The Seduction of Elliot McBride

by Jennifer Ashley

  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.”

  Elliot had nothing to answer to this outpouring. He gave Mrs. Rossmoran a polite nod as he obediently took the seat, and she charged along.

  “Juliana’s mother charmed prim and proper St. John into marriage for his money all right, smooth as butter, then she ignored him, bought more clothes than any woman has need for, and completely neglected her daughter. Mrs. St. John let the servants do as they pleased, and mostly they didn’t please to do anything. And so poor little Juliana was left quite to herself. It isn’t good for a child to be alone like that. Oh, she had nannies, a proper governess, and finishing school—her father was not the sort to forget about her education—but her playmates were footmen and maids, her confidants the housekeeper and butler. Any polish Miss St. John acquired she managed to put on herself, never mind that fine academy she attended, which I thought a waste of time and money.”

  Elliot recalled how, the few times he’d visited Juliana’s home with Ainsley in his youth, they’d been banished from any room Mrs. St. John might enter. Juliana had pretended she didn’t mind—it was a fact of life that children did not mingle much with their parents—but Elliot had seen Juliana’s hurt when her mother did happen to cross their path and never noticed her daughter in front of her.

  “Don’t look so surprised at my knowing all this, lad. I might be buried out here, but I know every Scottish family this side of the country and on up into the Orkneys, and I get stacks and stacks of letters.”

  Fiona brought over the tea tray and placed it on the table. “She does, Mr. McBride. Every day, letters and letters. And sends a pile out herself.”

  “So I know all about your young wife,” Mrs. Rossmoran said, signaling Fiona to serve Elliot first. “She’s a good lass, from what I hear. I did shake my head when I learned she was to marry Mr. Barclay. Not a good match for her. He’s an incomer without much to recommend him, his family dull as ditchwater. Thank heavens he eloped, but with all things, a piano teacher! Well, may she have the joy of him.”

  Elliot accepted his tea. “I’m just as happy he stepped out of the way.”

  Mrs. Rossmoran took the cup Fiona gave her in both hands, but she didn’t tremble. “Of course you are. I always thought you and young Juliana would make a couple. Helps that she’s such friends with your sister, and your brother and her father thick in finance. Though why a man has truck with finance, I don’t know. But these days, there’s not much in the land anymore, and bankers and merchants rule the world. I hear you have quite a penny put by.”

  “A bit.” Elliot drank his tea. Conversation with Mrs. Rossmoran was proving to be refreshing—Elliot didn’t have to say a word.

  “Made it out of the subcontinent, didn’t you? So many go out there to make their fortunes, and they end up destitute, or dead of disease, or addicted to some noxious substance. But that never happened to you, eh? Ye kept your head and made money off foolish Englishmen who wanted you to teach them how to make money there.” Mrs. Rossmoran chuckled. “Wise, lad. When I was a girl, I watched the Sassenachs drive away the Scottish farmers and burn out tenants so they could turn Scotland into one big sheep pasture. Fitting that one of our own took away the money all those sheep made for them.”

  It hadn’t been quite that simple, but Elliot didn’t bother correcting her. Her outpouring was lightening his darkness a little.

  “So what are you going to do, eh?” Mrs. Rossmoran paused to take a sip of tea. “Young Hamish says you’re mad as a hatter. You look sane enough to me, but Hamish says you’re a raving madman sometimes. My grandnephew likes to exaggerate, but the core of what he says is true. Have you seen a doctor about it?”

  “I have. He wasn’t much use.” Patrick had suggested a specialist, who’d listened to Elliot, taken his pulse, said Hmm a lot, and prescribed a course of barley water.

  Mrs. Rossmoran sniffed. “Doctors only tell you what you pay them to tell you. I wager he gave you some foul muck in a black bottle that will do you no good at all. Or he says it’s all nonsense and you need to stiffen your resolve. But doctors are too young these days, coming out of schools with highfalutin ideas about what goes on inside the body. They pay no attention to what goes on inside people’s lives, do they?” She patted Elliot’s kilt-clad knee. “What you’re doing is grieving, lad. Grieving for yourself. Because what ye were is gone, isn’t it? You’ve seen too much, and you’ve been hurt too much. The man you were will never come back.”

  All true. Every word was true. Hearing this blunt assessment coming out of Mrs. Rossmoran’s small, pursed mouth was both startling and comforting.

  “You’ve started off well, though, in your marrying,” Mrs. Rossmoran said. “You stick with her, lad, and you’ll do fine.”

  “Aye. I can agree with that.”

  Mrs. Rossmoran laughed, showing she’d lost a good many of her back teeth. “I thought you would. Saw the twinkle in your eye. That’s what ye need, lad. Bairns. A good many of them. Ye get on home and get to it.”

  Elliot departed not long later, swimming with tea and full of shortbread that Fiona had served hot from the oven. Nothing for it but that Elliot should wrap up half of it to take home with him.

  Mrs. Rossmoran might have something, he thought as he climbed along the side of a hill, well under the trees, heading in the direction of Castle McGregor. Bairns.

  Elliot always felt better when he was with Priti. How much better would he feel if he and Juliana surrounded themselves with more wee ones, all red haired like their mother? A whole nursery of children for Priti to play with and for Elliot to bask in.

  The steps he’d have to take in order to bring in those wee ones made his heart lighter.

  His body warmed at the memory of Juliana in the dining room, her body under his on the table, how fine it had been to climb into bed with her later and draw her back against his body. He would have done more if he hadn’t had to spend considerable time calming down McGregor. Tonight he would—

  The woods didn’t change, and only silence flooded it. But Elliot halted, every nerve alert.

  He scanned the hill that rose to his left, its towering trees cutting off his line of sight in that direction. But he knew. The prickle in the back of his neck told him.

  There was a watcher in these woods.

  And he was watching Elliot.

  The thought rose—Please, not again—but Elliot squelched it. He was mad, yes, but his madness couldn’t make an entire wood go silent.

  Woods teemed with life. Birds, beasts, and insects lived out their existence in their particular strip of territory—they were born, raised, ventured from the nest, found mates, raised their own young, and died. All that life made noise.

  A silent wood me
ant a predator, one so deadly that all animals stilled, as Elliot did. That predator might be a bear, a wolf, or more likely these days, a human.

  How long Elliot stood unmoving under the noiseless trees, he wasn’t certain.

  Gradually, the sounds began to return. A robin called, another challenged. Undergrowth rustled—squirrels or rabbits returning to their business.

  Elliot scanned the hill again. Nothing had changed. But the animals knew, as Elliot knew, that the hunter had gone.

  He remembered now why he’d gone to the boiler room, his excitement in finding the trapdoor. He remembered what he’d been looking for before his mind had seized him and transported him to the past.

  Elliot started walking, fast, faster, until he was running down the slope, back to discover whether he’d been right.

  Mahindar informed Juliana that Elliot was not there when she arrived home from her call to the Terrells, but before she had the chance to worry, Elliot came striding in through the open front door.

  “Juliana, come with me.”

  He was out of breath and walking swiftly, but his eyes were alight with determination.

  Juliana opened her mouth to ask where he wanted to take her, but closed it when he shoved a shortbread-scented package at Mahindar, grabbed Juliana by the hand, and started pulling her to the kitchen.

  “May I at least take off my hat?” she asked.

  Elliot frowned down at the hat’s saucy tilt of brim, the feathers that curled over the crown, and the ruche of ribbon in the front. He wasn’t studying the hat, Juliana realized, but deciding a way to conquer it.

  His fingers made short work of the pins, then he lifted off the hat and tossed it into the hands of Channan, who’d hurried out of the kitchen to join them.