The Seduction of Elliot McBride

Chapter 21

Elliot looked at Dalrymple for a heartbeat, then he drew back his fishing rod and sent the line over the river again.

“No,” he said.

Dalrymple blinked. “Pardon?”

“I said no. You’re not getting a penny.”

Dalrymple blinked a few more times, as though surprised Elliot hadn’t quickly begged the man to take all his money and leave him alone.

Dalrymple wet his thin lips. “Mr. McBride, your position is precarious. You killed a man and fled here to safety. You abducted his daughter and brought her with you. Now, while I agree that Mr. Stacy could be a hard man, and his daughter likely would have starved and died in India alone, I doubt you want this story to come out.”

“She’s not his daughter,” Elliot said calmly. “She’s mine.”

Dalrymple stared. “Is she? Well, good God, man, in that case, I think we had better come to some sort of agreement. If your wife and her family find out about this by-blow, not only will they be shocked and upset, they might bring suit against you, do you not think?”

“I’ve already told my wife about the lass.”

“Have you? Oh.”

Elliot went on fishing. Beside him Dalrymple cleared his throat, started to speak, broke off, and cleared his throat again.

“Let me return to my original purpose,” the man said after a time. “You murdered Mr. Stacy, and if you do not want to go to the gallows for it, you will make an arrangement with me.”

“Stacy isn’t dead.”

“Pardon?” More blinking.

“I said, Archie Stacy isn’t dead. He’s alive and well.”

Dalrymple actually smiled. “Ah, there we must differ. I have the death certificate.”

He pulled a piece of paper out of an inner pocket of his coat, unfolded it, and held it up so that Elliot could see the printing and official seal.

Bang! Birds exploded into flight from the surrounding trees. Warm blood sprayed over Elliot’s shirt, and he looked down in bewilderment at the filmy pattern of scarlet on linen. He felt no pain, and heard Dalrymple scream. The death certificate caught on the wind and fluttered gently into the river.

Elliot observed all this in one startled second, then he threw down his rod, stepped into deep shadow, and brought his rifle around.

Dalrymple remained in place, clutching his right hand and shrieking. McGregor and McPherson had disappeared into the shadows as well, only Dalrymple too far gone in pain to get himself out of the line of fire.

Elliot faded around the trees and moved swiftly and quietly in the direction of the shot. He ran up the hill, damp air forming droplets on his skin.

The scenario was eerily familiar, regardless of the tall Scottish trees that marched around him. He fought off his mind’s urge to take him back to the past, and ran on.

Elliot came out of the trees into a fairly flat clearing with an outcropping of bare rock. From the top of this rock, he had a perfect view of the river, the pool, and the exact spot where Dalrymple still stood.

Elliot pulled his rifle from his back and sighted down its scope. Dalrymple came into clear focus in the sunlight, his mouth moving as he swore in pain. Dalrymple had been facing Elliot, both of them in profile to this angle of the hill.

Stacy hadn’t hit Dalrymple by mistake. The man was a crack shot, one of the best. The wind was strong here, but Stacy would have adjusted for that.

He’d shot at Dalrymple, not Elliot. One shot. A spent cartridge lay shining at the base of the rock.

Elliot picked up the cartridge and dropped it into his sporran as he scanned the hill around him. Nowhere did he see a man running away, or brush and saplings moving to show his passage. The grass around the rock was matted and flat—all of it. Stacy must have trampled it before he’d taken the shot to cover the tracks of his retreat.

Elliot slung his rifle over his back again and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Stacy!”

The word rang from the hills. The men below looked up.

The echoes faded and silence came back to him. If Stacy had been there, he’d vanished into the faint mist creeping down from the highest peaks.

Elliot climbed down from the rock and went in search of him.

Juliana spent the morning busy with preparations for the midsummer fête and making certain that the men worked in the most important areas of the house.

