The Seduction of Elliot McBride

  Juliana’s throat was raw, and she realized it was from her own cries. She pushed herself back into him, wanting him, and she heard herself begging him. “Please, please, please!”

  Elliot went faster and faster, until Juliana thought she would die. He had to stop…She hoped he never stopped.

  Their bodies were slick with sweat by the time Elliot’s sounds became groans. The bed creaked, Elliot’s body hard against hers, and Juliana breathed in long, shuddering gasps.

  Nothing genteel or soft and slow about this lovemaking. This was raw, brutal passion.

  “God, Juliana.” Elliot’s last thrust pressed inside her while her body squeezed back into his. He trailed off into beautiful, musical words she didn’t understand.

  Then he shuddered once, hard.

  Juliana collapsed to the bed, her knees burning. Elliot withdrew from her and fell beside her, drawing her back against him with shaking hands.

  He gathered her hair from her flushed face and kissed her cheek. She felt his pounding heart against her back, and his limbs, tangling hers, were hot.

  The breeze from the window brushed their bodies, the sounds of the fête drifting to them.

  Juliana drowsed, the brief lovemaking leaving her exhausted. Nothing had ever wound her up so intensely then released her so fast.

  “What were you saying?” she asked. “The words?” He’d used the same language when he’d thrown phrases at Mrs. Dalrymple.

  Elliot’s voice went into mock broad Scots. “Och, lassie, do ye nae ken the language of your ancestors? ’Tis Gaelic.”

  “Is it?” She’d only ever been taught English, had been sent to an English school, and had been thrown together with people who wouldn’t dream of speaking anything but English, the language of money and success.

  “Aye. ’Tis.”

  Juliana traced his arm where it lay across his stomach, touching the tattoo. “How do you know it?”

  “I know many languages. Gaelic, French, German, Urdu, Hindi, Punjabi. I never knew what I’d need to be speaking.”

  “What were you saying to me?”

  Elliot kissed her temple, his lips warm and quiet with the intimacy of afterglow. “That ye were beautiful. And warmed me like nothing I’d ever felt. An toir thu dhomh pòg?”

  Juliana smiled. “What does that mean?”

  “Will ye kiss me?”

  Her smile widened. “Yes.”

  She turned on the pillow, liking how his eyes were half closed and relaxed, like an animal in repose. Elliot kissed her softly, his lips parted, again with the warm intimacy.

  “Tha gaol agam ort,” he whispered.

  She traced his cheek. “What is that one?”

  Elliot closed his callused hand over hers, bringing her fingers to his lips. “Someday, I’ll tell you,” he said.

  The midsummer ball went well until Mr. McGregor insisted he do a sword dance.

  Juliana’s guests had come from as far away as Edinburgh, including the rest of the Mackenzie clan and Gemma, even the formidable Duke of Kilmorgan and his recent bride, Lady Eleanor. They were not all staying in the house, as only a few guest rooms were yet habitable, but McPherson had volunteered to put up most of them in his giant castle.

  The ball was a full Highland party, with all the Scotsmen in great kilts. Pipers and fiddlers had come from Highforth and the next village; village men and women had volunteered to help Mahindar and his family with cooking and replenishing food and drink; and many of them joined in the dancing outside on the lawn in the long twilight.

  Elliot looked much better when he at last came down. He’d donned his great kilt, the swath of plaid looped over his shoulder. Unlike the Mackenzie brothers, he wore no coat, and looked like a Highland barbarian of old.

  The guests poured in, anxious to greet the McBrides, welcoming Elliot as part of McGregor’s family. It didn’t take long for the dancing to begin.

  What always made Juliana’s heart swell about true Highland gatherings was that no one needed to be prodded to dance and have a good time. Partners were seized, circles formed, and dancing began.

  As the newly married couple, Juliana and Elliot led the first reel. Juliana had only danced with Elliot once, at her debut in Edinburgh, where they’d done a stately waltz to the strains of Strauss. Now Elliot showed his true grace. He moved through the steps of the reel without missing a one, spinning Juliana and handing her off, and picking her up again without losing a measure.

