The look on Mahindar’s face renewed her alarm. “Mahindar, what is wrong with him?”
“I hoped, I so hoped…” Mahindar trailed off as he approached the bed. “Be careful, memsahib. Sometimes he does this, sleeps like a dead man for hours and hours. But when he comes awake, he can be violent. He doesn’t know where he is, and thinks I am his jailer.”
“But he’s safe now. He knows that.”
“Yes, yes, when he is awake and fine, he understands this.” Mahindar touched his forehead. “But inside his head, sometimes he is still confused. You must understand—he was left alone in the dark for a long, long time. Sometimes they fed him, sometimes they didn’t bother, sometimes they left him alone, sometimes they beat him for nothing.” Mahindar looked sad. “I know they must have done much more to him, but that is all he has told me.”
Juliana looked at Elliot, lying so quietly on the bed, his chest barely moving with his breath. His body was whole, only the scars on his back and face attesting to his ordeal. But perhaps healing outside and healing inside were two different things.
How did a man face such horrors and then return home to normal life? He’d never be the same, would he? How did he speak with people who’d never known his horror, people who’d lived in comfort and safety all their lives, who could never understand?
Such a man did what Elliot did. He kept to himself, bought a run-down house in a remote corner of the Highlands, and lost himself in the depths of sleep.
“What do I do?” Juliana’s question came out a whisper.
Mahindar, with his thickset body and intelligent eyes, gave her a look of vast sorrow. “I do not know, memsahib. I have tried everything to heal him. I hoped that when he came here to this country he loved so much, he would get better. Maybe now, that he is married to you, he will.”
Juliana drew her dressing gown more tightly about her and looked at her husband, her marriage one day old. “I barely know him, Mahindar. Not this Elliot.”
The Elliot of her youth, who’d helped her retrieve a kite from a tree, who’d smiled in triumph when she’d kissed his cheek, had vanished into the past. This Elliot was hard, marked with scars, and had been through more than any man should face. The world expected him to shrug it off, to keep a stiff upper lip, to ignore his pain, but how could he, in truth?
She’d have to get to know him all over again before she could even hope to understand him.
“I will help you, memsahib,” Mahindar said, with a quietness like a deep river. “You and I, we will bring him back together.”
“Ah, you are awake at last.” A voice swam out of the darkness to Elliot. “Thank all the gods. Your sister, she is here.”
Elliot peeled open his eyes to see a face hovering mere inches above him. He experienced a moment of panic—What now? What now? Couldn’t they leave him alone?
Then he realized that it was Mahindar’s kind and worried countenance studying him, thick brows drawn together under his white turban, the man’s beard tucked neatly inside his tunic.
“Damn it, Mahindar.”
Mahindar’s distress did not abate. “Lady Cameron has come to visit the memsahib. Your sister-in-law, she is here too, and she insists she see you.”
Rona and Ainsley. Elliot’s redoubtable sister-in-law and pretty, lively sister. Not what a man needed to face when he’d awakened feeling like he had a three-day hangover.
Elliot rubbed his face, finding it full of bristles. He must have been asleep for a long time. Another spell must have taken him, leaving him no idea how long he’d lain in darkness.
And where the hell was he? He squinted at the bedroom empty of drapes and filled with large, square furniture, the bed in the middle of the floor. “Is this McGregor’s place? How did we get here?” Only Great-uncle McGregor’s house could look solid and falling apart at the same time.
The last time Elliot had come here, to purchase the house, he’d bunked down in the warm kitchen—much more comfortable.
Mahindar looked troubled. “Do you not remember? Yesterday, you were married.”
Yesterday was a blank; all days for a long time had been a blank…except…
“Married? What the devil are you talking about? Tell me you brought me whiskey.”
“No, indeed. Her ladyship, your sister, forbade it. She said I was to get you up and down to the drawing room by any means necessary, except whiskey.”
“Ainsley said that?” Elliot wanted to laugh. He’d always been close to his little sister, who knew him in ways no one else ever could. That was the old Elliot, though. No one knew the Elliot of now.
