She pressed her hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. Moonlight glittered on the tears that slid down her cheeks.
“With…” Her voice caught on a sob.
With Grant Barclay, damn him, the blithering fool who’d decided to improve himself with piano lessons. Elliot wanted to strangle the man, first for trying to steal Juliana from him, then for making her cry about him while she lay in Elliot’s bed.
And Elliot knew how to. Exactly how to get a man’s throat under his hands, where to press to cut off the air, to make sure Grant Barclay never breathed again…
Juliana tried to wipe away her tears. Elliot unfroze, lifted the covers, and swarmed into the bed beside her.
Chapter 5
Juliana hadn’t meant to cry, but she’d suddenly realized that she could be lying in a hotel bed with Grant tonight, instead of far from home in a run-down fairy-tale castle next to the strong warmth of Elliot McBride. What a lucky, blessed escape.
Elliot’s lips touched her cheeks, kisses taking away the tears.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
His kisses moved to her lips. Strong, sure kisses, brushing the pad of her lower lip, tracing the curve of the upper. It was warm in the close room, warmer under the covers, and Elliot’s body in the bed drew sweat.
He licked the perspiration from beneath her lip, scraping her hair back with a strong hand. Something primal beat through Juliana’s body, erasing all Gemma’s instructions for her first coupling. This was to have been a dutiful night with Mr. Barclay—now she was with Elliot, the man she’d loved from girlhood and never dreamed she’d be with.
His lips caressed hers open, tongue sweeping into her mouth. Elliot closed his eyes as he kissed her, cradling her head with fingers, thumb caressing her temple.
The button at the top of her nightgown loosened, the placket parting. Elliot slid his hand inside, moving across her damp skin to close over her breast. Juliana arched to meet the cup of his hand, all the while kissing him, their lips parting and touching.
Elliot swept his tongue inside her mouth again, more insistent this time. He nudged her into response, making her lick across the warm friction of his tongue.
A lover’s kiss. Elliot McBride, her lover.
He closed his callused hand around her breast, caressing, kneading. Two fingers caught her nipple between them and gave it a little tug. Sensations Juliana had never experienced before spiraled around the areola, the point rising, hardening.
She couldn’t breathe. The bed was too warm, Elliot’s mouth on hers pressing her down into it. He tugged her nipple, building the sensations to fire.
Fire built from there to her heart. The collar of the nightgown grew wet with her perspiration, and she was going to die.
Juliana pushed against him. Elliot’s tongue filled her mouth, and she couldn’t speak. She tried to close her lips, but he wouldn’t let her.
She pushed again, both hands on his chest. Elliot at last broke the kiss, his lips hovering close to hers.
His half-closed eyes were dark in the moonlight, the silver gray glinting through. One droplet of sweat trickled down his throat.
“I can’t breathe,” Juliana whispered.
Elliot said nothing. He took his warm, wonderful hand from inside her nightgown, unbuttoned the rest of her placket, and loosened and opened the nightgown to her waist.
Sliding down her body, Elliot lowered his head and closed his mouth over the breast he’d stroked to life with his hand.
Breath rushed into her lungs. Here was the air she missed, but now she had too much of it. Heat raced down her body, incandescent at the beautiful point of Elliot’s mouth on her breast.
He suckled her, eyes closed in concentration. He gently squeezed her breast with his callused fingers to make the nipple rise higher, then pursed his mouth to suck and tease, nibble and tug.
Juliana squirmed under him, her heart pounding. Between her legs was a point of white-hot fire, a yearning to rub that place against him.
“Elliot, what are you doing to me?”
Elliot didn’t stop to answer. His mouth moved more insistently, making her ache, the opening between her legs widening and heating.
“I need…” Juliana bit back the words. She had no idea what she needed.
Elliot released her breast and played the tip of his tongue over the nipple. Juliana rose to him, seeking his mouth, but he lifted away, and she made a noise of disappointment.
But then Elliot slid his hand down her body to glide two fingers between her legs. Juliana sucked in a breath, her eyes widening as he touched her hottest place.
