The Seduction of Elliot McBride

Chapter 8

The teacup slid out of Juliana’s hands and fell down, down, to smash into fragments on the flagstone floor.

Juliana regarded it in dismay, while her heart pounded in her chest, and her face grew hot.

Channan said something admonishing to Mahindar, and the man looked unhappy and bewildered.

“His daughter?” Juliana said, swallowing on dryness. “With Nandita?”

“Nandita?” Mahindar looked surprised. “No, no. Nandita is not Priti’s mother. She is her ayah—as you say, her nanny—but we all look after Priti. No, her mother is dead, poor thing.”

“Oh.” Juliana’s thoughts fluttered around each other. She’d assumed Nandita the mother, because the young woman had been so attentive to Priti, and Channan had made clear her only children were grown sons. But Juliana had had no notion that Priti was Elliot’s. Elliot and…who?

She wet her lips. “Mr. McBride. He was married? In India?”

Channan and Mahindar exchanged a glance. Channan said, “He was not.”

Mahindar tried to drown her words with a string of Punjabi. Channan answered him as forcefully, then she turned back to Juliana.

“The sahib was not married to the lady,” Channan said. “She was the wife of someone else.”

Juliana couldn’t breathe. Her eyes begin to burn, her heart to beat painfully.

“You knew nothing of this?” Mahindar asked her in a faint voice.

Channan spoke to him rapidly and firmly in their native language, and Mahindar grew more and more embarrassed.

A lady did not break down in front of her servants in the kitchen, Juliana admonished herself. A lady shouldn’t even be in the kitchen, should never pass through the green baize door that separated the servants’ quarters from the rest of the house. Even though they were living rough here, and any green baize had worn to gray tatters long ago, Juliana should have observed the sanctity of the custom.

She held on to this idea, pounded into her head by her upbringing, to keep Mahindar’s revelation from overpowering her.

“You weren’t to know, Mahindar,” Juliana said. “Hamish, fetch a broom and sweep up the broken teacup.”

She walked away from them, her heel catching on one of the porcelain fragments and grinding it to powder.

Mahindar knew Channan was going to scold. And scold and scold. His wife was good at scolding him, but she only did when Mahindar deserved it, so it smarted doubly.

The sahib had never kept secret the fact that Priti was his child. But the man spoke so very little to anyone that most people did not realize that he’d fathered her. They assumed, as the memsahib had, that Priti was a servant’s daughter. Mahindar never spoke of it to anyone himself, because both he and Channan knew how the English felt about half-caste children. The sahib, and Priti, would have an easier time of it if people didn’t know.

But Mahindar had assumed the memsahib would know. Mr. McBride had spoken of her often, describing her as a childhood friend, a young woman to whom he’d never had difficulty talking about anything and everything.

Mahindar braced himself for the scolding, but it didn’t come. Channan simply turned back to her tandoor and stirred the vegetables inside.

“I know, I know,” Mahindar said in Punjabi. “I am a fool.”

“I said nothing,” Channan said without looking at him.

“But you are right. I want him to be happy. I need him to be happy.”

“What happened to the sahib was not your fault. I have told you.”

Mahindar turned back to his pots of spices, reflecting mournfully that his supplies were too low. He’d become acquainted in London with another Punjabi who knew where to find the best Indian spices in the city. Mahindar had started sending the man money and a list of needs, and the man sent back, by special delivery, lovely jars of turmeric and saffron, the mixture called masala, and peppers that Mahindar could not find in the English or Scottish markets. He would have to write another letter to his friend and post it soon.

As always when Mahindar thought of what had happened to the sahib, and the enmity between Sahib McBride and Sahib Stacy, he felt remorse. He might have prevented the fight, might have prevented the journey into the wild lands during which the sahib had been stolen.

Mahindar had searched and searched after the sahib had disappeared, but hadn’t been able to find him. He’d searched every day. Those long months had been the worst time of Mahindar’s life.

“Not your fault,” Channan repeated.

Hamish, not understanding a word of what they said, swept the floor in a rush of energy, as he did everything else. “So Nandita doesn’t have any children?” the lad asked.