Elliot threw back the covers. He was naked, but Mahindar neither noticed nor cared. “Draw me a bath. I’m not fit to be seen by decent women. Not even my resilient sisters.”
As Mahindar bustled around preparing the bath with ewers of steaming water, Elliot fought his way from the dense fog of his sleep. Mahindar was speaking, and Elliot struggled to focus on his words.
“I have put them in the morning room with the memsahib,” Mahindar said, “and there they wait.”
“The memsahib?”
Mahindar looked up, the water dribbling, unheeded, to the floor. “Yes, the memsahib,” he said in careful tones. “Until yesterday she was called Miss Sinj.”
Mahindar, who’d worked for Britons all his life, prided himself on getting British titles correct. He did have some difficulty pronouncing the names, however—and who can blame him? Some are bloody impossible.
Elliot rubbed his face again. “Miss Sinj? I’ve never heard of anyone called Sinj…” His eyes slammed open, letting in too much light. He rolled out of the high bed, landing hard on his bare feet, and the room spun.
“You mean Miss St. John?”
“Of course.”
“Bloody hell, and damn everything.”
Snatches of yesterday came to him—Juliana plopping down on his lap in a billow of white, her hopeful smile, her beautiful blue eyes.
The memory of her skin under his fingertips, the kiss he’d pressed to her palm. Elliot had drawn her warmth into him, which he’d clung to as though he hadn’t felt warmth in years. He’d longed to kiss her lips there in the chapel, but couldn’t bring himself to with a mouth sour with whiskey.
Then he remembered standing at the front of a packed church, almost panicking at the press of bodies, all those eyes staring at him as he promised to be a good and true husband to Juliana St. John.
Bits and pieces came to him of the journey here, too slow when all he’d wanted was to be with Juliana. Then they’d been at the run-down house, Elliot coming to himself with his knife at the throat of the terrified Hamish, Juliana’s voice cutting through the darkness.
His mind gave him back the next thing, the bliss of Juliana’s heat, her touch, the scent of her surrounding him. A moment, that was all, of drowning in her and forgetting everything.
But the darkness had decided to rob him of even that. It wanted to take Juliana away from him, snatch back peace as Elliot reached for it.
No. I need this.
He plunged into the bath, letting it bite his flesh and the scars on his back. Mahindar knew better than to try to wash Elliot or help him into or out of the tub. Elliot soaped himself down, getting plenty of water on the floor, then curbed his impatience to lie back and let Mahindar shave him.
Mahindar finished as quickly as he could, unhappy he couldn’t wrap Elliot’s face in a hot towel and perhaps finish with a massage. Elliot ignored the man’s complaints, rubbed himself dry, and dressed.
Hamish was clattering around the hall below, making a great deal of noise when Elliot descended, but Elliot couldn’t stop to decide what he was doing. He noticed that a fist-sized hole had been punched into the lacy stonework of the ceiling, only a few inches from the big chandelier.
Elliot barreled into the morning room to find three elegant ladies in the act of lifting teacups. A clock somewhere in the house chimed three. Ainsley smiled at him, and Rona, his prim sister-in-law, gave
him a look of appraisal.
Juliana studied Elliot over the rim of her cup, then she set the cup back down, her eyes full of concern.
Did he look that much like hell? He should have glanced into a mirror, but the bedchamber had none, and Elliot had learned to avoid mirrors. He trusted Mahindar to make sure his clothes were straight but never bothered anymore with anything beyond that.
“Here you are, Elliot,” Ainsley said, her voice overly bright.
“Yes, here I am. Where else would I be?”
He heard the growl come out of his mouth, but he couldn’t stop it. Ainsley, his tomboy sister, was resplendent in some creation of cloth that subtly changed hue when she moved. Rona, plump and regal, wore a dark dress she’d assumed befitted her age of fifty-odd, with a cap of ruffles, bows, and floating lacy bits. All his life, Elliot had seen Rona in some kind of cap—plain ones and Sunday best, caps for calls and for receiving calls, for visiting one’s doctor and for shopping. Whenever he thought of Rona, his first vision was of caps.
He took all this in swiftly, then observations were shoved to one side of the room, and the only being who existed was Juliana.