Because Elliot was off fishing with McGregor when the workers arrived, Juliana kept a special eye on Priti. She noticed the instant the little girl rushed out of the house on her own to play with the goat, and hurried out after her, welcoming the morning sun on her face.

Juliana relaxed as soon as she found Priti in the kitchen garden—Priti was talking to the goat tethered out of reach of the runner beans, and feeding it oatcakes.

She enjoyed a moment of watching the child. Priti was sweet-tempered, and yet had the impish determination of her father. She’d taken the upheaval from her home in stride, liked exploring Castle McGregor, and enjoyed following Hamish about, tugging on the lad’s kilt when she wanted his attention.

The tranquil moment was disturbed when a man came out of the bracken at the foot of the garden. He was dressed the same as the workers—in kilt, boots, and shirtsleeves—his face covered with a rather tangled red-gold beard.

At the same time he didn’t look like the other men. Something about him, something Juliana couldn’t quite put her finger on, set him apart.

The man glanced briefly at Juliana, then his gaze went to Priti and stayed there.

Juliana stopped. A shout for Hamish worked its way up into her throat, but she bit it back, fearing what would happen if she startled the man. He did nothing, only looked at Priti.

Finally he turned slowly back to Juliana, met her gaze squarely, then turned and walked away.

Juliana started forward. “Mr. Stacy?”

The man didn’t respond. Juliana followed him, staying well behind him, as he walked steadily down the path to the foot of the garden. He went through the gate then stepped into the woods and vanished from her sight.

Juliana hurried out the gate to the spot where he’d disappeared, but as much as she looked around, she couldn’t tell which direction he’d gone.

She was still on the path when Mr. McGregor and Mr. McPherson came puffing up from the direction of the river, both men agitated and out of breath.

“Did you see a man pass you?” she asked them, then looked at their faces. “Whatever is the matter?”

“It’s McBride,” McGregor panted. “Your husband, lassie, is running amok in the hills.”

“Not running amok,” McPherson corrected. “Chasing someone. A poacher, I’m thinking. An accidental shot.”

“Shot?” Juliana touched her throat. “Elliot was shot?”

“No, no, lass,” McPherson said quickly.

“He shot Dull Pimple.” McGregor burst into laughter. “In the hand. That was a grand sight. The man dancing about, screaming like a banshee.”

“Is he all right?” Juliana asked in alarm.

McPherson answered while McGregor kept chuckling. “Your kind heart does you credit, lassie. Dalrymple’s fine. Bullet grazed him, the lucky bastard. My housekeeper is tending to him—she’s a good nurse, but he’s complaining all the way. Wants to bring a lawsuit against me.” He laughed.

“What about Elliot? Where did he go?”

“Chasing the poacher,” McGregor said. “I ran after him, shouted at him to leave the bugger alone, but he’s gone. McBride didn’t say anything, just dropped out of sight behind a rock and disappeared.”

“We need to find him. Elliot, I mean. No, both of them.”

“Dinnae worry, lass,” McPherson said. “I know every inch of these lands, and your husband’s only after a poacher, probably a lad from rougher country where the hunting’s not so good. They don’t have much up in the hills, and I don’t begrudge them a hare or two.”

“He’s not a poacher,” Juliana said. “The man Elliot is chasing is dangerous. I saw him.”

Both men stopped. “Saw who?” McPherson asked.

“A man Elliot knew in India.”

McPherson and McGregor exchanged a glance. “Lass,” McGregor said. “I hate to say it to ye, but your husband’s been acting a bit strange. Ye know he has. There’s no one more dangerous in the hills than the pair of us. And him.”

“But I saw him. Priti—you saw the man here, didn’t you?”

Priti looked up from feeding the goat a fat head of cabbage. She nodded then turned her attention back to her more interesting friend.

“What did he look like?” McPherson asked, in the tone of someone humoring her.

“Like a Highlander,” Juliana said impatiently. “In a kilt and boots, like one of the workers. But different. Like Elliot.”

