The assassin screamed. Flinging down his pistol, he leapt, rolling, as the monstrous iron thing plunged to the floor below.
He couldn’t move quickly enough. The chandelier hit with a roar of broken metal. Juliana fled out the front door, shielding her face. The assassin managed to get his torso out of the way of the chandelier, but his legs were trapped. He struggled, then he fell, his face ashen. Defeated.
Elliot let out his breath. He kept his pistol trained on the man, made a wide berth around the wreckage, and knelt next to the assassin.
The assassin was an ordinary-looking man, with dark hair and brown eyes, a suit of such plainness that no one would have looked at him twice. He opened his mouth and spewed a string of invectives at Elliot, his accent pure Cockney.
Elliot unwrapped his hand from around the pistol—it hurt to open his fingers—and shoved it at Mahindar, who’d rushed into the hall followed by his family and Hamish. Elliot turned his back on them all and walked out of the dim wreckage of the house to the light, and to Juliana.
Juliana shook all over as Elliot came to her and took her into his arms. She held him close, smelling the acrid smoke of pistols and the dank air of the cellars on him. The tightening of his hold on her for a long moment was the only indication of what it had cost him to hunt for Mr. Stacy and his killers in the dark.
Elliot drew in a shuddering breath and let it out again. “I have to go back down,” he said. “Stacy’s hurt. Shot. Fellows is with him, but he won’t know how to get out.”
“Yes, of course. Go.”
Elliot touched his forehead to hers and drew another breath. Then he kissed her, released her, and strode away, calling for Mahindar and Hamish to help him.
Juliana watched him walk away with them, her knees weak with relief but her heart still beating hard. He was all right. He’d fought, and he’d won, against more than just the assassins.
But there was much to be done. Juliana hurried into the house. She had to prepare a bedchamber to receive the wounded Mr. Stacy, and they needed to send for a doctor or surgeon. And then there was the matter of an assassin lying in her hallway.
She entered the main staircase hall to the chandelier strewn across the floor, its giant wheel having gouged a small trench into the flagstone. Cameron and Daniel Mackenzie and some of the workers were trying to lift it off the poor man.
As soon as the ring of chandelier moved enough, Cameron grabbed the man under the arms and hauled him out. He was groaning, his legs bloody, his face wan.
“You’ll have to put him in the morning room,” Juliana directed, “to wait for Mr. Fellows. Stay in there, and don’t let Mrs. Dalrymple leave.”
“Right ye are, ma’am,” Daniel answered cheerfully.
Juliana skirted past the chandelier and the dangerous criminal and went on to the kitchen to enlist Channan and family to help fix a room for Mr. Stacy. Priti had been taken off to McPherson’s after Hamish’s bellowed announcement that Elliot was hunting assassins, to be watched by Gemma, and the ladies of the Mackenzie family.
Mr. McGregor was already in the kitchen. He was proudly showing the empty shotgun to Komal. “It was a hell of a shot, lass,” he said loudly. “Boom! Then that great eyesore comes crashing down. Smash!”
Komal listened, actually smiling. She took the gun from McGregor’s hands, checked that it was unloaded, then slapped him across the shoulder with her open hand. “Stupid old man,” she said clearly in English.
McGregor chuckled. “She likes me.”
Juliana recruited Channan and Nandita to go up the back stairs with her and make one of the rooms habitable. Not long after, Elliot came striding back, followed by Hamish and Mahindar carrying a large, flat board with Mr. Stacy on it, his torso stained with blood. Fellows, his face marked with dirt, broke off from the rescue party to enter the morning room and confront the assassin and Mrs. Dalrymple.
“Billy Wesley,” Fellows said, sounding the most jovial Juliana had heard him since he’d arrived. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
Juliana left him to it and spent the next intense hours in Mr. Stacy’s sickroom. The village doctor, used to dealing with gunshot wounds in a country upon which people descended every autumn to shoot things, knew what to do. Elliot helped him, the two of them performing the grim business of digging the bullet from Mr. Stacy’s side and bandaging him up.
