The Seduction of Elliot McBride hp-5

by Jennifer Ashley

  “But…” Juliana looked bewildered. “When on earth did Ainsley find time to be your spy?”

  “My sister is amazingly resourceful. And cunning. If she couldn’t speak to you herself, she’d recruit someone else to. And she reported everything to me. She didn’t know the whole of what I was up to, and I asked her not to tell you I was asking about you, and to trust me. She did, bless her. I knew exactly when you were to marry Grant Barclay, and exactly how much time I had to return to Scotland and prepare things to scoop you up. I knew you’d never change the wedding date—you schedule your life to the minute and follow it exactly.”

  Indignation edged out her bewilderment. “Even so, you could have said something. When you were captured, when we thought you dead…They were the most awful months of my life. Nothing can compare. I cried all day in relief when I got Ainsley’s telegram that you’d been found and were all right. And then you never wrote, never called on me, never spoke to me, never sent a message.”

  “I know I did it all wrong,” Elliot said. “Ainsley would say I’m only a man after all. I did what I did because I didn’t want to give you the chance to say no.”

  “So you came to my wedding to snatch me from the altar?”

  “I’m a Highland barbarian. We steal our wives, didn’t ye know?”

  “You are horrible.”

  “I always have been.” He managed a grin. “You knew that.”

  Juliana pressed her hands to her face. “Elliot, what am I to do with you?”

  He couldn’t stay away from her any longer. Elliot took her hands, tugged her against him, and closed his arms around her. He laid his cheek against her fragrant hair, and let her warmth soak into his body.

  Juliana relaxed with a sigh, and Elliot closed his eyes, focusing only on the heat of her against him, the softness of her under the stiff fabric of her dress.

  “Elliot,” Juliana murmured after a while.

  Elliot didn’t answer. He kissed her hair.

  “What are we going to do about the Dalrymples?”

  Poor Juliana. So worried about trivial matters. Elliot tilted her head back and briefly kissed her lips. “I might know someone who can assist.”

  “Who?”

  “Friend of a friend.” He kissed Juliana again, tasting the tea on her lips, and the cinnamon and pepper of the cake she’d nibbled.

  The stain of the past slipped away, once again. The darkness was still there, ready to flow out and twine him in its net, but for now, closing and locking the door then unbuttoning Juliana’s dress was easing it away.

  Elliot ended up sitting on the chair at the writing desk, she straddling his lap, he making made slow love to her, holding her.

  In that quiet ecstasy, Elliot began to believe he could get well again. Maybe it would take a long while, and perhaps the memories would never entirely go away, but he would live. All he had to do was make love to Juliana, for now and for always, and he’d never fear anything again.

  The work in the house continued through the afternoon and on into the evening. Elliot sent Hamish running to the village to telegraph London, then he took his rifle and went out looking for Stacy.

  The red setter followed him, showing no sign of wanting to return to McPherson. Elliot didn’t want the dog to be hurt, but he knew Stacy. The man had a soft spot for animals, and wouldn’t hurt one to get to someone who’d enraged him. If he wanted Elliot dead, he’d confine his sights to Elliot.

  Elliot found no sign of Stacy that day, however. Perhaps the man had given up and retreated.

  Elliot had been keeping his ears open for news of any stranger staying in the area, but heard of no one unusual arriving of late, besides himself. He’d considered the possibility that Stacy might try to enter the house under the pretext of being a worker, but McGregor and Hamish knew every man for miles by sight, and Mahindar knew Stacy by sight. None of the men was Stacy.

  When the workers went home to supper and bed, Elliot locked the doors of the castle with the giant keys then bolted them. After that he collapsed into bed and slept hard, his arms around Juliana.

  In the wee hours of the morning, McGregor roused him to do some fishing.

  Elliot took his rifle with him as well as his poles. He’d use the opportunity to search again.

  McGregor took him along the river to the west, where it cut through the steep hills to fetch up into slower, more placid pools on McPherson’s land. Here McPherson met them.

  The setter, who’d followed Elliot, wagged her tail and sniffed McPherson, then went back to circle Elliot.