That’s what had struck her—while the men here were sunburned pink from working in the summer outdoors, Mr. Stacy’s skin had been burned deep brown, like Elliot’s. Both men had lived a long time in a country where the sunlight was far stronger than that of northern Scotland.

“We need to find him,” she repeated.

When the older men continued to look at her skeptically, she swung away in exasperation. “Fine, then I’ll find someone who will help me. Hamish!”

She ran back toward the house. There were plenty of men there from the village and those who could be spared from their farms, all happy to earn the extra wages.

Juliana ran to the top of the staircase and shouted down at them all. “Gentlemen. Lads. Stop!”

One by one, they stopped hammering and pounding, looking around in curiosity to see what the lady of the house was screeching about. Hamish popped out from one of the upstairs rooms, hammer in hand.

Quickly Juliana told them what she wanted them to do. “An extra jar of ale to the man who finds my husband.”

Tools were dropped, and booted feet hammered on the stairs and the flagstone floor. The men eagerly raced out the door, scattering as they ran into the sunshine and wind.

Juliana knew that they, like McGregor and McPherson, weren’t particularly worried about Elliot, but why give up the easy chance for some fine brew? She followed them down and out, but swept Priti up into her arms when the little girl wanted to go with them.

“No, Priti, you stay with me.”

Priti gave her a look of disappointment, then flung her arms around Juliana’s neck and kissed her cheek.

Mahindar came out, followed by the three women, to find Juliana. “You are wise, memsahib. The sahib will not be in any danger now, not with thirty men searching the hills for him.”

“Do you believe him, Mahindar? That Mr. Stacy has followed him here?”

Mahindar looked troubled. “I do not know. The sahib has had waking visions before. Certainties that he was being followed or hunted. When he first came home, he was so very ill.”

“What does Mr. Stacy look like? Does he have red hair? Very light red?”

“Yes,” Mahindar said cautiously. “But so does almost every man working here.”

He had a point. Because a Scottish man had a fading sunburn from India did not mean he was Mr. Stacy. Many gentlemen from England or Scotland went to the Raj—with the army, the civil service, or on their own to try to make a living.

Then again, Juliana had made her decision what to believe, and she’d stick by it.

She carried Priti inside, with Mahindar and family, to wait for the searchers’ return.

The men came back at sunset, Elliot with them. Hamish declared himself the winner of the ale. The others good-naturedly debated that, except Elliot.

Juliana had never seen Elliot furious before. When she’d known him during their youth, he’d been at his most smiling and charming, and since their marriage, he’d been quiet, or seductive, or silently withdrawn.

Now his gray eyes sparkled with rage, and he stormed past his rescuers, took Juliana by the arm, dragged her into the dining room, and slammed the door on prying eyes. The setter, who’d been following him, scratched at the outside of the door and whined.

Elliot ejected the bullets from his rifle, unloading it in angry silence.

“I’m sorry,” Juliana said before he could speak. “I was worried about you. Mr. McGregor and Mr. McPherson said you’d rushed off into the hills after a man who apparently is not averse to shooting people.”

Elliot slammed the unloaded rifle to the table. “And every single one of the men you sent after me might have been killed. Hamish might have. McGregor might have. What if I’d shot one of them by mistake? Or Stacy had?”

“I assumed they’d all make so much noise they’d announce their presence long before you saw them. Mr. Stacy would run away, and you’d grow exasperated and come back home with them. Which you have.”

“Bloody hell, Juliana. What did you think I meant when I said Stacy was fucking dangerous? He could have shot any or all of the fools you sent after me, and they’d drop without knowing what hit them. He’s a trained sharpshooter. Hell, I trained him.”

Juliana lifted her chin. “I return to my theory that Mr. Stacy would find it more expedient to go back into hiding. And I was right.”