As a lady, Juliana supposed she should not look upon an undressed man’s flesh, but Mr. Stacy was so pathetic, and someone was needed to mop up the blood as it gushed out.
Elliot held the wound closed while the doctor sewed it up. Stacy had been given a bit of laudanum for the pain, though he’d not wanted to take very much.
“Almost done,” Elliot said to Stacy. “Bear up, man. I’ve seen you with worse.”
“When I’m digging a needle through your flesh, ye can say the same of yourself.” Stacy flinched as the doctor tugged the stitches through his skin. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. McBride, for bloodying up the sheets.”
“I have others.” Juliana wiped his brow. “What will stave off infection is rest and keeping your bandage clean. Mahindar is very good at changing bandages, I’m told.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Stacy said. “McBride, you’re right. She would do well in the army.”
Elliot didn’t look up. “Aye, that she would.”
Before Juliana could answer in indignation, Stacy lost his amused look. “I never should have brought this upon you.”
“Save your breath for healing,” Elliot said.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. Satisfy the brothers’ honor without you or your family getting hurt.”
“Juliana, find a bandage for this man’s mouth. Inspector Fellows will have Jaya’s brothers dealt with when he returns to London.”
Stacy subsided then, but mostly because the laudanum was having deeper effect, and the worst of the surgery was over.
The chaos lasted most of the day, but one by one, the guests left, taking the train back to Aberdeen, where they’d go their separate ways. Ainsley and her family and Gemma were the last to leave.
Ainsley hugged Juliana on the doorstep, while her husband, child, and Daniel waited to hand her into the dogcart. “Whatever you have done, thank you,” Ainsley said, kissing Juliana’s cheek. “The change in Elliot is remarkable.”
“Do you think so?” Ainsley hadn’t seen Elliot on one of his bad days, or bad hours, since her arrival. He’d come through the rescue of Mr. Stacy and the flurried activity this afternoon without breaking stride.
“I do. Trust me.” Ainsley gave her another kiss, patted her on the cheek, and was gone.
Juliana waved them away, and went to say her last good-bye, to her stepmother.
Gemma made her sit down for a moment in the morning room, now empty of assassins and blackmailers. “Well, Juliana? You’ve made your bed, as they say. Do you still want to lie in it?”
Juliana’s face warmed as she thought of what she and Elliot often did in the bed upstairs. “I believe I do.”
Gemma’s businesslike look softened. “Don’t stay away forever, love. Your father and I miss you—goodness, how he misses you. Every day he talks about how you used to walk about, so proud to wear your ring of keys as mistress of the house. How you’d make sure his tea was served at exactly six, that his study had the books he needed most within his reach, his ink bottle always filled. The housekeeper and I make sure of it now, of course, but it was special to him that you did it. That you took care of him.”
Juliana’s eyes grew moist. Her father was not a talkative man, and she’d not known he even noticed what she’d done. Juliana had told herself that the best sign of an organized household was that the hand that guided it was invisible, but she’d always felt a tiny bit of hurt that her father had never said a word.
“I didn’t know that.”
Gemma’s hand was warm on hers. “I know, dear. Your father has never known much how to show his heart. Your poor mother was ter
rible at reading him, and so the match was doomed from the outset. I am a bit more shrewd than she was, and I know that your father is a man of deep feeling. His failure with your mother upsets him. He knows it was difficult for you. And he truly does miss you.”
“Thank you.” Juliana’s chest felt tight. Her father had never gushed affection, but she’d known it was there, underneath, though she’d never been quite certain how much. “I’m sure that Elliot and I will be back in Edinburgh soon. We have been invited to stay there with Ainsley, and also to attend Lord Cameron’s horse training in March.”
Gemma gave her a knowing look. “Are you certain about that, my dear? Your husband does not look as though he’s ready to share you with anyone yet. Ainsley and Rona told me of their visit here, how he tossed them out most unceremoniously. They couched it in terms that said they found it amusing—the newlywed husband wanting to be alone with his wife. I imagine there was a bit more to it than that, but of course, they had to explain their too-quick visit. Mr. McBride now looks happy to see the backs of us all.”
