The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie (Mackenzies & McBrides, #1)

by Jennifer Ashley

Beth looked past Mather at the tall man who’d entered the box behind him, and her entire world stopped. Lord Ian was a big man, his body solid muscle, the hand that reached to hers huge in a kid leather glove. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad, and the dim light touched his dark hair with red. His face was as hard as his body, but his eyes set Ian Mackenzie apart from every other person Beth had ever met.

I do not think of him as Lord Ian Mackenzie, aristocratic brother of a duke and well beyond my reach; not as the Mad Mackenzie, an eccentric people stare at and whisper about. To me, he is simply Ian.

“When I was first released from the asylum I wouldn’t speak for three months.” He heard her stop behind him. “Oh.” “I hadn’t forgotten how—I simply didn’t want to. I didn’t know it distressed my brothers until they told me. I can’t read hints from others. A person has to tell me a thing plainly.” She gave him a shaky smile. “Which is why you don’t laugh at my little jokes. I thought I’d lost my knack for it.” “I learn what to do by watching others, like applauding at the opera when the rest of the audience starts. It’s like learning a foreign language. And I can’t follow a conversation when I’m with a crowd.”

“My dear Ian, then we are birds of a feather. Mrs. Barrington had to teach me how to behave in society from the ground up, and I still don’t understand all the rules. For instance, do you know it is considered vulgar to eat ices with a spoon? One must use a fork, which seems rather ridiculous. The most difficult is to leave a few morsels of food on the plate, so as not to seem overzealous in eating. I had so many hungry days in my youth that I consider this beyond perplexing.”

He would soon arrange it so he never had to leave. He’d marry her for a very basic reason: to have her with him every night, every day, every afternoon, and every time in between. He walked down the boulevard, something in him awakening and breaking free.

“Ian, you are so bad for me,” she said. He gave her a half smile. “I’m the Mad Mackenzie.” Beth pressed his face between her hands, anger suddenly rising. “That is other people’s explanation, because they don’t understand you.” He looked away. “You always try to be kind to me.” “It isn’t kind. It’s the truth.” “Shh.” Ian kissed her. “Too many words.”

“He’s used to me disappearing. I always turn up again. He knows that.” Beth studied him. “Why do you disappear?” “Sometimes it gets too much for me. Trying to follow what people say, trying to remember what I’m supposed to do so people will think I’m normal. Sometimes the rules are too hard. So I go.”

“We don’t fit in, you and me,” he said. “We’re both oddities no one knows what to do with. But we fit together.” He took her hand, pressed her palm to his, then laced their fingers through each other’s. “We fit.” He was saying, We are adrift and no one wants us, not the real us. We might as well drift together.

“Your being with me makes it stop. It’s like the Ming bowls—when I touch them and feel them, everything stops. Nothing matters. You are the same. That is why I brought you here, to keep you with me, where you can please make . . . everything . . . stop.”

“Is this what love feels like?” he whispered to her. “I don’t like it, my Beth. It hurts too much.”

His is a typical case of haughty resentment which is festering his brain. Notice how he avoids your eyes, which shows declined trust and lack of truthfulness. Note how his attention wanders when he is spoken to, how he interrupts with an inappropriate comment or question that has nothing to do with the topic at hand. This is arrogance taken to the point of hysteria—the patient can no longer connect with people he deems beneath him. Treatment: austere surroundings, cold baths, exercise, electric shock to stimulate healing. Regular beatings to suppress his rages. The treatment is effective, gentlemen. He has calmed considerably since he first came to me.

The arrogance of his class coupled with his resentment toward his family has created a blockage in his brain, Dr. Edwards would explain to his enthusiastic audiences. He can read and remember but not understand. He also shows no interest in his father, never asks after him or writes to him even when it is suggested to him. He also makes no sign that he misses his dear, departed mother. Dr. Edwards never saw the boy Ian sob into his pillow at night, alone, afraid, hating the dark.

“All of us are mad in some way,” Ian said. “I have a memory that won’t let go of details. Hart is obsessed with politics and money. Cameron is a genius with horses, and Mac paints like a god. You find out details on your cases that others miss. You are obsessed with justice and getting everything you think is coming to you. We all have our madness. Mine is just the most obvious.”