“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “We’ve found you.”
She put her arms all the way around him. Elliot sank down into her, shuddering, his body so cold, and he clung to her as though he’d never let go.
Juliana made her calls later that afternoon, without Elliot.
She thought she’d be going by herself, with Hamish to drive her in the dogcart, but at the last minute, Mr. McGregor came barreling down the stairs and out of the house declaring he’d accompany her.
McGregor’s kilt bounced above his bony knees, his coat collar half turned wrong. Komal came out after him, grabbed him by the arm, turned him around, and yanked his collar straight.
“Leave me be, interfering old woman.” McGregor trailed off into mutters as he stamped through the mud to the dogcart. Komal threw up her hands and disappeared back into the house.
They went first to the neighboring estate of the man called McPherson. McPherson’s house was a proper castle, dating to the fourteenth century, McGregor said, with all the drafts to prove it. The house stood on the edge of a loch between a fold of mountains, the road taking them to a drawbridge.
The drawbridge was up when they reached it. Hamish pulled the dogcart to a halt, and Juliana looked up at the round, squat castle. She’d been uneasy leaving Elliot behind, but Mahindar had promised to look after him, and Elliot himself had growled at her to go.
Shutting her out again, like the dark wooden drawbridge that now shut them out of Castle McPherson.
A man appeared on the battlements. He was large and bearlike, and wrapped in blue and red plaid. “Stop there, McGregor!” he bellowed. “I have twenty cannons trained on ye, unless ye can pay the ransom.”
Juliana glanced at Hamish, but the young man appeared to be in no way alarmed at this. McGregor stood up in the cart.
“Open up, McPherson, ye daft bastard. I have the new Mrs. McBride with me.”
McPherson peered down at them, shading his eyes. “Oh aye?” He looked down on his side of the wall. “Duncan! Wake up and lower the bridge!”
The drawbridge, which looked to be in good repair, cranked down on oiled chains. Hamish, without question, picked up the reins, and the dogcart rattled across the bridge.
On the inside, McPherson’s house proved to be up-to-date and pleasant. McPherson had renovated the castle into a comfortable, habitable abode, with plenty of paneling, glass windows, drapes, carpets, books, soft furniture, and a staff of about a dozen to look after it. The castle also had a long gallery full of ancient Scots weaponry, paintings of McPherson ancestors, and relics not only of Culloden, but from clan wars from the more distant past.
McPherson, who met them at the door and proceeded to show Juliana these wonders, was a giant of a man. Where McGregor was small and wiry, McPherson was tall and rotund, large with good meals and muscle. His red hair and beard were just going gray, and his face was northern Scots fair and freckled, tinged now with summer sunburn.
“I collect,” McPherson told Juliana as she admired the historic pieces. “Real Scottish history, not the tartans and fake claymores shopkeepers sell to English tourists. I have mostly McPherson relics here, but some McGregor and McBride as well.”
“He collects,” McGregor snorted. “That’s what he calls it. His clan were beggaring thieves is what he means. Raiders. Stole half of what the McGregors owned.”
“Aye,” McPherson said in a good-natured voice. “And the McGregors stole it back, and helped themselves to more.” He laughed heartily. “Always been at it, his family and mine, from way back. His men kept stealing our women, and we stole theirs back, so we’re probably related. Cousins eleven-ty times removed or something.”
“Half this loot is McGregor,” Mr. McGregor said. “That dirk, for instance.”
Juliana studied it in its glass case. “He’s keeping it well for you.”
McPherson roared with laughter again. “I like this lass. What would happen to all this in that tumbledown ruin of yours?”
“She’s going to renovate it.” McGregor sounded half proud of Juliana, half grudging. “She’ll have us eating off silver plates with snowy white napkins before we know it.”
“Bloody good thing too.” McPherson turned to Juliana as she finished studying the contents of the last case. “Tell your husband he’s welcome to come here for shooting anytime he wants. Saw him walking around with a gun yesterday, but I know he found nothing in McGregor’s hills. McGregor hasn’t had a gillie to keep his game in thirty years.”
“McBride will get his own gillie,” McGregor snapped, as though eager to defend Elliot.
