Mahindar kept slopping the sponge, which was at least two feet wide, all over Elliot’s body. Elliot gleamed, wet, his arms glistening with water that pattered to the floor, the tattoo stark on his skin.
He grabbed the sponge from Mahindar. “Enough. Get Priti upstairs and dry.”
Mahindar relinquished the sponge with a sigh, as though realizing the limit to which Elliot would put up with his ministrations. Elliot scrubbed himself over, sloshing water onto his face and torso.
His kilt was drenched, and so were his bare legs, his boots left outside the back door. He snatched up a towel and rubbed his hair vigorously as he started out of the laundry room.
Juliana flattened herself against the wall in the passage between laundry room and kitchen as Elliot strode out, wearing only his kilt. He halted when he saw her, and he stepped close to her, his gray eyes glittering in the dim light of the hall.
Despite the toweling, Elliot was still wet, water beading on his lashes and dripping from the ends of his short hair. He said nothing, only leaned closer, closer. Now Juliana’s bodice was wet, the front of her skirt smudged with mud from his kilt.
His breath heated her lips, and his hands, one still holding the towel, went to either side of her. His gaze swept downward, then he skimmed his lips from her forehead to her chin.
The light touches sent warm shudders through Juliana’s body, heat curling in her belly. She wanted to latch on to him and pull him close, despite her still-spinning thoughts, and rise to him for more of his kisses.
“Did you have a nice walk?” she babbled. “You and Priti? Besides falling into the river, I mean?”
Elliot didn’t answer. He skimmed kisses down her face once more then came to her lips, parting them with his. Juliana’s head went back to the wall, and Elliot slanted his mouth over hers, his heat and his body covering her.
He licked slowly into her mouth, coaxing her tongue over his in return. She tasted the water on his lips, the salt of his sweat, the excitement of him. The length of his hardness, firm through the wool of his kilt, unashamedly pressed her skirts.
Elliot eased the kiss to its close then touched his lips to the corner of her mouth and the tiny dimple there. Still saying nothing, he straightened up, hooked the towel around his neck, and walked away.
Juliana’s heart pounded, the heat between her legs incandescent. She clutched the wall, the only thing supporting her, while she watched his kilt swing against his bare legs as he strode back through the passage to the main house.
Juliana was still standing there when Channan came to her with a stiff brush, to clean the water and mud from the front of her frock.
Elliot came downstairs again fifteen minutes later, dry and fit, feeling better than he had in a long while. He’d put on one of his formal kilts and a jacket, and had jerked a comb through his damp hair.
Juliana emerged from a room below, every sleek hair in place, her gown none the worse for wear after his impromptu kiss. Stopping to taste her while she’d stood against the wall in the kitchen passage had been impossible to resist.
Elliot reached the bottom of the staircase and held his hand out to her. Juliana looked a bit strained about the eyes as she took it, her face too pale.
Next time Elliot went for a walk, he’d take her with him. Juliana would love the beauty here, and there was so much of it to show her. And if he had to struggle up a riverbank again, he couldn’t think of more enjoyment than getting muddy with her.
As Elliot started with Juliana toward the dining room, Hamish came barreling out of the kitchens. Something that looked like a dead bird dangled from under his arm, its legs swinging. Hamish pushed past Juliana and Elliot, ran up three of the stairs, whisked the dead bird out from under his arm, put one of its spindly legs to his lips, took a deep breath, and blew.
Elliot lunged for him. “Hamish, for God’s sake, no…”
But the lad had already filled the pipes’ bag with air, and it came out again, a groan and a squeal that filled the hall and tore at Elliot’s eardrums.
Juliana clapped her hands over her ears. Hamish went on blowing, his face red, his thick fingers finding the holes in some semblance of a pattern.
Elliot took Juliana’s arm and quickly propelled her down a long passage to the dining room. Hamish came behind them, piping the laird and his lady to their banquet feast.
As soon as they reached the dining room, Hamish threw down the pipes, which died with a squawk, and ran to hold out a giant wooden chair for Juliana.