“No,” Mahindar answered, switching to English. “She was married very young—fifteen or sixteen she was, but her husband was a soldier. He was arrested and killed, sadly.”

“What had he done?” Hamish asked, the broom slowing.

“Nothing at all,” Mahindar said. “He saw someone else doing something they shouldn’t, so they came for him one night and pretended to arrest him for treason. They shot him like a dog.” He shook his head. “Poor little Nandita.”

“That’s terrible.” The broom stopped altogether, and Hamish leaned on it, his red brows drawn. “Is that why she was hiding in the boiler room?”

“She is afraid of soldiers and guns. They mean grief to her.”

“Poor thing.” Hamish’s sympathy glowed from him. “Does she speak any English?”

“She knows a few words only.”

“Well, I’ll just have to teach her then.” Hamish looked down at the broom, realized it was at a standstill, and began sweeping vigorously again.

Mahindar noticed Hamish hadn’t offered to teach Channan or Komal English. He went back to his spices, smiling to himself, feeling a little better.

Dinner was slightly delayed because when Elliot and Priti returned, they were covered from head to foot in black mud.

“What on earth happened to you?” Juliana asked, coming into the flagstone passage to discover the source of the delay.

She found Priti in the laundry room, standing inside the huge metal sink, Channan pumping water over her and scrubbing her with a large sponge. Elliot, stripped to the waist, was standing at a smaller sink, with Mahindar scrubbing just as hard.

“Riverbank,” Elliot said, spluttering as Mahindar squeezed a giant sponge full of water over Elliot’s head. “I slipped in, and Priti fell in trying to rescue me. The bank we climbed out onto was this color.” He pointed to the tar-like mud on his kilt.

Juliana fought back the urge to laugh, and at the same time she didn’t know what to say to him. Elliot seemed relaxed, happy about his escapade with Priti and the comic way they looked.

Mahindar kept slopping the sponge, which was at least two feet wide, all over Elliot’s body. Elliot gleamed, wet, his arms glistening with water that pattered to the floor, the tattoo stark on his skin.

He grabbed the sponge from Mahindar. “Enough. Get Priti upstairs and dry.”

Mahindar relinquished the sponge with a sigh, as though realizing the limit to which Elliot would put up with his ministrations. Elliot scrubbed himself over, sloshing water onto his face and torso.

His kilt was drenched, and so were his bare legs, his boots left outside the back door. He snatched up a towel and rubbed his hair vigorously as he started out of the laundry room.

Juliana flattened herself against the wall in the passage between laundry room and kitchen as Elliot strode out, wearing only his kilt. He halted when he saw her, and he stepped close to her, his gray eyes glittering in the dim light of the hall.

Despite the toweling, Elliot was still wet, water beading on his lashes and dripping from the ends of his short hair. He said nothing, only leaned closer, closer. Now Juliana’s bodice was wet, the front of her skirt smudged with mud from his kilt.

His breath heated her lips, and his hands, one still holding the towel, went to either side of her. His gaze swept downward, then he skimmed his lips from her forehead to her chin.

The light touches sent warm shudders through Juliana’s body, heat curling in her belly. She wanted to latch on to him and pull him close, despite her still-spinning thoughts, and rise to him for more of his kisses.

“Did you have a nice walk?” she babbled. “You and Priti? Besides falling into the river, I mean?”

Elliot didn’t answer. He skimmed kisses down her face once more then came to her lips, parting them with his. Juliana’s head went back to the wall, and Elliot slanted his mouth over hers, his heat and his body covering her.

He licked slowly into her mouth, coaxing her tongue over his in return. She tasted the water on his lips, the salt of his sweat, the excitement of him. The length of his hardness, firm through the wool of his kilt, unashamedly pressed her skirts.

Elliot eased the kiss to its close then touched his lips to the corner of her mouth and the tiny dimple there. Still saying nothing, he straightened up, hooked the towel around his neck, and walked away.

Juliana’s heart pounded, the heat between her legs incandescent. She clutched the wall, the only thing supporting her, while she watched his kilt swing against his bare legs as he strode back through the passage to the main house.

