The Seduction of Elliot McBride (Mackenzies Series) (21 page)

“He never mentioned ye,” Elliot said. “So he must nae have been fond of
you
.”

“We became rather more attached to him when you…ah…disappeared. He was quite worried about you.” Mr. Dalrymple’s smile remained, but his eyes were hard. “I realize you claim not to remember anything about Stacy’s death, but we are prepared to tell the police that you killed him.”

“You’re right. I
don’t
remember.”

“Nonetheless, we have ascertained that this is what happened. As my wife promised, we have begun an investigation.”

Elliot cast his line into the water again, gently flicking his wrist just right…just right. The fish were nowhere in sight.

“Very civil-minded of ye,” he said to Dalrymple.

“I understand, of course, dear fellow. You weren’t right in the head at the time. There’s speculation you still aren’t, though you seem much better.”

“Thank ye.”

“And all this must be upsetting for your wife, who is from one of Edinburgh’s most respectable families, I hear.”

“She is, aye.”

“I know you would like to spare her undue distress.”

Elliot took his gaze from the gently bobbing line and looked fully at Dalrymple. The man’s pale face was beaded with sweat in the sunshine, his features too perfect and delicate for this climate. If he’d been in India as he claimed, time had erased whatever effects the sunshine there had made on him.

“Be clear about what you’re saying,” Elliot said. “I’m interested.”

Dalrymple smiled. “We’re both men of the world, Mr. McBride. We’ve seen privation, and we’ve seen wealth, the extremes of each, haven’t we?”

“Aye.”

“I know that you…
acquired
…quite a bit of wealth for yourself. Hence your purchase of an estate in the Highlands.”

“Aye.” Elliot did not like the implication that he’d gained his fortune by anything other than backbreaking work, but he let it go. Not worth the bother.

“If you wish me to be plain, then I will be.” Dalrymple cast a glance across the river at McPherson and McGregor, and lowered his voice. “You are unwell, and your wife is a pretty creature, and quite respectable. I’m certain that for a sum we can agree upon, the investigation into Mr. Stacy’s death can lead nowhere in particular, or be withdrawn altogether.”

Chapter 21

Elliot looked at Dalrymple for a heartbeat, then he drew back his fishing rod and sent the line over the river again.

“No,” he said.

Dalrymple blinked. “Pardon?”

“I said no. You’re not getting a penny.”

Dalrymple blinked a few more times, as though surprised Elliot hadn’t quickly begged the man to take all his money and leave him alone.

Dalrymple wet his thin lips. “Mr. McBride, your position is precarious. You killed a man and fled here to safety. You abducted his daughter and brought her with you. Now, while I agree that Mr. Stacy could be a hard man, and his daughter likely would have starved and died in India alone, I doubt you want this story to come out.”

“She’s not his daughter,” Elliot said calmly. “She’s mine.”

Dalrymple stared. “Is she? Well, good God, man, in that case, I think we
had
better come to some sort of agreement. If your wife and her family find out about this by-blow, not
only will they be shocked and upset, they might bring suit against you, do you not think?”

“I’ve already told my wife about the lass.”

“Have you? Oh.”

Elliot went on fishing. Beside him Dalrymple cleared his throat, started to speak, broke off, and cleared his throat again.

“Let me return to my original purpose,” the man said after a time. “You murdered Mr. Stacy, and if you do not want to go to the gallows for it, you will make an arrangement with me.”

“Stacy isn’t dead.”

“Pardon?” More blinking.

“I said, Archie Stacy isn’t dead. He’s alive and well.”

Dalrymple actually smiled. “Ah, there we must differ. I have the death certificate.”

He pulled a piece of paper out of an inner pocket of his coat, unfolded it, and held it up so that Elliot could see the printing and official seal.

Bang!
Birds exploded into flight from the surrounding trees. Warm blood sprayed over Elliot’s shirt, and he looked down in bewilderment at the filmy pattern of scarlet on linen. He felt no pain, and heard Dalrymple scream. The death certificate caught on the wind and fluttered gently into the river.

Elliot observed all this in one startled second, then he threw down his rod, stepped into deep shadow, and brought his rifle around.

Dalrymple remained in place, clutching his right hand and shrieking. McGregor and McPherson had disappeared into the shadows as well, only Dalrymple too far gone in pain to get himself out of the line of fire.

Elliot faded around the trees and moved swiftly and quietly in the direction of the shot. He ran up the hill, damp air forming droplets on his skin.

