The Seduction of Elliot McBride hp-5

by Jennifer Ashley

  He rocked inside her, loving how her face softened in pleasure, how her hair tangled across his kilt on the table. She was spread for him, delectable, naked, his Juliana. He’d thought of her so many times, imagining doing just this, but the reality was a hundred times better than the fantasy.

  The reality meant he could feel her around him, every texture and the temperature of her skin, and scent her longing, which drowned out every thought in his brain. He could taste her lovely skin, the smooth warmth of her areolas; hear the pretty noises she made that meant she found pleasure in what he was doing.

  Every sense brought a different delight, but the whole of her was more beautiful than anything he could ever have imagined.

  Cold suddenly poured over him, but it was only the sweat on his roasting-hot skin, the shaking deep in his body that meant release.

  Elliot didn’t want release. He wanted to hang on, to be held in the cradle of Juliana forever.

  He groaned, unable to stop what his body wanted to do, sorrow that it was over mixing with shuddering joy. He pulled Juliana to him as soon as he spilled his seed into her, and wrapped his arms around her, holding her as she clung to him.

  “Elliot,” she whispered.

  One word, quiet in the candlelit room, but it was enough.

  Juliana was never sure how long they held on to each other. Her head rested on Elliot’s strong shoulder, and his heart drubbed and bumped beneath her ear. She kissed the skin beneath his lower lip, tasting salt.

  He held her with arms that shook but would not let her go, or let her fall. Juliana wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she knew.

  One of the candles hissed as burned wick fell into the wax, and rising wind outside rattled the old casements.

  Other than that all was silent. Juliana felt like a fairy-tale princess in this old, false castle, and the knight who’d brought her here was showing her a world she’d never known. Locked away in his palace, she’d learned more in the last two days than she had in the first thirty years of her life.

  Elliot’s body was as solid as the foundations of this house. And yet, she sensed his fragility. He could crumble at the right touch to the right place, just like some of the walls in this old place. Juliana had to make sure that the touch never came.

  The passage outside the dining room suddenly filled with noise. An impossibly loud bang and crash of glass sounded, followed by pounding footsteps, then a shrill voice shrieking in Punjabi, and a man’s bellow.

  Juliana raised her head in alarm. She and Elliot were both naked down to their socks, Elliot’s kilt spread like a tablecloth where he’d laid her down. Their clothes were scattered over the floor, and the room had only one door. Hiding or flight was impossible.

  McGregor’s voice rose right outside the door. “You leave that be, woman! A man can’t be stifled in his own house.”

  More invective coming from Komal, because that was the only person to whom the stentorian female tones could belong. Footsteps hurried along the passage, followed by the voice of Channan, obviously trying to quiet them down.

  Elliot’s arms tightened around Juliana. “Don’t worry,” he said into her hair. “Mahindar will keep them out. He’s on guard outside the door.”

  Juliana’s face heated. “Outside the door? But I sent him back to the kitchens.”

  “Mahindar guards any door I am behind. He knows what might happen if I’m disturbed.”

  “What might happen?”

  He shrugged “I might hurt whoever comes charging in. If I’m not in my right mind, I can lash out.”

  His mouth thinned to a hard line, resigned, as though he’d already decided it was useless to fight his madness. He’d accepted it and was doing what was necessary to live with it.

  Somewhere inside the hard, scarred Elliot was the laughing youth Juliana had fallen in love with so many years ago. He was still in there…somewhere.

  Juliana had no illusion that she was special enough or wise enough to save him. She only knew she had to try. The man crying out to her in silence needed no less.

  The bang and crash turned out to have been a glass-doored breakfront in the drawing room, now lying facedown, the glass smashed. Juliana gathered the story in bits and pieces.

  McGregor had been searching the cabinet for a stash of cigars he’d sworn he left there fifteen years ago. Being of small stature, he’d stood on a chair to search the upper shelves, then decided to climb on the breakfront itself to search its top recesses.