“Aye, but until he does, he’s welcome to shoot on my land. My son moved to Edinburgh and has become a prissified city gent and won’t dirty his hands on the land here. But he has sons,” McPherson added with a twinkle in his eye. “I am corrupting my grandsons to love all the traditions of Highland Scotland. His father hates it.” He bellowed a laugh.
“Mr. McBride will be grateful for your generosity,” Juliana said. “He sends his apologies for not calling, but he has been under the weather.”
McPherson’s eyes lost their twinkle and sympathy took their place. He knew, drat him, exactly what had happened. News certainly traveled quickly.
McGregor broke in. “Aye, last night we spent a long time getting him acquainted with the McGregor malt.”
McPherson burst out laughing again. “Ye need a strong constitution for that. He’ll be all right, lass.” He glanced again at Juliana, as though he knew full well about Elliot’s breakdown but was willing to go along with McGregor’s explanation.
Later, as a plump maid brought tea into the drawing room, and Juliana poured out, McPherson said, “Speaking of the McGregor malt, I suppose you’ll be visiting the Terrells.”
“The English family?” Juliana asked. “Yes, I ought to.”
“They’re not bad sorts,” McPherson said. “They know they’re incomers and don’t try to be more Scottish than the Scots. But they have visitors, a lowland Scottish family of the stiff-necked variety, lately back from India. They say they know your husband. Or know friends of your husband, in any case.”
Would wild Elliot likely be acquainted with stiff-necked, dour people who’d probably refused beautiful meals such as the one Mahindar had served last night? Then again, Elliot had hidden depths. She couldn’t be certain of the sort of people Elliot would know.
“Sounds like we should bypass them today, eh, lass?” McGregor asked.
“No, indeed.” Juliana watched the stream of tea as she refilled her cup, giving McGregor and McPherson time to sneak nips of brandy into theirs from McPherson’s flask. “We will have to go and endure.”
“You see?” Mr. McGregor said to McPherson. “Prim and proper. She wants to have a midsummer fête and ball. Just like when Mrs. McGregor, God rest her soul, was with us.”
“In your house?” McPherson boomed. “She’ll need a bloody miracle then.”
“Not a miracle, Mr. McPherson,” Juliana said. “Careful planning. With organization, one can do anything.”
Juliana regretfully took her leave of Mr. McPherson soon after. The castle was a homey place in spite of its bulk, McPherson warm in spite of his.
After the maid helped Juliana into her light coat and gloves, McPherson, out of earshot of McGregor, said in a low voice, “I’m afraid you’ve got your work cut out for you, lass.”
“Castle McGregor?” Juliana asked, straightening her gloves. “Yes, but as I said, organizing will solve most of the problems.”
“I didn’t mean with th’ monstrosity he calls a house.” McPherson took on look of sympathy. “I meant with McBride. Now, don’t draw up all proud. He’s been to hell and back, and that touches a man. I’ve scraped through some tough places in Africa, and I know what ’tis like. There are some horrors no man should have to live through.” McPherson put a broad hand on her shoulder. “If it becomes too much for ye, or him, ye send him to me, and we’ll have a nice day’s fishing. Nothing calms the soul like a day on
the river.”
“Thank you, Mr. McPherson. You are kind.”
“You’re a proud lass, I can see. Determined to take care of him. McBride’s a lucky man. But remember—he’s welcome here. Ye both are.”
“Thank you,” Juliana said again, and then McGregor was bellowing that they needed to get a move on.
They all worried about Elliot, Juliana thought as the dogcart bumped across the bridge and set off again toward the village.
The idea warmed her and at the same time bothered her a bit, because Elliot was not a pathetic creature of misery. He was stronger than all of them. The fact that after his ordeal he hadn’t turned into a drooling lunatic chained to a bed attested to that strength. He knew madness could take him anytime, and he was fighting it. She’d not let anyone forget that.
Juliana’s next call was to Mrs. Rossmoran’s cottage, which was set far back into the woods near Castle McGregor. The house of whitewashed stone with slate roof looked in good repair, and a neat garden with rows of cabbages, carrots, greens, and other vegetables ran alongside it. A patch of pansies bloomed defiantly among the rest of the practical garden.