Elliot made for the other end of the long wooden table, which had been scrubbed until it gleamed. At his place were pewter plates, scrupulously clean; a goblet and tumbler also of pewter; and thick glass decanters of water and whiskey.
Elliot waited until Juliana was seated, Hamish pushing in her chair enthusiastically, then he smoothed his full kilt and sat down on the carved wooden chair at the head of the table. The back of the chair rose well above Elliot’s head, the square cut of the seat hard against his backside.
Hamish retrieved the pipes, which emitted another squawk, and ran out of the room, the spindles of the pipes slapping his kilt. Mahindar came forth bearing a giant bowl, into which he dipped a giant spoon. He ladled food first onto Juliana’s plate then walked down the table to spoon it onto Elliot’s.
Only the two of them dined. Uncle McGregor had made it clear he preferred to eat in the comfort of his room, without the nonsense of formal service. Elliot was happy to let him—dining alone with Juliana was preferable.
Fragrant steam rose from the chicken and vegetables Mahindar put onto Elliot’s plate, which he covered with a piece of flat, teardrop-shaped bread called naan. Mahindar set a little crockery bowl next to Elliot’s plate, which was filled with what looked like oil and smelled like butter—ghee.
Juliana picked up her fork. She moved a small piece of chicken out from under her bread, eyed it suspiciously, and took a bite.
Elliot watched her face change as the spices filled her mouth. He’d approached his first Punjabi meal with the same suspicion, until the savory flavors had made him understand what true beauty was.
He hid his smile and scooped the chicken smothered in garam masala onto his fork, enjoyed a mouthful, then tore off a bit of bread and dipped it into the ghee.
Down the table, Juliana said, “This is wonderful, Mahindar. What is it?”
“We call it tikka, memsahib. It is made with chicken and spices.”
“And this?” She pointed to her crockery bowl.
“Ghee. It is butter that has been boiled down and the fat skimmed from the top. You put it on your bread.”
Juliana took another bite of the tikka. “It is most excellent.” She dabbed her lips. “Highly unusual.” She reached for her goblet of water and took a long drink. “And quite spicy. Elliot, you did not tell me you preferred native food,” she said a little breathlessly.
Elliot shrugged as he swallowed another large mouthful. “Rona’s cook wanted only Scottish food in her kitchen, much to Mahindar’s distress. I told him that here, he and his wife can cook whatever they like.”
“Well.” Juliana drew another breath. “I will be eager to taste what you come up with, Mahindar.”
Mahindar did not look convinced. “Perhaps the memsahib prefers haggis?” His expression said that he’d rather die than have to prepare such a thing, but Mahindar always wanted to please.
“No, no,” Juliana said quickly. “This is lovely.”
“The sahib, he was so kind to us when he had his plantation. He let me tempt him with many a Punjabi dish, and did not insist on boiled mutton and very soft peas. He is so kind, is the sahib. Always kind to everyone.”
Juliana saw Elliot look up from his food, brows drawn, then he went back to shoveling the tikka into his mouth, tearing off pieces of the bread to accompany it. Nothing wrong with Elliot’s appetite.
Juliana knew exactly why Mahindar was emphasizing Elliot’s kindness. Kindness to Mahindar, to Mahindar’s family, to Priti…
“Thank you, Mahindar,” she said. “That will be all for now.”
Mahindar looked from her to Elliot. “But there is more in the kitchen. I can bring more.”
“No, you and your family should enjoy some food and a time to eat. When we finish, or need anything, I will ring…I mean, Mr. McBride will shout for Hamish.”
Mahindar looked to Elliot for confirmation. Elliot glanced up briefly and gave him a nod. Mahindar, resigned, set down the tray and walked quietly out of the room, shutting the door carefully behind him.
Juliana pushed her fork through the red orange savory sauce and tried to decide how to broach the subject.
Ladies were supposed to expect their husbands to take lovers outside marriage and even to have children with said mistresses. A wife was not supposed to mention this or bring up the fact, even if the children were brought home to be raised in her house.