  Komal, entering the drawing room on some errand, had seen McGregor on the top of the breakfront, and started scolding him. When McGregor had tried to jump to the ground, his kilt had caught on a finial on the breakfront’s top. His weight had jerked the cloth free, and he’d sprung clear, but the breakfront had overbalanced and the entire thing had come crashing down.

  Komal had started shrieking at McGregor, and the two had stormed through the halls, shouting at each other, neither understanding a word of what the other was saying.

  “I’ve been laird here forty-five years,” McGregor said, poking the air with a finger partly bent from rheumatism. “Forty-five years. I will nae be chased around me own home by a pack of godless, screaming savages.”

  “We are Sikh, sahib,” Mahindar said, offended. “We have a god.”

  “You cannae deny that that woman is a screaming savage.”

  “She is old, sahib.”

  “Old?” Behind all his white hair, McGregor’s face turned chartreuse. “She’s no older than I am. Do ye mean that people of my age are raving mad? Say so and be done, damn ye.”

  Juliana stepped forward. “Mr. McGregor…”

  “And don’t ye try to placate me, young woman. I know all about the ways of beguiling women. My wife, God rest her soul, excelled at turning a fellow up sweet. I know all the tricks of females.”

  “Uncle McGregor.” Elliot’s strong voice rolled through the hall as he emerged from the dining room, having resumed his shirt and kilt, his coat slung over his arm. “There’s a fine stash of whiskey down in the cellar. Why don’t you come and help me sample it?”

  McGregor drew himself upright, his voice winding down to mere loudness. “Now that is the first sensible suggestion I’ve heard all evening.”

  He turned and stalked down the hall. When Elliot caught up to him, McGregor said in what he thought was a quiet tone, “Got a leg over in the dining room, eh? Mrs. McGregor and me, we favored the conservatory. Had many a fine night under the moonlight there.” His chuckle faded away as Elliot ushered him into the cellar stairs and shut the door behind them.

  He knew they were searching for him. He’d found a place to hide, down in the bowels of the earth, in a part of their warren-like prison even they didn’t know about. Some tribe had carved these caves deep into the hills in a time forgotten, and Elliot took refuge in them now. The doors he’d been locked behind were ancient and rusted, the locks easy to break, but there was no way out of the tunnels, and his captors knew it. The only opening to freedom led to a guard with a rifle.

  Early on, Elliot had watched one poor fellow prisoner struggle out into the light and air, only to hear the crack of a rifle and the man’s muffled scream. The gunshot hadn’t killed him instantly. He’d lain under the baking sun and slowly bled to death over the next full day, begging for water or, for God’s sake, for the guard to shoot him again.

  His had been the last human face Elliot had seen for weeks after that. His captors ignored him, occasionally remembering to throw in bread and some fetid piece of goat meat to keep him alive.

  The head tribesman wanted Elliot alive, though, because he wanted to play with him. The head man hated all Europeans, blaming them for any and all chaos he could see from his mountain perch.

  Elliot had found places to hide in their own tunnels, holes so tiny and foul that no one but the desperate could live in them. They knew he was in there, trapped like a fox in his den, and they knew he couldn’t get out. They’d hunt for him when they wanted him, and the
y were hunting him now. Elliot heard them calling, passing above his hiding place, their voices filling the spaces.

  He crouched into the hole, feeling no glee at evading them, wanting only peace. But the pain kept knocking at him. His kilt warmed him, but his fingers were cold, bloody cold.

  They’d pulled off his nails, one by one, for the enjoyment of it. Elliot had refused to scream or make a sound, which had disappointed them, so they’d thrown him back into the cell and taken away his water.

  Thirsty, he was so thirsty.

  The search went on above, until the voices trailed off. They’d leave him alone now. Alone to heal until thirst and hunger drove him out again. But until then, Elliot would have days of darkness and silence to himself.

  Juliana’s worry when Mahindar and Hamish emerged from the cellars the next morning without finding Elliot rose to near panic.

  Morning had dawned fine and fair. Elliot had dropped into bed beside her very late last night and very drunk, having helped Mr. McGregor “sample” much of the whiskey. He’d gathered Juliana into his arms for a whiskey-flavored kiss, then snuggled beside her and dropped into a limp sleep.