Juliana was still standing there when Channan came to her with a stiff brush, to clean the water and mud from the front of her frock.

Elliot came downstairs again fifteen minutes later, dry and fit, feeling better than he had in a long while. He’d put on one of his formal kilts and a jacket, and had jerked a comb through his damp hair.

Juliana emerged from a room below, every sleek hair in place, her gown none the worse for wear after his impromptu kiss. Stopping to taste her while she’d stood against the wall in the kitchen passage had been impossible to resist.

Elliot reached the bottom of the staircase and held his hand out to her. Juliana looked a bit strained about the eyes as she took it, her face too pale.

Next time Elliot went for a walk, he’d take her with him. Juliana would love the beauty here, and there was so much of it to show her. And if he had to struggle up a riverbank again, he couldn’t think of more enjoyment than getting muddy with her.

As Elliot started with Juliana toward the dining room, Hamish came barreling out of the kitchens. Something that looked like a dead bird dangled from under his arm, its legs swinging. Hamish pushed past Juliana and Elliot, ran up three of the stairs, whisked the dead bird out from under his arm, put one of its spindly legs to his lips, took a deep breath, and blew.

Elliot lunged for him. “Hamish, for God’s sake, no…”

But the lad had already filled the pipes’ bag with air, and it came out again, a groan and a squeal that filled the hall and tore at Elliot’s eardrums.

Juliana clapped her hands over her ears. Hamish went on blowing, his face red, his thick fingers finding the holes in some semblance of a pattern.

Elliot took Juliana’s arm and quickly propelled her down a long passage to the dining room. Hamish came behind them, piping the laird and his lady to their banquet feast.

As soon as they reached the dining room, Hamish threw down the pipes, which died with a squawk, and ran to hold out a giant wooden chair for Juliana.

Elliot made for the other end of the long wooden table, which had been scrubbed until it gleamed. At his place were pewter plates, scrupulously clean; a goblet and tumbler also of pewter; and thick glass decanters of water and whiskey.

Elliot waited until Juliana was seated, Hamish pushing in her chair enthusiastically, then he smoothed his full kilt and sat down on the carved wooden chair at the head of the table. The back of the chair rose well above Elliot’s head, the square cut of the seat hard against his backside.

Hamish retrieved the pipes, which emitted another squawk, and ran out of the room, the spindles of the pipes slapping his kilt. Mahindar came forth bearing a giant bowl, into which he dipped a giant spoon. He ladled food first onto Juliana’s plate then walked down the table to spoon it onto Elliot’s.

Only the two of them dined. Uncle McGregor had made it clear he preferred to eat in the comfort of his room, without the nonsense of formal service. Elliot was happy to let him—dining alone with Juliana was preferable.

Fragrant steam rose from the chicken and vegetables Mahindar put onto Elliot’s plate, which he covered with a piece of flat, teardrop-shaped bread called naan. Mahindar set a little crockery bowl next to Elliot’s plate, which was filled with what looked like oil and smelled like butter—ghee.

Juliana picked up her fork. She moved a small piece of chicken out from under her bread, eyed it suspiciously, and took a bite.

Elliot watched her face change as the spices filled her mouth. He’d approached his first Punjabi meal with the same suspicion, until the savory flavors had made him understand what true beauty was.

He hid his smile and scooped the chicken smothered in garam masala onto his fork, enjoyed a mouthful, then tore off a bit of bread and dipped it into the ghee.

Down the table, Juliana said, “This is wonderful, Mahindar. What is it?”

“We call it tikka, memsahib. It is made with chicken and spices.”

“And this?” She pointed to her crockery bowl.

“Ghee. It is butter that has been boiled down and the fat skimmed from the top. You put it on your bread.”

Juliana took another bite of the tikka. “It is most excellent.” She dabbed her lips. “Highly unusual.” She reached for her goblet of water and took a long drink. “And quite spicy. Elliot, you did not tell me you preferred native food,” she said a little breathlessly.

Elliot shrugged as he swallowed another large mouthful. “Rona’s cook wanted only Scottish food in her kitchen, much to Mahindar’s distress. I told him that here, he and his wife can cook whatever they like.”