This situation was different, perhaps, because the lover in question was dead, the affair conducted years before Elliot’s return home or this marriage. Indeed, because the woman had passed away, perhaps Elliot was more to be pitied than censured. But still, a lady was not to notice these things—she was to look the other way at her husband’s goings-on.
But Juliana had never been one for looking the other way at anything. She’d had to keep her eyes firmly open growing up with her kind but distant, ever-so-respectable father and her self-indulgent, rather indolent mother.
“My stepmother,” Juliana said. She had to stop and clear her throat.
Elliot looked up, his black coat and white shirt elegant, yet his skin brown with his outdoors life, his hands blunt and worn from work.
Juliana coughed and took a drink of water.
“I’ll tell Mahindar not to make it so spicy next time,” Elliot said.
“No, no. It’s fine.” She dabbed her lips with her napkin. “As I was saying, my stepmother can be very blunt. Discusses things quite frankly. When she comes to visit, she will want to know all about Priti, and her history. What shall I tell her?”
Elliot looked faintly surprised. “Tell her anything you like. I’m not ashamed of her.”
“Yes, but, my dear Elliot, I’m not sure myself of the story.”
He frowned. “I’ve told you.”
“No.” Juliana dragged in a breath. “No, you haven’t.”
His frown deepened. “Haven’t I?”
“No.”
“Mmph.” Elliot reached for the whiskey decanter and poured a large measure into the goblet. He took a generous sip then ran his tongue across his lower lip. “Sometimes I can’t remember the things I’ve said or not said.”
“I understand. It must be painful for you.”
Elliot stopped in the act of taking another drink, the goblet halfway to his mouth. “Don’t pity me, Juliana. I’m sick to death of pity.”
Juliana held up her hand. “Not pity. Interest. I’d be quite curious to hear the story.”
Elliot drank the whiskey. He set down the goblet, keeping one hand on it. “It’s not pretty. Not fit for young ladies at a drawing room tea.”
“We’re in the dining room. And I’m a married woman now.” Juliana’s face heated as she remembered the weight of Elliot in the dark last night, the pain-pleasure when he pushed his way inside her for the first time. “In all ways married.”
Elliot’s expression didn’t soften. “There’s a chance she’s not my daughter,” he said. “But a much better chance that she is.”
“Which do you hope?” Juliana held her breath for the answer.
“That she’s mine. But it doesn’t matter. Her mother is dead, Archibald Stacy is dead, and Priti will live with me, no matter what.”
Chapter 9
Juliana let out her breath again, little by little. “Mr. Archibald Stacy was the lady’s husband?”
“Stacy was a Scotsman I helped settle on a plantation. I’d known him in the army, given him some training. Stacy came to me when he resigned his commission, and I helped him find a plantation near mine.”
Juliana knew from Ainsley that after Elliot had left the army, he’d become a planter, and then made a business of showing other Europeans how to live and prosper in India.
“We were friends,” Elliot went on. “Stacy had a Scottish wife, a young woman he’d gone back to Glasgow to marry, but she grew sick and died within a month of their arrival.”
“Oh dear. Poor lady.”
“Illness can take one swiftly in India,” Elliot said, not without feeling. “Stacy grieved, then took a fancy to an Indian woman called Jaya.”
A courtesan, Juliana supplied silently. She knew that respectable young women in India were ferociously looked after to prevent them having out-of-wedlock affairs with European men—with any man, for that matter.
“It was a casual affair,” Elliot said. “And I…had an affair with her too. But Jaya fell for Stacy. She feared he had no true affection for her, was using her to soothe his feelings. So, to move things along, she told him she preferred me, packed her bags, and arrived at my house. Stacy was incensed and came to fetch her back. I don’t think he realized his affection for her until she left him.” He turned the goblet with stiff fingers. “When I returned to the plantation after my capture I found that Stacy had married Jaya, she’d borne a child, and she was dead. Stacy had abandoned Priti, and Mahindar and Channan had taken her in. I paid them for Priti’s upkeep, including what expenses they’d incurred while I’d been gone. Priti was just old enough that the lady could have started her when I was taken.”
