The Seduction of Elliot McBride

Chapter 10

Again the sensation of rightness filled Elliot, rising over even the excitement of the sex. Not that entering Juliana’s heat and moisture didn’t pleasure him. Mindlessly so.

She was desire and goodness, and she smelled of her glycerin soap, a touch of French perfume, and a woman wanting. The sight of his cock disappearing inside her, her wiry red hair damp around him, made Elliot’s blood and body scalding hot.

Juliana’s eyes grew heavy with passion, her breasts rising with her quickening breath. She had such beautiful breasts. Creamy and pale, her areolas like silk.

Juliana clung to him with fingers and thighs, their bodies twined and locked. Elliot was safe at last, in his haven inside her. If he could stay here always, he’d be well. Everything he’d done in the past would be erased, and there’d be only Juliana.

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 they 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.”