Mrs. Rossmoran’s granddaughter Fiona—Hamish’s cousin, a pretty girl about Hamish’s age—told them that unfortunately Mrs. Rossmoran was laid up this morning, but would be happy to know they’d called. Fiona waved to Hamish, who returned the wave before he jerked the cart around and headed for the Terrells.
The Terrells occupied a much more modern house on a hill overlooking the village. The long, two-storied house was built of fine stone with a slate roof, black painted shutters, and square chimneys. Its garden was formal, with shrubberies, fountains, and summer flower beds in full bloom.
The drawing room was large, airy, and elegant, reminding Juliana of the one at her father’s estate near Stirling. Another tea tray, more pouring out, this time by Mrs. Terrell. The gentlemen drank whiskey rather than tea, but they lingered in the drawing room, talking about masculine pursuits.
Juliana did not like Mr. and Mrs. Dalrymple. She wasn’t certain where her dislike came from, because they were pleasant spoken and polite, despite McPherson’s description of them.
Mrs. Dalrymple wore a rather prim gray gown, its bustle so small as to be only a nod to the fashion. Her hair was brown going to gray, dressed in a simple coiffure, and she wore no earrings or brooches, her one piece of jewelry the thin wedding band on her finger. No frivolity for Mrs. Dalrymple, her ensemble proclaimed.
She also confirmed that, indeed, she and her husband had met Elliot in the Punjab.
“We did not mix much, of course,” Mrs. Dalrymple said. “Mr. McBride was a planter and a single man, while my husband had a position with the ICS.”
“Indian Civil Service,” Mrs. Terrell translated.
“We did not mingle much with the plantation owners,” Mrs. Dalrymple went on, rather haughtily. “One didn’t, you know. Planters were so apt to take Indian wives. Not that Mr. McBride ever exhibited that inclination,” she said quickly. “But our dear friend Mr. Stacy unfortunately succumbed.”
“I still cannot understand why your Mr. Stacy would want to marry an Indian woman,” Mrs. Terrell said. “How positively awful. Imagine living in intimate quarters with a heathen.”
Juliana thought of Priti, the daughter of the woman they discussed, and felt her temper stir. “One must have lived with Indian people all throughout the house, in India.”
“Well, yes, the servants,” Mrs. Dalrymple said. “One didn’t marry them.”
“Was she a servant, then?” Juliana asked, her heart beating faster. “This lady?”
“Good heavens, I have no idea. One didn’t like to ask. I suppose she could have been from a good Indian family, but I doubt it, you know. They never let their women leave the purdah, and certainly not to marry into Scottish families.”
“I see.” Juliana clicked her cup to her saucer. “What happened to Mr. Stacy?”
Mrs. Dalrymple stilled. Her husband came alert on the other side of the room, ceasing his droning to Mr. McGregor.
Into the ensuing silence, Mrs. Dalrymple said, “Mr. Stacy was killed. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. McBride, but we very much believe that your husband was his murderer.”
Chapter 12
Juliana couldn’t move. Her wrist hurt from the angle at which she held her teacup, but she could not unbend it to set her cup down.
“Killed?” she repeated, her lips stiff. “Yes, I heard that Mr. Stacy died in India, but in an earthquake.”
“That is what Mr. McBride told you,” Mrs. Dalrymple said. “We are taking steps even now to present the proof that your husband killed Mr. Stacy.” She lifted her cup again. “There. I have warned you.”
Mrs. Terrell looked faintly embarrassed, and Mr. McGregor slammed his whiskey glass to the table. “Bloody nonsense! McBride’s a good lad, wouldn’t hurt a flea. You’re talking out your ass.”
Mrs. Terrell gasped. “Really, Mr. McGregor, your language.”
“Why mind my language when you are bandying about the name of a good Highland lad? Ought to be ashamed.”
“To be honest, my dear,” Mr. Dalrymple, more soft-spoken than his wife, said, “we don’t know that he hurt our Mr. Stacy. We have only the rumor.”
McGregor picked up his whiskey. “Well said. I like you, Dollimple.”
“Dalrymple,” Mr. Dalrymple corrected.
“Dull Pimple.” McGregor drank down the rest of his whiskey.
Mrs. Dalrymple looked distressed. Juliana rose. “I believe we shall leave now. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Terrell.”