“Because he is worried about Mr. Stacy.”
“Humph. Your Indian manservant has already told me that Mr. Stacy is removing to Mr. McPherson’s for his convalescence. I’d say that was best. McPherson’s house is a bit more comfortable than this one.”
“Only because I have not had the time to make the place more habitable. The rooms that are finished have turned out splendidly.”
“How quick you are to defend.” Gemma smiled. “I meant no offense. From what Ainsley told me about the condition of the castle when she visited before, what you have done to this house in the meantime is quite astonishing. I have often said that no one could be a better general than you—or perhaps a sergeant major. I’m sure you bullied everyone in your power to make this house shipshape.”
“I’ve had to. If only you had seen what a nightmare it was.”
“But, Juliana, you saw it, you laid your plans, and directed everyone in battle against it. Your need to be a better woman than your mother was is admirable, and I understand it, but you must not let it obsess you. Mr. McBride needs a wife, not a sergeant major.”
Juliana bristled. “Gemma, you cannot tell me that this house does not need work.”
“Of course it does. But your husband is not a house. Do not try the same approach with him. Believe me, it will not work. Now, don’t open your eyes wide at me, child, and pretend you don’t know what I mean. To you, disorder is anathema. You think that if you can bring order to Mr. McBride’s life, he will be well. He is in disarray, and you must fix him. Perhaps you have not articulated it like that, but I see it. You did the same with your father. But people can’t be fixed, especially not men like Mr. McBride. Not in the way you mean. You have to understand, and help him, dear. Not repair him.”
Chapter 28
Juliana sat in silence, her hands folded on her lap. Was that what she’d been trying to do? Gemma was a wise woman—she always had been.
Had Juliana been trying to tear down and reconstruct Elliot in the way she’d remembered him? In the way she thought he ought to be? In the way she could understand him better?
“Oh, Gemma.” Her eyes burned. “I have no idea what I am doing. I don’t know how to love a man. I only know how to make lists.”
Gemma’s face softened. “My dear, your other fault is being too hard on yourself. You believed you needed to be the perfect daughter—now you’re trying to be the perfect wife. You and Mr. McBride are two strangers attempting to learn all about each other. The process is slow. It took me twenty years to get to know your father, and ten of those years I’ve been married to him.” Gemma placed a warm hand on Juliana’s knee. “Besides, Mr. McBride doesn’t look terribly put out that you’re trying to repair him. He looks much better, even in these two weeks since the wedding.”
Ainsley had said much the same thing. Juliana gave a faint laugh. “I doubt that is my doing. Elliot never listens to a word I say.”
“You mean he does not snap a salute and obey you, like that Hamish does,” Gemma said. “Or Mahindar Singh, who falls all over himself to please you. Your husband goes about his business, but he notices. He certainly notices you.” Her smile turned sly. “Can I assume that within the year, your father will take on the happy title of Grandpapa?”
Juliana blushed. “It is far too soon to know that.”
“But from your pink cheeks, I see that you and Mr. McBride are striving for the outcome.” Gemma got to her feet in a rustle of crisp poplin. “I will leave you to your strivings, stepdaughter, and eagerly await the announcement.”
Juliana rose with her and caught Gemma in her arms. Gemma stopped, pleased, and hugged Juliana back.
“Thank you for coming,” Juliana said with sincerity. “I’m only sorry we did not have enough time to spend together.”
“Of course we didn’t. What with your planning, your house not ready, people shooting at one another, and crashing chandeliers, we did not have a moment to ourselves.” Gemma kissed her cheek. “Next time, dear.”
Juliana walked out with her stepmother, arm in arm, and put her into the dogcart that Hamish had driven back from the station, likely at his usual breakneck speed.
She waved at Gemma for a long time, blinking back tears, then she went back to the house, with much to think about.
Juliana amazed Elliot every time he looked at her. The day had been crazed, with getting the guests away, moving Stacy to McPherson’s, and putting the house to rights—at least as much to rights as a run-down manor house-cum-castle could be.
