Elliot’s body was as solid as the foundations of this house. And yet, she sensed his fragility. He could crumble at the right touch to the right place, just like some of the walls in this old place. Juliana had to make sure that the touch never came.
The passage outside the dining room suddenly filled with noise. An impossibly loud bang and crash of glass sounded, followed by pounding footsteps, then a shrill voice shrieking in Punjabi, and a man’s bellow.
Juliana raised her head in alarm. She and Elliot were both naked down to their socks, Elliot’s kilt spread like a tablecloth where he’d laid her down. Their clothes were scattered over the floor, and the room had only one door. Hiding or flight was impossible.
McGregor’s voice rose right outside the door. “You leave that be, woman! A man can’t be stifled in his own house.”
More invective coming from Komal, because that was the only person to whom the stentorian female tones could belong. Footsteps hurried along the passage, followed by the voice of Channan, obviously trying to quiet them down.
Elliot’s arms tightened around Juliana. “Don’t worry,” he said into her hair. “Mahindar will keep them out. He’s on guard outside the door.”
Juliana’s face heated. “Outside the door? But I sent him back to the kitchens.”
“Mahindar guards any door I am behind. He knows what might happen if I’m disturbed.”
“What might happen?”
He shrugged “I might hurt whoever comes charging in. If I’m not in my right mind, I can lash out.”
His mouth thinned to a hard line, resigned, as though he’d already decided it was useless to fight his madness. He’d accepted it and was doing what was necessary to live with it.
Somewhere inside the hard, scarred Elliot was the laughing youth Juliana had fallen in love with so many years ago. He was still in there…somewhere.
Juliana had no illusion that she was special enough or wise enough to save him. She only knew she had to try. The man crying out to her in silence needed no less.
The bang and crash turned out to have been a glass-doored breakfront in the drawing room, now lying facedown, the glass smashed. Juliana gathered the story in bits and pieces.
McGregor had been searching the cabinet for a stash of cigars he’d sworn he left there fifteen years ago. Being of small stature, he’d stood on a chair to search the upper shelves, then decided to climb on the breakfront itself to search its top recesses.
Komal, entering the drawing room on some errand, had seen McGregor on the top of the breakfront, and started scolding him. When McGregor had tried to jump to the ground, his kilt had caught on a finial on the breakfront’s top. His weight had jerked the cloth free, and he’d sprung clear, but the breakfront had overbalanced and the entire thing had come crashing down.
Komal had started shrieking at McGregor, and the two had stormed through the halls, shouting at each other, neither understanding a word of what the other was saying.
“I’ve been laird here forty-five years,” McGregor said, poking the air with a finger partly bent from rheumatism. “Forty-five years. I will nae be chased around me own home by a pack of godless, screaming savages.”
“We are Sikh, sahib,” Mahindar said, offended. “We have a god.”
“You cannae deny that that woman is a screaming savage.”
“She is old, sahib.”
“Old?” Behind all his white hair, McGregor’s face turned chartreuse. “She’s no older than I am. Do ye mean that people of my age are raving mad? Say so and be done, damn ye.”
Juliana stepped forward. “Mr. McGregor…”
“And don’t ye try to placate me, young woman. I know all about the ways of beguiling women. My wife, God rest her soul, excelled at turning a fellow up sweet. I know all the tricks of females.”
“Uncle McGregor.” Elliot’s strong voice rolled through the hall as he emerged from the dining room, having resumed his shirt and kilt, his coat slung over his arm. “There’s a fine stash of whiskey down in the cellar. Why don’t you come and help me sample it?”
McGregor drew himself upright, his voice winding down to mere loudness. “Now that is the first sensible suggestion I’ve heard all evening.”
He turned and stalked down the hall. When Elliot caught up to him, McGregor said in what he thought was a quiet tone, “Got a leg over in the dining room, eh? Mrs. McGregor and me, we favored the conservatory. Had many a fine night under the moonlight there.” His chuckle faded away as Elliot ushered him into the cellar stairs and shut the door behind them.
He knew they were searching for him. He’d found a place to hide, down in the bowels of the earth, in a part of their warren-like prison even they didn’t know about. Some tribe had carved these caves deep into the hills in a time forgotten, and Elliot took refuge in them now. The doors he’d been locked behind were ancient and rusted, the locks easy to break, but there was no way out of the tunnels, and his captors knew it. The only opening to freedom led to a guard with a rifle.
Early on, Elliot had watched one poor fellow prisoner struggle out into the light and air, only to hear the crack of a rifle and the man’s muffled scream. The gunshot hadn’t killed him instantly. He’d lain under the baking sun and slowly bled to death over the next full day, begging for water or, for God’s sake, for the guard to shoot him again.
His had been the last human face Elliot had seen for weeks after that. His captors ignored him, occasionally remembering to throw in bread and some fetid piece of goat meat to keep him alive.
The head tribesman wanted Elliot alive, though, because he wanted to play with him. The head man hated all Europeans, blaming them for any and all chaos he could see from his mountain perch.
Elliot had found places to hide in their own tunnels, holes so tiny and foul that no one but the desperate could live in them. They knew he was in there, trapped like a fox in his den, and they knew he couldn’t get out. They’d hunt for him when they wanted him, and they were hunting him now. Elliot heard them calling, passing above his hiding place, their voices filling the spaces.
He crouched into the hole, feeling no glee at evading them, wanting only peace. But the pain kept knocking at him. His kilt warmed him, but his fingers were cold, bloody cold.
They’d pulled off his nails, one by one, for the enjoyment of it. Elliot had refused to scream or make a sound, which had disappointed them, so they’d thrown him back into the cell and taken away his water.
Thirsty, he was so thirsty.
The search went on above, until the voices trailed off. They’d leave him alone now. Alone to heal until thirst and hunger drove him out again. But until then, Elliot would have days of darkness and silence to himself.
Juliana’s worry when Mahindar and Hamish emerged from the cellars the next morning without finding Elliot rose to near panic.
Morning had dawned fine and fair. Elliot had dropped into bed beside her very late last night and very drunk, having helped Mr. McGregor “sample” much of the whiskey. He’d gathered Juliana into his arms for a whiskey-flavored kiss, then snuggled beside her and dropped into a limp sleep.
She’d left him asleep when she’d risen and gone down to breakfast, having enough experience with Scotsmen and whiskey to know he would remain in bed awhile. Likewise, thankfully, there was no more noise from Mr. McGregor.
As she ate the breakfast of eggs and more naan brought by a cheerful Mahindar, Juliana planned her calls.
She’d questioned Hamish about her neighbors, the lad knowing everything about them down to the last detail. The Englishman Mr. Terrell, who’d purchased McGregor’s brewery, and his wife were gentlefolk, Hamish told her, the man being the son of a gentleman. They would be near the top of her visiting list, but heading them would be the Highlander in the neighboring estate, Ewan McPherson, a crony of Mr. McGregor’s.