  “I seem to have stolen your dog,” Elliot said. “Or she stole me. I’m not sure which.”

  “I can spare her,” McPherson said in his booming voice. “If she likes ye, why not? Ye need a dog in that great house of yours.”

  The setter followed Elliot to the deeply shadowed spot where he quietly cast his line. From there Elliot could see up and down the river and into the hills, where a hunter might sit with a rifle similar to Elliot’s. The setter chased a few butterflies on the bank then settled down to watch the fishing with sleepy eyes.

  The quiet of the valley was perfect. The river burbled into pools, the fish flipped and swam, and gratifyingly took bait. McPherson and McGregor caught several fish quickly, but Elliot had none.

  Elliot didn’t care. The point of fishing, he’d decided long ago, was to wait in cold water up to the knees and watch the eddies swirl by, the line dangle, and shadows move and dance. Fishing meant standing with a friend in silence with nothing needing to be said.

  He saw no sign and felt no sensation of a watcher in the woods. Stacy wasn’t there. Perhaps he’d given up and gone. Or perhaps Elliot was mistaken, and Stacy had never been there in the first place.

  Elliot knew he had been, though.

  “Who the devil is that?” McPherson’s voice rang out over the water and the fish darted for cover.

  McPherson was shading his eyes against the intense morning sun to watch a man walk down the hill toward them. The visitor wore a frock coat, trousers, and a stovepipe hat, a costume more suited to strolling about a city park than tramping through the wilds of Scotland.

  “Dear God,” McGregor said. “It’s that Dull Pimple chap. Haven’t we had enough of them?”

  “I didn’t invite him,” McPherson said.

  “Ye don’t think I did, do ye? Here, you.” McGregor cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted across the river. “Go away. Ye’re upsetting the fish.”

  Ignoring McGregor, Mr. Dalrymple slipped and slid down to the bank and around a clump of trees to make straight for Elliot.

  “Mr. McBride?” the man asked. “So pleased to make your acquaintance. George Dalrymple. Your boy said I might find you here.”

  Hamish. Well, the lad wasn’t to know.

  “I have something to discuss with you,” Dalrymple said.

  The man had a Scottish name, but he sounded as though he’d tried very hard to erase anything Scottish about him. Elliot resisted the temptation to speak to him in Gaelic for the humor of it, but he did let his Scots accent become broad.

  “Do ye now?”

  “Yes, and I think we both know what it is.”

  “I cannae think what.”

  McGregor and McPherson watched from across the river, standing side by side, but Elliot signaled them to stay where they were. He’d either send Dalrymple home or push him into the water, he hadn’t decided which yet.

  Dalrymple gave Elliot a pained smile. “My wife told me you seemed a rather simple man. And, by the way, you must excuse her for yesterday. She does get rather upset. We were both so fond of Mr. Stacy, you know.”

  “He never mentioned ye,” Elliot said. “So he must nae have been fond of you.”

  “We became rather more attached to him when you…ah…disappeared. He was quite worried about you.” Mr. Dalrymple’s smile remained, but his eyes were hard. “I realize you claim not to remember anything about Stacy’s death, but we are prepared to tell the p
olice that you killed him.”

  “You’re right. I don’t remember.”

  “Nonetheless, we have ascertained that this is what happened. As my wife promised, we have begun an investigation.”

  Elliot cast his line into the water again, gently flicking his wrist just right…just right. The fish were nowhere in sight.

  “Very civil-minded of ye,” he said to Dalrymple.

  “I understand, of course, dear fellow. You weren’t right in the head at the time. There’s speculation you still aren’t, though you seem much better.”

  “Thank ye.”

  “And all this must be upsetting for your wife, who is from one of Edinburgh’s most respectable families, I hear.”

  “She is, aye.”

  “I know you would like to spare her undue distress.”

  Elliot took his gaze from the gently bobbing line and looked fully at Dalrymple. The man’s pale face was beaded with sweat in the sunshine, his features too perfect and delicate for this climate. If he’d been in India as he claimed, time had erased whatever effects the sunshine there had made on him.