Her lawn gown was cream colored with thin black piping outlining her bodice, placket, collar, and cuffs, the skirt deeply ruffled down the front. A high collar framed her chin, softening her face and emphasizing the slight dimple in the left corner of her mouth. She’d woven a cream-colored ribbon through the dark red of her hair, little ringlets left to float from her forehead and the back of her neck.
She resembled the china figurines he’d seen in shops throughout Europe, elegant ladies frozen forever in time, their porcelain hands plucking at swirling porcelain skirts.
Except that Juliana didn’t have the coldness of porcelain—she was warm flesh, breath, and life.
She watched him with blue eyes that reminded him of cornflowers, or maybe the sky in springtime. Only the women of Scotland had eyes that color. Juliana was of this place, Elliot’s home.
“Elliot,” Juliana said. Her sweet voice rushed at him. “Rona has come for the rings.”
Rings. Elliot looked at his left hand, which sported a thick gold band. He remembered pushing Juliana’s ring onto her hand, telling her he plighted her his troth. His truth, his fidelity.
As though he could conceive of touching any woman but her. Ever. For any reason.
“I presume,” Ainsley broke in, still speaking in that overly cheerful sickroom voice, “that you thought to order rings for yourself.”
He had. He now remembered telling Mahindar, before going into the church to wait for Juliana, to send to the family’s jewelers for rings to be made. Remembered Patrick, his kindhearted brother, pulling Elliot aside and closing into his hand two cool rings, which had not left the fingers of Patrick and Rona since their marriage thirty years ago.
“It’s taken care of,” Elliot said. He tugged the wedding band from his finger, went to Rona, dropped it into her hand, and pressed her fingers closed around it. “Thank you.”
Rona’s eyes shone with brief tears, then she tucked the ring into a little pouch. It clinked against another, and Elliot saw that Juliana’s finger was already bare.
“We thank you,” Juliana said, pouring out a fourth cup of tea. “It was kind of you.”
“Entirely logical,” Rona said, pretending the tears had never manifested. “Nothing else to be done. Elliot, what are you going to do with this awful house?”
Elliot watched Juliana pour his tea, her hands competently balancing the cup on the saucer, steadying it perfectly under the stream of hot liquid. She set the fat teapot back on the tray without wincing from its weight and lifted the dainty silver tongs from the sugar bowl.
Here she faltered—a woman ought to know what her husband took in his tea, but Juliana and Elliot had never had tea together. At least, not since they’d both been fourteen.
Rona leaned forward and whispered, “One lump, dear.”
“Actually, I prefer it with no sugar at all now.” Elliot reached for the cup in Juliana’s hand.
She held the saucer so daintily that his big fingers were in no danger of touching hers. He changed that by folding his hand over hers and slipping the cup and saucer out of her grasp.
Juliana’s lips parted, and heat swam in her eyes. It matched what was in his blood. The entirety of last night was returning with a vengeance.
Elliot needed to sit down—next to her. But Juliana was perched on the front edge of a narrow armchair, her bustle filling the rest of the seat. There was a perfectly good love seat in the room, but that was occupied by Rona and Ainsley, sitting side by side. Two more chairs and an ottoman completed the circle around the tea table, the rest of the furniture in the room covered with dust sheets.
Elliot hooked his leather-shod foot around the ottoman and dragged it close to Juliana’s chair. He sat down on it, settling his kilt, his knee firmly pressing Juliana’s, and balanced the delicate cup and saucer in his big hand.
Ainsley and Rona watched him intently, but Elliot was only aware of Juliana, her warmth, her nearness, the rightness of her.
“Where did you dig these up?” Elliot said, lifting his cup to study it. The porcelain was fine and almost paper-thin, the flowers painted on it with a skilled hand. These teacups had been turned out in some factory in England or Germany at great expense. “They were never in Uncle McGregor’s crockery cupboard.”
“A wedding gift,” Juliana said. “Lovely pieces, do you not think?”
Elliot took a sip of tea, which wasn’t bad, but it needed more whiskey. He turned his head so he could see Juliana, nothing else. “I thought you were returning the gifts.”