Inspector Fellows had left with culprits in tow. He’d taken the Dalrymples to the nearest lockup for a hearing on a charge of blackmail, and the assassin back with him to Edinburgh. He, Elliot, and McPherson had arranged for the removal of the body of the fallen assassin in the tunnels, the man to be sent back to his family in London. Throughout it all, Juliana had helped, advised, and made little lists in her notebooks. Neat, efficient, cool, and lovely.
Juliana sat now at the other end of the dining table, the house finally emptied. She wore a blue satin tea gown that rode low on her shoulders, a cameo resting at her throat. She’d caught her curls up into a simple coil woven with a blue ribbon, fine curls framing her forehead.
Her notebook reposed next to her, with a Faber’s pencil nearby, so she could add to her blasted lists as she thought of things. Her curls trembled a little as she bent her head to write, candlelight catching on her sleek hair.
Elliot’s gaze went lower, to the shadow between her breasts. She’d worn the tea gown several times since their marriage, and Elliot decided he loved the dress. The satin hugged her body, and the décolletage put her breasts in tantalizing view. He would buy her a dozen such dresses and make sure she wore nothing else.
Elliot picked up his glass of wine. “What are you writing?”
Juliana looked up, pencil poised. “Hmm? What’s next to be done, of course. The chandelier replaced. What a monstrosity. I’m rather glad it fell. We’ll have something much more tasteful and charming in its place. I thought the drawing room carpet would be fine, but when we moved a chair to decorate for the ball, I found a very large hole all the way through to the floor beneath. I’d wondered why that chair was in such an odd place…”
Elliot rose from his seat, walked down the table, and pulled the notebook out from under her hand. He snatched the pencil as well.
“Elliot, what are you doing?”
Elliot tossed book and pencil to the other side of the table. He decided to be kind at the last minute and not put them on the fire.
He pulled a chair to her corner of the table, opening his knees to make room for the table leg that butted in his way. Ignoring Juliana’s splutters of indignation about her notebook, Elliot took her hand, turned it up on the table, and lightly traced a line that creased her palm.
“I’m going to tell your fortune.”
He saw the shiver go through her, watched her gaze fix on his.
Elliot traced another line. “I see a young woman in a blue dress. I see her in a bedchamber, candles lit, the bed turned down.”
“Do you?” Juliana wet her lips. “How very interesting.”
“I see a man, kissing her.”
“This grows still more interesting. Who is this man?”
The sly look she tried to assume had Elliot instantly hard. “He’s a mad Scotsman, weather-beaten, has kicked around the world. He has shorn hair and colorless eyes, and he loves you.”
“Loves.” The word was breathless. “Your eyes aren’t colorless. They’re gray like stormy skies. They’re the best color I’ve ever seen. Loves?”
“Loves.” Elliot leaned closer, studying her red lips and the moisture behind them. Her mouth waited, a warm place of enchanting desire.
He touched one plump lip with his—
And the darkness took him. Just like that. One moment, he bent to kiss his wife in a place of warmth, beauty, and happiness, and the next, he was back in the caves in the craggy mountains, waking up from the dream.
He felt the cold darkness, the stone beneath him, his beard and hair scratching his face, his filthy clothes crawling with vermin.
“No!” Elliot stared at his hands in the faint light, saw the cracked, dry skin, the calluses so hard he could barely feel anything through his fingertips.
“No!” he shouted again.
He hugged himself, willing himself back into the dream. It was there on the edges of his vision, the candlelight on Juliana’s hair, her eyes so blue, the same color as her gown.
He couldn’t touch it. She wasn’t real, none of it had been. The darkness mocked him, laughed at him for thinking he was well.
“Juliana,” a voice said. He recognized it as belonging to one of his captors, the cruelest of all, who’d sometimes amused himself by stripping off bits of Elliot’s skin with a jagged-edged knife. “The woman you love.” He spoke in his rough Punjabi, in a dialect they both understood.