“Well.” Juliana drew another breath. “I will be eager to taste what you come up with, Mahindar.”

Mahindar did not look convinced. “Perhaps the memsahib prefers haggis?” His expression said that he’d rather die than have to prepare such a thing, but Mahindar always wanted to please.

“No, no,” Juliana said quickly. “This is lovely.”

“The sahib, he was so kind to us when he had his plantation. He let me tempt him with many a Punjabi dish, and did not insist on boiled mutton and very soft peas. He is so kind, is the sahib. Always kind to everyone.”

Juliana saw Elliot look up from his food, brows drawn, then he went back to shoveling the tikka into his mouth, tearing off pieces of the bread to accompany it. Nothing wrong with Elliot’s appetite.

Juliana knew exactly why Mahindar was emphasizing Elliot’s kindness. Kindness to Mahindar, to Mahindar’s family, to Priti…

“Thank you, Mahindar,” she said. “That will be all for now.”

Mahindar looked from her to Elliot. “But there is more in the kitchen. I can bring more.”

“No, you and your family should enjoy some food and a time to eat. When we finish, or need anything, I will ring…I mean, Mr. McBride will shout for Hamish.”

Mahindar looked to Elliot for confirmation. Elliot glanced up briefly and gave him a nod. Mahindar, resigned, set down the tray and walked quietly out of the room, shutting the door carefully behind him.

Juliana pushed her fork through the red orange savory sauce and tried to decide how to broach the subject.

Ladies were supposed to expect their husbands to take lovers outside marriage and even to have children with said mistresses. A wife was not supposed to mention this or bring up the fact, even if the children were brought home to be raised in her house.

This situation was different, perhaps, because the lover in question was dead, the affair conducted years before Elliot’s return home or this marriage. Indeed, because the woman had passed away, perhaps Elliot was more to be pitied than censured. But still, a lady was not to notice these things—she was to look the other way at her husband’s goings-on.

But Juliana had never been one for looking the other way at anything. She’d had to keep her eyes firmly open growing up with her kind but distant, ever-so-respectable father and her self-indulgent, rather indolent mother.

“My stepmother,” Juliana said. She had to stop and clear her throat.

Elliot looked up, his black coat and white shirt elegant, yet his skin brown with his outdoors life, his hands blunt and worn from work.

Juliana coughed and took a drink of water.

“I’ll tell Mahindar not to make it so spicy next time,” Elliot said.

“No, no. It’s fine.” She dabbed her lips with her napkin. “As I was saying, my stepmother can be very blunt. Discusses things quite frankly. When she comes to visit, she will want to know all about Priti, and her history. What shall I tell her?”

Elliot looked faintly surprised. “Tell her anything you like. I’m not ashamed of her.”

“Yes, but, my dear Elliot, I’m not sure myself of the story.”

He frowned. “I’ve told you.”

“No.” Juliana dragged in a breath. “No, you haven’t.”

His frown deepened. “Haven’t I?”

“No.”

“Mmph.” Elliot reached for the whiskey decanter and poured a large measure into the goblet. He took a generous sip then ran his tongue across his lower lip. “Sometimes I can’t remember the things I’ve said or not said.”

“I understand. It must be painful for you.”

Elliot stopped in the act of taking another drink, the goblet halfway to his mouth. “Don’t pity me, Juliana. I’m sick to death of pity.”

Juliana held up her hand. “Not pity. Interest. I’d be quite curious to hear the story.”

Elliot drank the whiskey. He set down the goblet, keeping one hand on it. “It’s not pretty. Not fit for young ladies at a drawing room tea.”

“We’re in the dining room. And I’m a married woman now.” Juliana’s face heated as she remembered the weight of Elliot in the dark last night, the pain-pleasure when he pushed his way inside her for the first time. “In all ways married.”

Elliot’s expression didn’t soften. “There’s a chance she’s not my daughter,” he said. “But a much better chance that she is.”

“Which do you hope?” Juliana held her breath for the answer.

“That she’s mine. But it doesn’t matter. Her mother is dead, Archibald Stacy is dead, and Priti will live with me, no matter what.”