As Elliot sank his fingers into her moisture, he closed his eyes again and drew a long breath. He could scent her longing for him, honey in the darkness.
In this bed, enclosed in her heat, Elliot was safe. The empty blackness, the cold, the stifling airlessness, were gone. They couldn’t touch him here. Juliana was all that was safety, light, and warmth.
She was also a woman longing for the touch of a man, and not understanding her longing. Elliot would teach her. Whether it took a year or ten years, he’d teach her everything.
He gently thrust a finger into her. Juliana bucked against Elliot’s hand, and he closed his palm over the berry that was tightening with her need.
“What are you…?” Juliana’s words ended on a sob.
“Getting you ready.” Elliot didn’t know what endearments women liked, or how to soothe her. He only knew how to touch her, her body and his communicating in silence.
Her wiry hair curled against his hand, the depths of her hot and moist. She’d never done this before—he knew by the way she started in surprise when he began stroking her. This was a new sensation for Juliana, and it was new to Elliot, because it was her.
I’ve waited for you all my life.
In the darkness and through the hunger, he’d dreamed of her, but his dreams had been incomplete. Elliot hadn’t known the full scent of her, the warmth of her skin, the feel of her beneath him.
He withdrew his fingers and touched them to his tongue. He hadn’t known the taste of her either. Sweet nectar. He needed more.
Elliot licked between her breasts, tasting salt, then he kissed his way down her belly, yanked open the nightgown the rest of the way, and pressed a burning kiss to the join of her legs.
As she drew in a sharp breath, he tasted her, licking where he’d touched, his tongue entering where his finger had.
Beautiful, sweet honey. Elliot licked and drank, the tightness in his body easing.
Feast on her, drink of her. If I have enough of her, I will never be afraid again.
Juliana’s hands went to his hair, furrowing as he licked. Her little cries drove him wild. His body started to move, hips to roll with the rhythm of his tasting, his hardness digging into the mattress.
“Elliot!”
As her cry rang out, he felt the little pulses in her sheath, the female need, the headiest pleasure of all.
She was a virgin, and Elliot knew it would hurt going in. But she was wet and open, her body already releasing.
Elliot would love to lie here and lick her while she came into his mouth, then bring her to readiness again. And again. All night.
But his own body cried out for release, his cock so tight it ached. Elliot took his mouth from her beautiful place, untied and wriggled out of his silken breeches, and slid up her body.
He had one instant of enjoying the softness of her under him, and then he thrust inside her.
Her eyes widened, beautiful Juliana, her cry turning almost to a wail. But not in pain. She closed over him, wanting him, her passage so slick that the barrier vanished with one push.
Crazed with need, Elliot took one, two, three strokes inside her, before his seed released, and his shouts mixed with hers.
He kept pumping, hips moving, needing her, unable to have enough of her. Wind slapped at the window, sending the old casement banging open, and a gust of wind poured over the bed.
/> It cooled Elliot’s skin and made Juliana shiver. Elliot’s thrusts slowed, and he curved protectively over her.
Always protect her. Juliana was his. She’d stood in the church today and declared that she belonged to him. Forever.
The sun rose early in high summer this far into the Highlands. Juliana opened her eyes as sunshine poured in through the eastern window and brushed the body of her husband beside her.
Juliana felt odd—exhausted and exhilarated, and yet at the same time pliant and relaxed. Gemma had explained what a woman was expected to do on her wedding night—lie back, breathe deeply, and remain calm.
She’d not mentioned a man licking, exploring, touching, and drinking. Gemma had said that the first time hurt. And it had, but in a wild, need-filled way that hadn’t been pain at all.
And yet, Juliana was sore, and she knew without doubt that she could no longer be called a maiden.
Elliot slept facedown next to her, his cheek crushed against the mattress, nowhere near a pillow. His long legs poured out the bottom of the bed, the covers thrown halfway off in his sleep.