  The guests laughed and clapped, dancing around them. Daniel Mackenzie was the most enthusiastic, his youth letting him jump higher and swing ladies harder than his uncles, who were more absorbed in their wives. Only Ian Mackenzie didn’t dance, preferring to sit with his wife and his children or hold his son’s little hands when the boy wanted to dance to the music.

  Mac Mackenzie joined his nephew Daniel in exuberance, his wife, Isabella, laughing at him, her color high and eyes sparkling. The duke, Hart, was quieter, but the look he gave Eleanor was so loving that Juliana’s eyes moistened.

  She wanted to have with Elliot what the Mackenzie brothers and their wives had. They had full trust, confidence, love. They enjoyed being together and watching each other. Yet, they didn’t lose anything in each other, each of them having their own wants, their own enjoyments. But together, each couple seemed to be stronger than the sum of their parts.

  Maybe, in time, she and Elliot could find that too.

  The ballroom, still a bit barren with no drapes on the windows or pictures on the walls, resounded with energy. Music filled it with a wall of sound, the dancers’ laughter resonating over it. McPherson danced with all the ladies, matching Daniel for enthusiasm.

  McGregor, well gone in whiskey, shouted, “Bring the swords!”

  Hamish fetched them from who knew where, a traditional claymore and scabbard he set in a perfect cross in the cleared corner of the ballroom. Elliot broke from his two brothers and Gemma to move across the room to it. Before he could reach it, McGregor motioned for the pipers to play.

  He started off well enough. Mr. McGregor knew the steps, if he couldn’t bounce very high, and touched his feet quickly and surely into the squares formed by the crossed blade and scabbard. But then the fiddlers sped up and the pipers followed suit, playing faster then faster.

  McGregor roared as he tried to keep up, stamping to either side of the blade, jumping higher, the ribbon in his Scottish bonnet flapping. The guests applauded their approval.

  Then his foot came down wrong, the sword skittered, McGregor’s legs split, and he fell flat on his back with a grunt.

  Juliana ran to him, but Elliot was there in front of her. McGregor allowed himself to be helped to his feet, then he threw Elliot off. “Leave me be, nephew. I’m fine.”

  But he did let Juliana lead him out of the ballroom, and when he reached the hallway, he began to limp. “Bloody sword. In my day, they were made so they didn’t move.”

  Komal appeared out of the shadows to grab McGregor’s other arm. She started scolding right away in both Punjabi and the few words she’d learned in English.

  Juliana relinquished him. McGregor didn’t seem to mind so much to lean on Komal while she led him down the hall toward the kitchen.

  Juliana returned to Elliot, who watched from the doorway, and he put his arm around her to draw her back into the light and chaos of the room.

  Debate had started about who should next attempt the sword dance. “Elliot,” his older brother Patrick’s voice rose. “You used to do it, and do it well.”

  “A dozen years ago,” Elliot shot back, but the crowd took up the cause.

  “Go to, McBride!” Mac Mackenzie shouted, and Daniel echoed him. Applause and yells urged him on.

  “All right.” Elliot held out his hands, motioning them to stop. “Play it slowly,” he said to the piper.

  The piper blew into the bag, filling the room with sound. When the musicians were ready, Elliot bowed, then he started.

  He hadn’t done this dance in years,
but it came back to him. He leapt left, then right, his arm coming up for balance. Around the four sides of the sword and scabbard, outside the cross at first, left then right, his leaps high, kilt moving. Then inside the cross, toe and heel, flat foot stamp and toe. In and out, front and back, left and right.

  The guests clapped along, and the men shouted encouragement. Elliot let himself rest on the cushion of music as his feet did the work.

  The mind was a strange place. He hadn’t done this in years, and yet, it all came back, steps learned long ago as a careless youth. His whole past was there, waiting for him to find it again.

  The piper and the fiddler sped up. Elliot sped up too, to more applause and cheers.

  Then the piper sped again. Elliot shouted, and he danced back from the swords, laughing and panting. “Enough!”

  Juliana caught him as he backed away—what a fine feeling to yield to the softness of her. Daniel was pressed forward, told to show them what he could do.

