The Seduction of Elliot McBride

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.

“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.”