“But you might not have been right, love. McGregor insists it was a poacher with a stray shot. It wasn’t. No poacher around here uses bullets like this.” He reached into his sporran and dropped a bit of metal onto the table. “This is a cartridge for a custom rifle, like mine, not a common shotgun.”

Most bullet casings looked alike to Juliana, but she nodded at it. “Yes?”

“Your lackeys surrounded me and bade me come back with them like a pack of nursemaids.”

“I can’t help what they thought,” Juliana said, still studying the shell casing. “And I’m sorry. But I would rather see you walk home, angry at me, than be carried home on a litter, hurt, maybe dead.”

Elliot’s silence made her raise her head. He wore a bleak expression, his anger winding down into weariness. “Ye don’t believe me, do ye, lass? Ye think your husband’s a madman, like they do. McPherson is ready to throw me into a padded room.”

“No, I…”

His lips tightened. “Don’t pretend, Juliana.”

“I’m not pretending. I believe you. Now you need to believe me.”

Elliot stopped, his expression still grim.

“’Twas not an easy decision,” Juliana said. “You may believe me on that point too. But I weighed all the possibilities against what I had observed myself and drew the conclusion that you are not mad. Not about this anyway.”

His eyes glinted. “Did you make a list?”

“In my head. Yes, I did.”

“Not about this anyway?” he repeated.

“You know perfectly well what I mean. Whenever you talk to me of Mr. Stacy, you sound quite sane. Did he really shoot Mr. Dalrymple?”

“In the hand. It was a magnificent shot.” Elliot reached into his pocket. “But I think he was anxious to get rid of this.”

He dropped a piece of paper onto the table. The paper was damp, the ink blurred and illegible.

“What is that?”

“Death certificate. Dalrymple claims it is. It has to be a forgery, but it’s hard to tell now.”

Juliana touched it. “Mr. Dalrymple had this?”

“Mr. Dalrymple is a petty blackmailer. He wants money out of me to keep quiet that I killed Stacy. He’s gambling on me being so insane I don’t remember anything I do.”

“Well, it’s nonsense. Mr. Stacy is alive and here. I saw him.”

“What?”

“In the garden.” Juliana told him of the encounter, and her conclusion that the man had been in India.

“Damn it.”

“You can’t be everyplace at once,” Juliana said. “Besides, he did nothing. He looked at Priti, then looked at me, then ran off when I called him by name.”

“Damn it to hell,” Elliot said feelingly. He added a few more expletives that gentlemen should never use in front of ladies, and segued into languages she didn’t know.

“He did nothing. He looked at me most peculiarly, and at Priti, but did and said nothing.”

“Son of a…” More expletives. Elliot came to her. “Don’t go near him. Don’t leave the house. Give up your soiree until I’ve found him.”

“Midsummer’s Eve fête and ball,” Juliana corrected. “Which is next week. And no, I won’t give it up.”

“Until I’ve found him, I said.”

“Elliot,” Juliana said with patience, though his warmth close to her was most distracting. “The supplies are arriving. The house—at least the public spaces—will be ready. The invitations have been sent and replies received. The villagers are excited about the fête. I cannot possibly cancel everything now.”

“Postpone, I meant,” Elliot said, his jaw tight.

“It amounts to the same thing. I have only just now finished sending out all the letters to my wedding guests, explaining my change of circumstance and apologizing for saying I’d marry one man and marrying a different one on the same day. Therefore I refuse to let one mad Scotsman—I refer to Mr. Stacy, not you—make me send out more letters explaining that, I’m very sorry, but the first event I am hostessing at my new home must be postponed. I will not do it. I will not let Mr. Stacy force me to do it. I will not let you force me to do it.”

“Dear God, are you telling me that a bloody fête is more important than a sharpshooter hiding out in the woods?”

Juliana opened her eyes wide. “Yes. It is quite the most important point in our lives. If we let gentlemen like Mr. Stacy—and, I might add, Mr. Dalrymple—prevent us from carrying out events crucial to us and our marriage, then where would we be?”