  Daniel made his bow, winked at the ladies, and proceeded. He began the dance as Elliot had, first outside the cross, then in between the blade and scabbard, his feet flashing back and forth. When the music sped up, so did Daniel, and Elliot joined the crowd in urging him on.

  “Daniel does well,” Juliana said into Elliot’s ear as the piper played as fast as he could, and Daniel’s feet moved precisely in the complicated jig.

  “He’s eighteen,” Elliot said. “I’m thirty.”

  “Well, you did your best.”

  Elliot looked down at her sly smile and sparkling eyes and kissed her. The guests whooped. At the same time, Daniel finished the dance, bowed, and flashed his grin at every young lady in the room.

  Juliana touched Elliot’s arm. “He’s going to break hearts. As you did.”

  “There was only ever one lass for me,” Elliot said. He kissed the corner of her mouth, and the guests, watching avidly, cheered again.

  Elliot thought about what he’d said again much later in the night, when the guests had returned to McPherson’s or the village, and even Mahindar had been persuaded to bed.

  Juliana smiled sleepily at him as Elliot made love to her, his need so great. The erotic feeling of her around him sent all other thought away. Nothing existed but the pleasure, her tightness, the scent of her, the heat of their bodies together.

  Only ever one lass for me, he whispered to himself when he slid out of her and collapsed beside her, snuggling into her to sleep.

  Elliot had met only one other woman as resilient as Juliana—his sister, Ainsley—and even Ainsley thought Elliot ought to be locked into a quiet room and fed gruel. Juliana had faced everything Elliot had thrown at her with head up and no complaints, taking it all in stride. She was strong, beautiful, and his. He slept.

  Somewhere before the dawn, Elliot woke again. The night was still, the frogs silent, the room dark.

  Elliot lay on top of the covers, Juliana now spooned back into him. Her warmth was all he needed in the summer night.

  She was light. And life. He’d had a long climb and had a way to go still. But when he was wrapped in Juliana, all darkness vanished, unable to prevail.

  He’d sent Stacy out into that darkness.

  Rage answered. He left me to endure torture and fear and starvation. And he brought danger to Juliana. Stacy deserved whatever fate he found.

  Elliot had taught the man, befriended him, grieved with him when he grieved. Stacy was never the same after his wife fell ill and died. Illness could come so fast in India, then infection, and swiftly, death.

  Elliot remembered the night Stacy’s wife had drawn her last breath, how Stacy, only a lad of twenty-three, had held on to Elliot and wept.

  Stacy’s grief had turned to rage, but he didn’t have an enemy he could see to fight. Elliot had taught him how to turn his anger into honing his skills. He’d taught Stacy how to make the plantation work, which would have made young Mrs. Stacy proud.

  So many nights they’d spent in quiet friendship, getting drunk on whatever fermented beverage they could get their hands on, or simply sitting on the veranda in the dark. They’d talk, or they’d be silent, either one companionable. They were friends who knew what each other thought even before they’d said it.

  And then Jaya came and changed everything.

  She hadn’t meant to, Elliot knew now. But he and Stacy had been young, stupid, and arrogant, and they’d let her.

  Now Stacy was out in the night, followed by people wanting to kill him.

  Elliot let out a long breath. “Och, damn it,” he whispered. He rose from the bed and began to dress.

  Chapter 26

  Elliot pulled on his boots in the hallway then walked softly down to the end of the hall and tapped on a door.

  Fellows opened it almost at once, looking as though he hadn’t been asleep at all, in spite of the dressing gown he wore.

  “Come on a manhunt with me, Inspector?” Elliot asked.

  Fellows nodded in silence, closed the door, and was out again, dressed, before Elliot had returned from the kitchens with his Winchester. The two men left quietly through the back door, Elliot moving the gate carefully so it didn’t squeak.

  Once they were down the path, toward the roar of the river, Fellows finally spoke. “Who are we looking for?”

  “Stacy. And hired killers who want him dead.”

  “When we don’t have to be quiet, you’re going to explain to me why you know that and I didn’t.”

  “Stacy himself told me,” Elliot said. “Before I sent him to his death.”

