Jennifer Ashley: The Seduction of Elliot McBride

“Why put it there?” she asked out loud.

Nandita stared at her, not understanding. Something in the corner caught Nandita’s attention, and she cried out, pointing.

Juliana followed the young woman’s outstretched finger, then heard the rustling and skittering. “Ah,” she said. “That’s why.”

A string of mice raced across the edge of the room from one corner to the other before plunging behind the skirting board. When Juliana turned back to Nandita, she found the young woman in the center of the bed, her arms curled around her knees, her colorful scarves covering her body.

One of the mice chose to make a daring dash across the carpetless floor, heading right for Juliana. Juliana shrieked as loudly as Nandita had and scrambled to the center of the bed. Nandita reached for her, the two ladies hugged each other, and Juliana began to laugh, peal after peal that wouldn’t stop.

Elliot found the kitchen easily enough at the end of a long passage. An echoing room, it had been kept in some repair—the stove shiny and the coal bin stocked, the cabinets fitted with latched doors to keep the mice from the food.

The room was gloomy, the sun finally setting behind the mountains. Elliot lit candles, reflecting that he’d have to send Mahindar back to the village for kerosene and some lamps. It would be a long time before gas was laid on at the McGregor house.

Two worktables ran the length of the big kitchen, the end of one cleaned and sanded enough for using. Elliot set Priti down on one of the two stools there and began rummaging for food. He could at least take McGregor some toasted bread and cheese if nothing else. A good bottle of whiskey or a pint of ale might ease the man’s temper as well.

The dismay in Juliana’s voice when he’d told her there was no staff but Hamish had been sharp. When Elliot had first visited this house, he’d seen its potential, not its flaws. A place where he could retreat from the world and lick his wounds.

He could restore it himself—he didn’t mind hard work. He also knew that the villagers would welcome the extra wages for helping him. Elliot had enough money to employ them all. The fortune he’d amassed in India, which had continued to build even when he’d been in prison, was now vast.

When Elliot had picked this house, he’d pictured himself sharing it with Juliana, the only woman he’d have considered marrying, even though she’d been betrothed to another.

What I asked, Elliot, was whether you would marry me. The question had dangled in front of him like a lifeline. He’d clutched it, desperately hanging on, not letting go.

He’d never let go.

Elliot sliced bread with a knife that had only a few crumbs clinging to it. He handed one slice to Priti, who gnawed on it then made a face. The child didn’t like English or Scottish food, but she’d have to put up with it until Mahindar could make his marvelous butter naan or delicious roti.

Mahindar and family had not accompanied Elliot on his first trip up here to buy the estate, and Elliot knew that the state of the kitchen would draw Mahindar’s dismay. But Mahindar had worked miracles before.

Elliot found another knife and a square piece of yellow cheese. The stove wasn’t stoked, so McGregor would have to eat his bread cold.

The knife went through the hunk of cheese at the same time Elliot heard a faint step behind him. A stealthy step of someone who did not want Elliot to know he was there. It wasn’t Juliana, who smelled of rose water, nor was it Mahindar or one of his family. Nor was it McGregor, who pounded about like a troop of soldiers.

All this flashed through Elliot’s thoughts before his mind went blank. Heat came rushing at him, the flat heat of summer in the dry lands. There was no shadow, no concealing cover. He had to run, run for his life, but it was all open, nowhere to go.

And someone was behind him. There was no getting away—Elliot had to turn and fight. Bile rose in his throat. He’d have to kill or die.

Elliot shouted as he spun around, grabbed the muscular intruder, shoved him across the kitchen, and plunged the knife at his attacker’s throat.

Elliot’s captive yelled. And yelled and yelled. Over the noise came the familiar voice of Mahindar.

“No, no, no, no, sahib! You must not!”

Yes, he did. Elliot had to kill, he had to get away…

A big hand landed on his arm, stopping the knife. “No, sahib. You are safe now. This young one, he is a friend.”

Elliot blinked. And blinked again. Mahindar’s dark face swam to him through the gloom, the man’s kind brown eyes full of distress.

Under Elliot’s hand, a body struggled, and someone gasped for air. Elliot’s vision cleared, and he found that he held young Hamish, the bread knife about to nick the skin of his throat.

Mahindar stood beside Elliot, one hand on his arm. Behind Mahindar were his mother and wife; beyond them, Priti, still chewing her bread while she looked on with round eyes.

And then the clatter of feet in the passage, and Juliana’s worried voice. “Is everything all right? I heard shouting. Elliot?”

Damn, damn, and damn. Why the devil had Hamish tried to creep up on him like that?

“Sahib, you really must give me the knife.”

Elliot growled. He shoved Hamish away from him and tossed the knife to an empty table, then stormed out the kitchen’s back door into the gathering dusk of the Scottish evening.

Juliana remained in place for one moment, then she started for the open door. “Elliot…”

Mahindar stepped in her way. “It is best to let him go, memsahib. One never knows what he might do when he is like this.”

“But what is the matter? Hamish, what did you do?”

“Nothin’!” Hamish adjusted the collar of his shirt, his eyes still huge. “I didn’t do nothin’, promise ye, m’lady. I came in same as always. Then I saw Himself, and I thought, Mr. McBride, he’s a rich man and a gentleman, and I work for him now. So maybe I should walk a bit quieter than I usually do. Mr. McGregor says I’m like a drum brigade. I was tryin’ t’ be dec’rous.”

“He does not like anyone walking softly behind him,” Mahindar said. “Better you be a drum brigade.”

“Why doesn’t he?” Juliana asked. “Mahindar, what is the matter? Please, tell me.”

Mahindar looked sad. “The sahib is very ill. He is much, much better now, but when we found him after he escaped his jail, he was a raving madman. We cared for him for a long time before he was able to speak to us and tell us what happened. The poor man went through a great ordeal. He is very strong, and very brave.”

Juliana looked past Mahindar to the overgrown path outside the open back door, night at last falling. “Will he be all right?”

“Yes, indeed. The best thing for him is to walk about by himself. He will come back, as you British say, right as rain.”

“You’ll make certain?” Juliana asked.

“Yes, memsahib. I will do that. Now, my wife will take you up and put you to bed. Nandita, when she is terrified, is useless, but I will make her and Priti go to sleep. Things will be well in the morning.”

Juliana was not certain they would be, but she consented to walk back upstairs with Channan, who made her way robustly through the dark and dirty house. Mahindar’s mother—Komal—came behind, saying nothing but looking about her with the same interest as she had all day.