Juliana tried to decide what to feel. First, jealousy, her failing—a large, painful dose of jealousy. In her mind, Elliot had always belonged to her, ever since the ten-year-old Elliot had kissed her cheek in order to slip a frog into the pocket of her pinafore.
She’d been willing to marry Grant because she’d known it would be useless to pine away for Elliot, who’d preferred India and adventure to this tame side of the world. But the fact that Elliot had gone to this unknown woman, that he’d been willing to do so, burned in her heart.
Second, pity—for Priti, left alone and not understanding, and for Elliot, who’d returned from a horrible ordeal to find the woman he’d had a child with dead. Anger at Mr. Stacy for abandoning the little girl no matter whom she belonged to.
“Is Mr. Stacy still alive?” Juliana asked.
Elliot shook his head. “I don’t think so. He left his plantation and went to Lahore, according to Mahindar, and Mahindar heard that he died in an earthquake there.” Elliot sloshed more whiskey into his goblet. “I told you, not a pretty story.”
“You are correct. Not for young ladies in a drawing room.”
“It is in the past. Gone.”
“I know.”
Elliot drank the whiskey and returned the glass to the table, obviously intending to say no more.
“Well,” Juliana said briskly. “Priti is a sweet girl, and I’m happy we can provide a home for her. I will have to look into clothes for her, and a governess, and we must make certain a nursery is put in order for her. Nandita is kind to look after her for now, but Priti should not live like a servant.”
“She doesn’t.”
Juliana set down her knife and fork exactly parallel across her plate. “What you mean, my dear Elliot, is that she lives the way you do, which means a bit rough. I don’t intend to break her spirit, if that’s what you fear, but she does need to learn manners, and English, and a good many things.”
“I’ll ask her,” Elliot said with a straight face.
“You should begin acknowledging her as a McBride right away, so that there is no question how you view her as she grows up. I warn you, it will not be easy for her, having an Indian mother, but we will do our best to smooth her way.”
“Thank you.”
The quiet gratitude sent a shiver down Juliana’s spine. Not Priti’s fault at all that she was the daughter of a courtesan two men had loved. The jealousy prickled again. Juliana would have to de
cide what to do about that—the affair had been so far in the past, after all. That Elliot had planned to take care of Priti no matter whose daughter she turned out to be mitigated the jealousy a bit.
“Yes, there is much to be done.” Juliana took refuge from her emotions, as always, by organizing. Organizing was such a comforting thing. “Not only for Priti, but for us as well. As soon as we are able, we must pay calls to everyone in the area. It’s our duty, and also our duty to host a gathering, perhaps on Midsummer’s Eve. That will indicate to the neighbors that we plan to settle here, and are not simply city dwellers looking to spend an idle week in the country. We’ll have a fête, and a ball. I shall have to find out what fiddlers to hire and where to obtain the food, which will all have to be local, of course. Perhaps you could…”
She noticed that Elliot had frozen in place, staring at her with an unfathomable look.
“Elliot?” she asked quickly. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t do well around people,” he said in a hard voice. “Not anymore.”
No, he didn’t. She’d seen that already, even with his own family. “That is the beauty of having a wife,” she said. “You have to do nothing but stand looking laird-like and letting the whiskey flow. I shall have to greet everyone and make sure they’re entertained. Trust me, much better for us to endure such a thing for a few hours than be talked about up and down the countryside. Don’t worry, Elliot. I will take care of it.”
She had no idea, Elliot thought, how absolutely beautiful she looked at this moment. Her blue eyes were shining under the light of the candles, her hair glistening as she moved her head. She talked rapidly and gestured with her plump hand, so happily dooming him with neighborly calls and a midsummer fête.
Easy to confess to the world, even to gentle and proper Juliana, that he’d sired a child on Jaya, who’d kept him warm when the cold winds came off the wall of mountains separating northern India from the world. Easy to admit he and Stacy had shared her between them at first.