  “Be clear about what you’re saying,” Elliot said. “I’m interested.”

  Dalrymple smiled. “We’re both men of the world, Mr. McBride. We’ve seen privation, and we’ve seen wealth, the extremes of each, haven’t we?”

  “Aye.”

  “I know that you…acquired…quite a bit of wealth for yourself. Hence your purchase of an estate in the Highlands.”

  “Aye.” Elliot did not like the implication that he’d gained his fortune by anything other than backbreaking work, but he let it go. Not worth the bother.

  “If you wish me to be plain, then I will be.” Dalrymple cast a glance across the river at McPherson and McGregor, and lowered his voice. “You are unwell, and your wife is a pretty creature, and quite respectable. I’m certain that for a sum we can agree upon, the investigation into Mr. Stacy’s death can lead nowhere in particular, or be withdrawn altogether.”

  Chapter 21

  Elliot looked at Dalrymple for a heartbeat, then he drew back his fishing rod and sent the line over the river again.

  “No,” he said.

  Dalrymple blinked. “Pardon?”

  “I said no. You’re not getting a penny.”

  Dalrymple blinked a few more times, as though surprised Elliot hadn’t quickly begged the man to take all his money and leave him alone.

  Dalrymple wet his thin lips. “Mr. McBride, your position is precarious. You killed a man and fled here to safety. You abducted his daughter and brought her with you. Now, while I agree that Mr. Stacy could be a hard man, and his daughter likely would have starved and died in India alone, I doubt you want this story to come out.”

  “She’s not his daughter,” Elliot said calmly. “She’s mine.”

  Dalrymple stared. “Is she? Well, good God, man, in that case, I think we had better come to some sort of agreement. If your wife and her family find out about this by-blow, not only will they be shocked and upset, they might bring suit against you, do you not think?”

  “I’ve already told my wife about the lass.”

  “Have you? Oh.”

  Elliot went on fishing. Beside him Dalrymple cleared his throat, started to speak, broke off, and cleared his throat again.

  “Let me return to my original purpose,” the man said after a time. “You murdered Mr. Stacy, and if you do not want to go to the gallows for it, you will make an arrangement with me.”

  “Stacy isn’t dead.”

  “Pardon?” More blinking.

  “I said, Archie Stacy isn’t dead. He’s alive and well.”

  Dalrymple actually smiled. “Ah, there we must differ. I have the death certificate.”

  He pulled a piece of paper out of an inner pocket of his coat, unfolded it, and held it up so that Elliot could see the printing and official seal.

  Bang! Birds exploded into flight from the surrounding trees. Warm blood sprayed over Elliot’s shirt, and he looked down in bewilderment at the filmy pattern of scarlet on linen. He felt no pain, and heard Dalrymple scream. The death certificate caught on the wind and fluttered gently into the river.

  Elliot observed all this in one startled second, then he threw down his rod, stepped into deep shadow, and brought his rifle around.

  Dalrymple remained in place, clutching his right hand and shrieking. McGregor and McPherson had disappeared into the shadows as well, only Dalrymple too far gone in pain to get himself out of the line of fire.

  Elliot faded around the trees and moved swiftly and quietly in the direction of the shot. He ran up the hill, damp air forming droplets on his skin.

  The scenario was eerily familiar, regardless of the tall Scottish trees that marched around him. He fought off his mind’s urge to take him back to the past, and ran on.

  Elliot came out of the trees into a fairly flat clearing with an outcropping of bare rock. From the top of this rock, he had a perfect view of the river, the pool, and the exact spot where Dalrymple still stood.

  Elliot pulled his rifle from his back and sighted down its scope. Dalrymple came into clear focus in the sunlight, his mouth moving as he swore in pain. Dalrymple had been facing Elliot, both of them in profile to this angle of the hill.

  Stacy hadn’t hit Dalrymple by mistake. The man was a crack shot, one of the best. The wind was strong here, but Stacy would have adjusted for that.

  He’d shot at Dalrymple, not Elliot. One shot. A spent cartridge lay shining at the base of the rock.