  Fellows shot him a look out of canny hazel eyes but said nothing. They fell into step, Elliot leading the way along the river that led them to the house of Mrs. Rossmoran.

  A light in the window of the cottage told Elliot that Mrs. Rossmoran or her granddaughter was awake. Mrs. Rossmoran wouldn’t waste candles or kerosene on a sleeping house.

  Elliot knocked on the door, not too loudly, in case the elderly woman would become alarmed. Hamish opened the door, his face like thunder.

  “What de ye mean by it?” Hamish asked with a growl. “Sending that man here.”

  “He was here then?” Elliot looked around the small cottage, Fiona standing uncertainly in the kitchen, Mrs. Rossmoran sitting near the cold fireplace with a sharp expression.

  “He was,” Mrs. Rossmoran said. “I ken ye mean my lodger. Aye, he was here, but no more.”

  Elliot had thought as much when he’d logically run through the places Stacy could have hidden himself without starving. Poaching or hunting left a sign, and he’d not found a trace.

  Elliot handed Fellows his rifle and sat next to Mrs. Rossmoran. “Why didn’t you tell me he was here?”

  “Ye never asked. And he begged me not to tell ye. He was worried you’d kill him or have him arrested. That’s why he’s run off. He seemed a kind man. And you, Elliot McBride, are a bit touched.”

  “That is true.” Elliot shared a look with Fellows. “Mrs. Rossmoran, I want you and Fiona to come up to McGregor Castle. You’ll be safer there.”

  “No, indeed, young man. McGregor and I never saw eye to eye. His wife was my sister, you know.”

  Elliot hadn’t known that. “McPherson’s then. Stacy is in great danger, and I don’t want the people after him to come upon you.”

  Mrs. Rossmoran planted her cane. “This is my home. If people come here while I’m out, they might harm the place. It’s all I have.”

  Fiona watched worriedly from the kitchen. “Please, Gran.”

  “Hamish will send stout men to protect it while you’re away.” Elliot took her worn hand in his. “Please. I need you to be safe.”

  Mrs. Rossmoran watched him with shrewd blue eyes. “All right, lad. I’ll go to McPherson’s. But any man ye put in here to watch my house had better keep his hands out of the sugar barrel. Sugar doesn’t grow out of the ground, you know.”

  “Actually, Great-auntie…” Hamish began.

  Mrs. Rossmoran waved her cane at him. “Stop st
anding there with your mouth open and help me up. Bring all my shawls, Fiona. I don’t trust McPherson to have enough bedcovers to suit me.”

  Elliot waited outside to see them on their way while Fellows scouted around the house. When Hamish came out, Elliot caught him by the shoulder.

  “I know why your great-aunt said nothing. She does as she pleases. Why did you?”

  “I didn’t know.” Hamish glared back at the house, his anger so apparent that Elliot believed him. “I’d have told you, right away. My great-auntie can be powerful stubborn.”

  Elliot had no doubt. Inspector Fellows returned, saying he hadn’t found anything unusual near the house—no sign of hunters or intruders. They sent Hamish and his little party to McPherson’s and went off into the woods.

  Juliana awoke early in the morning to find herself alone. She wasn’t alarmed—Elliot often rose before she did to begin working with the men on the house.

  She went through her ablutions and descended the stairs. The massive chandelier still hung in place. They’d tried to fix the mechanism to lower it to replace the candles, but it was frozen with rust. Juliana had decided that hurrying it for the ball might end in disaster, so she had a man up on a ladder each day, cleaning and oiling what he could.

  As she reached the lower hall, she heard a knocking on the front door.

  A lady never answered the door of her own house. The footman did it, or a housemaid if a footman was not available.

  But neither Hamish nor Mahindar was anywhere in sight. The ladies of Mahindar’s family were not allowed to answer, according to Mahindar, because letting them do so would mean Mahindar hadn’t protected them from intruders.

  Juliana ventured to the door, waving formality away. One could not stand on ceremony when one had no servants available. The visitor might simply be one of the guests returning from McPherson’s.

  Before she reached the vestibule, however, Mahindar hurried forward in a rush of cloth and soft footsteps. “Memsahib,” he said in horror. “No. Let me.”