  She’d left him asleep when she’d risen and gone down to breakfast, having enough experience with Scotsmen and whiskey to know he would remain in bed awhile. Likewise, thankfully, there was no more noise from Mr. McGregor.

  As she ate the breakfast of eggs and more naan brought by a cheerful Mahindar, Juliana planned her calls.

  She’d questioned Hamish about her neighbors, the lad knowing everything about them down to the last detail. The Englishman Mr. Terrell, who’d purchased McGregor’s brewery, and his wife were gentlefolk, Hamish told her, the man being the son of a gentleman. They would be near the top of her visiting list, but heading them would be the Highlander in the neighboring estate, Ewan McPherson, a crony of Mr. McGregor’s.

  Mrs. Rossmoran, while not as wealthy as the Terrells, was a daughter of Scotland, whose family, according to Hamish, had been in this area longer than anyone. Juliana would be sure to visit her among the first as well.

  When she finished breakfast she went in search of Hamish again. She had no luck finding him until she went down the flagstone passage, calling his name.

  He popped out of the kitchen, looking worried, but Hamish generally looked worried, so Juliana thought nothing of it at first. “Hamish, please spread the word that builders are desperately needed. Any kind of builder, plumbers, glaziers, and drapers. They may begin assembling here today, and Mr. McBride will speak to them.”

  Hamish listened in all seriousness then said, “Aye. If we can find him.”

  Juliana stopped. “If you can find who? Mr. McBride?”

  “Aye.” Hamish nodded, his worried look becoming more pronounced. “He’s gone, m’lady, and there’s no trace of him.”

  Chapter 11

  “What do you mean, no trace of him?” Juliana stared at Hamish, cold fear wiping out any plans of calls or house rebuilding. “He likely went for a walk. He and Mr. McGregor did imbibe fairly heavily last night, and Mr. McBride no doubt needs to clear his head.”

  “No, m’lady. We thought of that, but he’s not gone for a walk. Mahindar says he’s gone into hiding.”

  “Into hiding? What on earth does that mean?”

  “Mahindar says that sometimes, when it all gets too much for him, he disappears. Mahindar says he sometimes can’t find Mr. McBride for days. But he says he hasn’t done it in a long time now.”

  “Where is Mahindar?” Juliana demanded. “I want to speak to him.”

  “He’s out looking. He and his wife and Nandita and the little girl are all hunting high and low for Himself. I was too, except you called me.”

  What did Elliot fear? This was the Highlands, his home. He was safe here.

  Juliana pushed past Hamish and dashed to the kitchen, never mind her strictures of the lady of the house never entering the servants’ quarters. “Mahindar?”

  Mahindar popped out of a darkened corner so quickly that Juliana squeaked. He began an apology, but Juliana cut through it. “Have you found him?”

  “No, memsahib. But we are looking. You should go out and make your visits. I will find him. I always do. Eventually.”

  “Don’t be silly. I cannot tamely sip tea and talk of the weather while wondering if Elliot is all right. He might be hurt. I’m not leaving until we know he’s safe.”

  Mahindar spread his hands. “Very well, but it might be days.”

  “Days?” Her heart squeezed. “I don’t understand. Why should he do this? This is his home.”

  Hamish loomed at her shoulder. “Because he’s a madman, ain’t he?”

  Juliana swung on him. “Hamish McIver, don’t you ever say that again. If you do I’ll…I will speak to your mother about it. Mr. McBride is not mad. He was held for a long time against his will, and that is hard on people, isn’t it? It stands to reason he still has bad dreams about it.”

  “But he’s awake now.”

  Hamish had a point, and Juliana hardly understood it at all. But she thought of some of the things Elliot had told her: I drift in and out…Sometimes I can’t remember the things I’ve said or not said…

  “The lad is right,” Mahindar said. “The sahib is a bit mad now. He never quite recovered from his imprisonment, the poor man.”

  “Stop,” Juliana said in a loud voice. “No more talk of madness. My husband is not mad. But we must find him.”

