’m rather shy, you know.”
Hart set down the camera, came to Eleanor, and ripped open her dressing gown. She fended him off and undid the buttons herself of the nightgown she wore beneath.
Hart stood back and waited while Eleanor came into view. Her hips had grown a little more curved since she’d had Alec, her br**sts more full. Her hair was a fall of red gold glory, her eyes sweetly blue. Freckles spread across her face and onto her forehead, and across her chest, dipping to her br**sts.
Beautiful. Hart snapped the first photograph of her from the waist up, Eleanor with her thick hair falling across one breast.
Next, Eleanor lay on the bed, rolling onto her side, coyly shielding herself with her thigh, her arm over her bare br**sts.
Nudity, not quite revealed, was even more beautiful than if she’d spread herself out for him.
Hart leaned down to kiss her. He dropped more kisses to her bare side, and then he forgot about the camera. It tumbled to the mattress while he gently lowered her onto her back, and then he climbed over her, body surrounding hers. Where he belonged. Thoughts of his past, his mistakes, his anger, and his misery, were gone. Hart looked into Eleanor’s eyes, felt her arms around him, and knew he’d found home.