  Elliot picked up the cartridge and dropped it into his sporran as he scanned the hill around him. Nowhere did he see a man running away, or brush and saplings moving to show his passage. The grass around the rock was matted and flat—all of it. Stacy must have trampled it before he’d taken the shot to cover the tracks of his retreat.

  Elliot slung his rifle over his back again and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Stacy!”

  The word rang from the hills. The men below looked up.

  The echoes faded and silence came back to him. If Stacy had been there, he’d vanished into the faint mist creeping down from the highest peaks.

  Elliot climbed down from the rock and went in search of him.

  Juliana spent the morning busy with preparations for the midsummer fête and making certain that the men worked in the most important areas of the house.

  Because Elliot was off fishing with McGregor when the workers arrived, Juliana kept a special eye on Priti. She noticed the instant the little girl rushed out of the house on her own to play with the goat, and hurried out after her, welcoming the morning sun on her face.

  Juliana relaxed as soon as she found Priti in the kitchen garden—Priti was talking to the goat tethered out of reach of the runner beans, and feeding it oatcakes.

  She enjoyed a moment of watching the child. Priti was sweet-tempered, and yet had the impish determination of her father. She’d taken the upheaval from her home in stride, liked exploring Castle McGregor, and enjoyed following Hamish about, tugging on the lad’s kilt when she wanted his attention.

  The tranquil moment was disturbed when a man came out of the bracken at the foot of the garden. He was dressed the same as the workers—in kilt, boots, and shirtsleeves—his face covered with a rather tangled red-gold beard.

  At the same time he didn’t look like the other men. Something about him, something Juliana couldn’t quite put her finger on, set him apart.

  The man glanced briefly at Juliana, then his gaze went to Priti and stayed there.

  Juliana stopped. A shout for Hamish worked its way up into her throat, but she bit it back, fearing what would happen if she startled the man. He did nothing, only looked at Priti.

  Finally he turned slowly back to Juliana, met her gaze squarely, then turned and walked away.

  Juliana started forward. “Mr. Stacy?”

  The man didn’t respond. Juliana followed him, staying well behind him, as he walked steadily down the path to the f
oot of the garden. He went through the gate then stepped into the woods and vanished from her sight.

  Juliana hurried out the gate to the spot where he’d disappeared, but as much as she looked around, she couldn’t tell which direction he’d gone.

  She was still on the path when Mr. McGregor and Mr. McPherson came puffing up from the direction of the river, both men agitated and out of breath.

  “Did you see a man pass you?” she asked them, then looked at their faces. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “It’s McBride,” McGregor panted. “Your husband, lassie, is running amok in the hills.”

  “Not running amok,” McPherson corrected. “Chasing someone. A poacher, I’m thinking. An accidental shot.”

  “Shot?” Juliana touched her throat. “Elliot was shot?”

  “No, no, lass,” McPherson said quickly.

  “He shot Dull Pimple.” McGregor burst into laughter. “In the hand. That was a grand sight. The man dancing about, screaming like a banshee.”

  “Is he all right?” Juliana asked in alarm.

  McPherson answered while McGregor kept chuckling. “Your kind heart does you credit, lassie. Dalrymple’s fine. Bullet grazed him, the lucky bastard. My housekeeper is tending to him—she’s a good nurse, but he’s complaining all the way. Wants to bring a lawsuit against me.” He laughed.

  “What about Elliot? Where did he go?”

  “Chasing the poacher,” McGregor said. “I ran after him, shouted at him to leave the bugger alone, but he’s gone. McBride didn’t say anything, just dropped out of sight behind a rock and disappeared.”

  “We need to find him. Elliot, I mean. No, both of them.”

  “Dinnae worry, lass,” McPherson said. “I know every inch of these lands, and your husband’s only after a poacher, probably a lad from rougher country where the hunting’s not so good. They don’t have much up in the hills, and I don’t begrudge them a hare or two.”

  “He’s not a poacher,” Juliana said. “The man Elliot is chasing is dangerous. I saw him.”