McGregor got himself to his feet, his kilt swinging. “Excellent, lass. All this liquid makes me have to relieve myself. Nice to have met you, Dall Blimple.”
Juliana somehow got herself out of the room. She stalked out of the house, kindly thanking the Scottish maid who brought her things, resisting the urge to tell the girl to find other employment.
But, Juliana thought viciously, when Castle McGregor was ready, she’d offer positions to everyone in the village, and the Terrells and their friends would have to either scuttle back to England or fetch and carry for themselves.
Behind her she heard Mrs. Terrell admonish Mrs. Dalrymple in a low voice, and Mrs. Dalrymple’s shrill reply, “He killed our Mr. Stacy. There’s no doubt in my mind. And he should swing for it.”
“Not to worry, lass,” McGregor said cheerfully to Juliana as they climbed into the dogcart behind Hamish. “I got our revenge on them. I spit in the whiskey decanter.”
Elliot walked. He hadn’t brought the shotgun this time, to Mahindar’s relief, though he’d never loaded it the last time he’d taken it out. Priti had been with him, and he hadn’t wanted to risk the little girl getting hurt.
Today he tramped through bracken and mud, skirting small fields thick with summer grain. To the east, the land rolled down to the sea, which stretched wide and blue to be swallowed by the gray horizon.
He walked to forget the look on Juliana’s face when they’d climbed up out of the cellars, her cheeks streaked with dirt and tears, her pretty gown ruined. She’d gazed at Elliot in anxiousness, fear even, a look he never wanted to see again.
She’d discovered today what Elliot truly was. If she’d known when they’d sat together in the dim chapel what she knew today, she’d never have made the smiling suggestion that Elliot marry her.
While in the cellars this morning, Elliot had truly believed himself back in that prison. All his senses had told him so—he’d heard the men speaking the dialect of the tribe, smelled the filth that accumulated in the holes, tasted the dust in the air. He had been there.
And yet, Elliot couldn’t remember for the life of him why he’d gone into the tunnels beneath the boiler room or how he’d even found them. Exploring the house? Searching for something? He had no idea.
Being outdoors was safer. No danger of him confusing this country with the wilds in the northern Punjab and Afghanistan, where a knifelike wall of
mountains marched across the horizon, and the sea was only a distant dream.
Here, conifers and leafy trees soared to the sky, covering the folds of mountain. Meadows full of wildflowers and wandering sheep stretched along the hills.
Elliot found himself emerging from the wood to a whitewashed cottage with a slate roof, a vegetable garden filling the side yard. A young red-haired woman tended the garden, crouching to pull weeds with her gloved hands. She heard Elliot’s step and rose, smiling with delight.
“Mr. McBride. Ye’ve come. My grandmother will be that happy to see ye.”
The young woman tugged off her gloves and moved quickly to the open door of the house, apparently assuming he’d follow. Elliot made his decision and stepped inside after her, ducking his head under a low, thick lintel.
The inside of the house was small but warm. This was an old crofter’s house, which had originally had one large room and a loft, but in recent years, interior walls had been built to divide up the house. The front door opened into a kitchen and small sitting room, the sitting room containing cushioned armchairs and a wide hearth rug.
The walls were freshly painted, curtains hung in the windows, and a flower box outside the window overflowed with summer blossoms. Cozy. Juliana would like it.
The door to an inner room opened, and Mrs. Rossmoran, leaning on her black cane, emerged. Elliot offered Mrs. Rossmoran his arm, led her to the chair, and made sure she settled herself without harm. Her granddaughter Fiona moved to the kitchen, filled a kettle from the pump at the sink, and set the kettle on the small black stove.
“Thank ye, lad,” Mrs. Rossmoran said. “Ye’re a gentleman, even if ye’re kin to McGregor.” She thumped the seat of the second chair with her cane. “Sit there and let me look you over. Your lady wife came to call, but she was with McGregor, and I didn’t want to see him. A lovely creature, is the new Mrs. McBride. Very proper too, paying me a formal visit. Her mother was a Duncan.” Mrs. Rossmoran grunted as she moved deeper into the chair. “Daughter of one of my friends at school. Quite a featherhead was your wife’s mother. Charming, but a featherhead.”
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