His hair was half folded, half sticking up, the light brown burnished with gold from the sun. His lashes were golden too, resting against a face that had been Scottish fair before tropical sun had burned it brown.
One broad hand lay near his face, his bent arm showing her thick muscles that came from hard work. A design had been inked on his right bicep, a flowing vine that wrapped all the way around his arm.
Juliana stared at the tattoo, fascinated. She’d never seen anything like it. She’d heard of sailors being tattooed on their voyages to faraway places but had never seen a gentleman with one.
Then again, Juliana had never seen a man without his coat, waistcoat, shirt, high collar, and cravat, not even her own father. Athletes stripped to shirtsleeves or short sleeves to run, row, or play ball games, or so she’d heard tell, but Juliana had never attended a sporting exhibition. Quite a lot of gentlemen might have tattoos in places a lady would never see.
Part of Elliot’s backside was exposed, his knee hooked over the quilt. Juliana studied his tight hip, letting her gaze move to the wiry hair that traced down his leg.
He was a well-formed man. God had quite nicely put him together.
Elliot had scars on his back, random white lines from long cuts, similar to those on his face. He’d hurt, those scars told her; he’d bled. The cuts had been made deliberately, by someone who’d wanted to hurt him.
Juliana put out her finger and traced one of the scars that snaked to his shoulder. The skin was smooth where it had been cut, and she glided her touch over it, then down his arm to the delicate leaves of the tattoo.
She expected Elliot to wake at her touch. He’d open his gray eyes and smile at her, and perhaps—her heart beat faster—he would roll her onto her back and continue kissing and tasting her. The marriage bed was a fine place indeed.
Elliot didn’t stir. Not to be surprised—yesterday had been excessive.
Juliana leaned down and pressed a kiss to the vine on his arm, then another, and another. Her hair tumbled forward, loosened from its braid, brushing Elliot’s back, and still he did not wake.
Juliana lifted her hair out of the way, leaned to Elliot’s cheek, and kissed it. Then his lips.
She wanted him to open his eyes, to smile, as he had when he’d come to Juliana’s debut ball and stolen a kiss from her on the terrace. That young Elliot had been laughing, teasing, a man with whom she’d talked and danced for hours.
This Elliot was quiet, his smiles gone, with a tattoo on his arm and knife scars on his face and back. She kissed the scars.
Elliot still didn’t move. Juliana sat up and looked at him.
The covers fell from her bare body. Elliot slept on, his breathing quiet and shallow, no snoring. All men snored, Gemma had assured her.
“Elliot?” Juliana gently shook him. His skin was hot, his body limp, and he didn’t wake.
“Elliot.” Her alarm grew. He might be a sound sleeper, yes, but she’d feel better if he opened his eyes and growled at her for waking him.
Her father had always done that when startled from his nap—he’d insist he hadn’t been asleep at all, never mind his head was thrown back on his office chair, his mouth open, his spectacles askew.
Elliot did nothing so amusing. His body moved with her shaking, but he never opened his eyes, never stirred.
Juliana kicked off the covers, found her nightgown and slid it on, buttoning it with shaking fingers. Channan had hung her thick dressing gown over the chair, and she slipped this on too and looked for a bellpull. Part of one did hang on the wall, but it had been chewed through by the mice, and Juliana couldn’t reach the attached half of it to ring for anyone.
First thing that was fixed tomorrow…no, today—the bellpulls.
Juliana went out into the hall to find the house deathly silent. She had no idea where Mahindar and his family had found to sleep, no idea whether Hamish lived in or trotted home to his mother every night. Shouting might only bring Mr. McGregor flying out of his room with his shotgun again.
She hurried down the hall toward the large staircase. The gallery was dark, the only light coming from windows in the hall below. The chandelier hung dark and empty. Second thing to repair—the lamps.
As Juliana started down the stairs, a door banged somewhere in the bottom of the house, and red-haired Hamish strode into the hall. He looked up the stairs, gave a startled yell, and dropped the armload of wood he’d been carrying. It clattered loudly to the floor, and his voice rose over it.