“She is,” Ainsley said. “But this is a wedding gift from me, so it’s entirely relevant. And you have no need to worry about the others, Juliana. Rona and I and your stepmama are taking care of sending back the gifts with necessary letters of explanation. No need for you to hie back to Edinburgh for that.”
“But I ought,” Juliana said. “It’s kind of you, but I should truly be there to help, not to mention pack the rest of my things. Gemma must be going mad with it all. If you stay the night here, I can take the train back with you tomorrow.”
“No.” The word was so loud that the three women froze, teacups raised, three pairs of feminine eyes widening at the masculine power of Elliot’s voice.
Elliot moved his hand to Juliana’s thigh, closing over it and clamping down before he could stop himself. “Juliana can’t leave.”
“What?” Ainsley asked, the lightness in her voice forced. “Never?”
Chapter 7
Elliot tried to soften his grip on Juliana and couldn’t. “No,” he said.
Juliana’s gaze was for Elliot alone, but she didn’t look at him in fear. More in surprise, and with a sparkle in her eyes that might be defiance.
“Elliot has a point,” Juliana said to Ainsley. “There is much to be done in the house. I certainly wish to be here for the work, if you take my meaning.”
Both his sister and sister-in-law nodded, still watching Elliot, as though they reached for lines they’d rehearsed. “Quite understandable,” Rona said. “There must be someone with sense to organize it all.”
Ainsley’s eyes twinkled. “I believe there is a bit more to it than that, Rona. Remember what it was to be a newlywed?”
“Ah yes.” Prim Rona softened into a smile. She and Patrick had always doted on each other, and Ainsley and Cameron were very attached to each other. So much so that even through Elliot’s fog, he wondered why Ainsley was out of Cameron’s sight now, and why Rona had left her beloved Patrick behind.
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Where have you left your husbands? In the village?”
Rona flushed, though Ainsley, very good at dissembling, only took another sip of tea. “They’re at the pub,” Ainsley said. “You know gentlemen.”
“I know my sisters,” Elliot growled. “You weren’t certain what you were going to find, and you came to smooth
the way. You weren’t sure I was fit to be seen.”
“Well,” Rona said, her voice gentle in the same way Ainsley’s had been bright. “You must admit that you’ve been unwell, Elliot. We did try to call earlier, but your man couldn’t wake you.”
“I was tired,” Elliot said in a hard voice. “Remember what it was to be a newlywed?”
Juliana’s face went bright pink, which made her eyes starry. “No matter,” she said quickly. “We were somewhat at sixes and sevens earlier today. Best to let Elliot sleep anyway.”
Elliot felt the snarl in his throat. “Don’t try, Juliana.” He let his gaze skewer his sister then sister-in-law, who both looked guilty. “Coddling doesn’t help, Ainsley. Leaving me the hell alone is best.”
“Is it?” Ainsley said, her let us comfort my poor, sick brother tone vanishing. “Is that why you bought this house in the middle of nowhere? Helping Uncle McGregor is your excuse, but if you bury yourself here, you will never get better. There’s many a fine house to be had in Edinburgh, or even London, for a man of fortune. Which I know you have. A fortune, I mean.”
“I like the countryside.”
“A countryside difficult to reach, no matter how determined your family.”
“A countryside where a man can find a little peace and quiet.” His voice went up in volume.
“But now you’ve dragged Juliana up here,” Ainsley said. “Is it fair to her to pull her into your prison with you?”
Juliana leaned forward to set her cup on the tea table, her movement decisive. The angle made her brush Elliot’s broad shoulder, her reaching arm letting that shoulder contact her breast. She wore stays, but even the stiff touch of them was intimate.
Elliot would have Channan make Juliana a sari, so he could wrap her in silks and nothing else. Then he could touch her without undressing her, his hands sliding over the fabric warmed by her body.
“Elliot is my husband now,” Juliana said, with the slightest emphasis on my. “And this is our home.” Again a slight emphasis, this time on our.
Ainsley and Rona looked at her, blinking a little as they rearranged their ideas.