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.”