  Both started at her tone and scurried away to resume the search.

  They hunted everywhere. Mr. McGregor joined in, for once not arguing, scolding, or shouting, despite his obvious fragile condition from imbibing the night before.

  The man put a bony hand on Juliana’s arm. “There is a place he could be. I used to go there when I was a lad, pretending there were ghosts.”

  Hamish paled at the word ghosts, his freckles standing out on his white skin.

  “This house is too new for ghosts,” Juliana said briskly, even as she let McGregor lead her away.

  “But it was built over the old castle,” McGregor said. “Which was th’ McGregor stronghold for six hundred years. Before that, it was a keep to defend this little valley against all comers.” He climbed down the stairs from the scullery and led her along the passage to the boiler room, where they’d found Nandita cowering the morning before. “There’s still a way to get to the old McGregor castle—the ruined cellars below it, anyway. Found it when I was a boy.”

  Mr. McGregor moved to the other side of the boiler room and pried a piece of grimy paneling from the wall. Behind this was a narrow niche that looked like a broom cupboard, empty and unused. McGregor shone the candle lantern he’d snatched up onto the flagstone floor.

  “Trapdoor,” he said.

  “Where?” Juliana stared at the floor but saw nothing that looked like a trapdoor.

  McGregor chuckled. “My nanny and tutors could never find it either.” He set down his lantern, dug his fingers under at what looked like a haphazard crack in the floor, and pulled.

  The entire piece of flagstone came up and away, revealing a hole into dank blackness.

  “Come on,” McGregor said cheerfully. “It’s not deep. A sturdy Highland lass like yourself will find it no trouble.”

  He dropped through the hole and landed on hard-packed earth five or so feet down, enough room for the small-statured McGregor to stand upright. A tall man like Elliot, though, would find it a tight fit.

  McGregor helped Juliana down then reached back up for his lantern.

  “I thought these were the dungeons, when I was a lad,” he said, flashing the light on the irregular walls, the old, old stones still a solid foundation for the house above. “But they were the wine cellars. I found a plan of the whole place once.”

  The darkness was vast, the many walls forming a maze. Juliana crept close behind McGregor, hoping his memory for the place hadn’t failed him.

  She heard a noise. Movement.

  McGregor heard
it too and stopped, shining his light into a corner of two thick walls. The lantern caught on something that glittered. Eyes.

  A powerful form lunged out of the darkness. McGregor’s lantern went flying, and the candle extinguished as the lantern clattered to the floor. McGregor cried out, then Juliana heard the thump of a body slammed against stone.

  She ran toward the sound and found the hard-muscled figure of her husband kneeling on the floor, McGregor kicking and flailing under him. McGregor’s breath grated, and any words he tried to form were incoherent.

  “Elliot!” Juliana shouted as loud as she could. She grabbed Elliot’s shoulders and tried to pull him away.

  Elliot resisted, twisting to loosen her grasp while keeping hold of McGregor, but Juliana clung fast. She put her lips to his ear and begged, “Elliot. Stop.”

  He didn’t respond. Juliana wrapped her arms all the way around him, tears filling her eyes, her voice breaking on a sob. “Please.” She kissed the line of his hair.

  Elliot froze. All movement ceased, Elliot’s body becoming immobile as a marble statue. Beneath him, McGregor coughed.

  “Juliana,” Elliot whispered, bewildered, uncertain.

  “I’m here.”

  Elliot turned, swiftly, almost violently, his hands finding her arms, her shoulders, her face. “Juliana.”

  “I’m here,” she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady. “You’ve given poor Mr. McGregor quite a fright.”

  “I’m all right.” McGregor coughed again and cleared his throat. “Lad, you have a powerful grip. We’ll have some Highland games, and I’ll put my money on you to win every round.”

  Elliot ignored him. He ran his hands over Juliana’s face and down her arms again. Juliana touched him in return, their only connection in this dark place. She cupped his face, her fingers finding his lips.

  “What am I doing here?” he asked her in a harsh voice.