“Haunt! Banshee!”
“Hamish,” Juliana said sharply. “Don’t be silly. It’s me.”
Hamish pointed at her with a shaking finger. “How do I know you’re really the missus? Demons wile and beguile.”
“Do stop that. Where is Mahindar?”
Hamish gulped, but lowered his hand. “Downstairs. Are ye sure ye’re not a ghost, m’lady?”
“Quite certain. I will change my dressing gown from white to purple and red striped if it will make you feel better. Now, will you please fetch Mahindar? Tell him I’m sorry to disturb his rest, but Mr. McBride needs him.”
Hamish gave her a salute. “Right, m’lady.”
He charged off, jumping over the wood he’d scattered. Before Juliana could ascend again, Mahindar came rushing out of the back of the house, followed by his wife and mother.
A door banged above, and Mr. McGregor stomped out, sure enough, with his shotgun. “Can’t a man get peace in his own house? Hamish, lad, what ails ye?”
“It’s all right, Mr. McGregor,” Juliana called.
McGregor tramped his way to the gallery and peered over the railing. “Why is there a woodpile all over the floor? And who is that?” McGregor brought his shotgun down, aiming at Mahindar. “Good God, it’s savages from Khartoum.”
Mahindar put out his arms and stepped in front of the ladies, trying to protect them. Juliana rushed back to the top of the stairs.
“No, Mr. McGregor. They’re Mr. McBride’s servants. From India.”
“Even worse. Thuggees. I know about them. They strangle you when you’re not looking.”
Juliana walked swiftly down the landing to him. “They’re friends. Put away that gun.”
To her relief, McGregor lowered the butt of the gun to the railing, the barrel pointing upward, away from all human beings. “Don’t patronize me, lass. I’ve been handling a gun, man and boy, these nearly seventy years…”
The last of his words were lost in a bang and a roar. The shotgun blast hit the ceiling high above the gallery. Juliana screamed, as did Mahindar and family, and Hamish.
Plaster, dust, and mud slammed to the floor below, and the huge chandelier started to sway…
Chapter 6
Juliana held her breath as the chandelier went back and forth, back and forth, like the giant pendulum in the terrifying story by the American Mr. Poe. The others watched it with her, frozen in pl
ace as they tracked the chandelier’s path.
The chain groaned against the ceiling, but slowly, slowly, the giant chandelier eased back to its resting place.
Juliana let out her breath and heard McGregor’s loud exhale at the same time. She turned to him and held out her hand.
“Give me that gun, if you please, Mr. McGregor.”
McGregor, looking sheepish and defiant at the same time, eased his finger from the trigger and handed her the weapon. Juliana broke open the gun with the competence her father’s gillie had taught her and held it safely over her arm.
She opened her mouth to tell Mr. McGregor to dress himself, for heaven’s sake, when Mahindar’s mother came charging up the stairs, shouting before she hit the first step. Komal held her fluttering silks in one hand, and raised the other, not at Juliana, but at McGregor. She bore down on him, her raised hand moving back and forth like an angry bird while she railed at him in rapid speech.
McGregor retreated several steps, arms high in defense. “Don’t ye be screechin’ at me, woman. A man has a right to defend his own home.”
Komal continued to yell, her meaning clear even if Juliana didn’t understand her words—Get back to bed, you daft old man, before you shoot the house down.
McGregor turned and ran, Komal chasing him, her voice growing louder as she followed him down the hall. Mahindar called to her from below, but his voice was faint, nervous, and Komal didn’t pay the slightest attention.
“Mahindar,” Juliana said over the railing. “I can’t wake Mr. McBride. Can you help?”
Mahindar stopped pleading with his mother and came upstairs, Channan with him. Channan left him at the head of the stairs and went after her mother-in-law and Mr. McGregor, a determined look on her face.
Juliana led Mahindar back to the bedchamber. Surely they’d find Elliot on his feet, demanding to know what all the noise had been about. But when Juliana opened the door, Elliot still lay on his side, sleeping his deep sleep.