The scenario was eerily familiar, regardless of the tall
Scottish trees that marched around him. He fought off his mind’s urge to take him back to the past, and ran on.

Elliot came out of the trees into a fairly flat clearing with an outcropping of bare rock. From the top of this rock, he had a perfect view of the river, the pool, and the exact spot where Dalrymple still stood.

Elliot pulled his rifle from his back and sighted down its scope. Dalrymple came into clear focus in the sunlight, his mouth moving as he swore in pain. Dalrymple had been facing Elliot, both of them in profile to this angle of the hill.

Stacy hadn’t hit Dalrymple by mistake. The man was a crack shot, one of the best. The wind was strong here, but Stacy would have adjusted for that.

He’d shot at Dalrymple, not Elliot. One shot. A spent cartridge lay shining at the base of the rock.

Elliot picked up the cartridge and dropped it into his sporran as he scanned the hill around him. Nowhere did he see a man running away, or brush and saplings moving to show his passage. The grass around the rock was matted and flat—all of it. Stacy must have trampled it before he’d taken the shot to cover the tracks of his retreat.

Elliot slung his rifle over his back again and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Stacy!”

The word rang from the hills. The men below looked up.

The echoes faded and silence came back to him. If Stacy had been there, he’d vanished into the faint mist creeping down from the highest peaks.

Elliot climbed down from the rock and went in search of him.

Juliana spent the morning busy with preparations for the midsummer fête and making certain that the men worked in the most important areas of the house.

Because Elliot was off fishing with McGregor when the workers arrived, Juliana kept a special eye on Priti. She
noticed the instant the little girl rushed out of the house on her own to play with the goat, and hurried out after her, welcoming the morning sun on her face.

Juliana relaxed as soon as she found Priti in the kitchen garden—Priti was talking to the goat tethered out of reach of the runner beans, and feeding it oatcakes.

She enjoyed a moment of watching the child. Priti was sweet-tempered, and yet had the impish determination of her father. She’d taken the upheaval from her home in stride, liked exploring Castle McGregor, and enjoyed following Hamish about, tugging on the lad’s kilt when she wanted his attention.

The tranquil moment was disturbed when a man came out of the bracken at the foot of the garden. He was dressed the same as the workers—in kilt, boots, and shirtsleeves—his face covered with a rather tangled red-gold beard.

At the same time he didn’t look like the other men. Something about him, something Juliana couldn’t quite put her finger on, set him apart.

The man glanced briefly at Juliana, then his gaze went to Priti and stayed there.

Juliana stopped. A shout for Hamish worked its way up into her throat, but she bit it back, fearing what would happen if she startled the man. He did nothing, only looked at Priti.

Finally he turned slowly back to Juliana, met her gaze squarely, then turned and walked away.

Juliana started forward. “Mr. Stacy?”

The man didn’t respond. Juliana followed him, staying well behind him, as he walked steadily down the path to the foot of the garden. He went through the gate then stepped into the woods and vanished from her sight.

Juliana hurried out the gate to the spot where he’d disappeared, but as much as she looked around, she couldn’t tell which direction he’d gone.

She was still on the path when Mr. McGregor and Mr.
McPherson came puffing up from the direction of the river, both men agitated and out of breath.

“Did you see a man pass you?” she asked them, then looked at their faces. “Whatever is the matter?”

“It’s McBride,” McGregor panted. “Your husband, lassie, is running amok in the hills.”

“Not running amok,” McPherson corrected. “Chasing someone. A poacher, I’m thinking. An accidental shot.”

“Shot?” Juliana touched her throat. “Elliot was shot?”

“No, no, lass,” McPherson said quickly.

“He shot Dull Pimple.” McGregor burst into laughter. “In the hand. That was a grand sight. The man dancing about, screaming like a banshee.”

“Is he all right?” Juliana asked in alarm.

McPherson answered while McGregor kept chuckling. “Your kind heart does you credit, lassie. Dalrymple’s fine. Bullet grazed him, the lucky bastard. My housekeeper is tending to him—she’s a good nurse, but he’s complaining all the way. Wants to bring a lawsuit against me.” He laughed.

“What about Elliot? Where did he go?”

“Chasing the poacher,” McGregor said. “I ran after him, shouted at him to leave the bugger alone, but he’s gone. McBride didn’t say anything, just dropped out of sight behind a rock and disappeared.”

“We need to find him. Elliot, I mean. No, both of them.”

“Dinnae worry, lass,” McPherson said. “I know every inch of these lands, and your husband’s only after a poacher, probably a lad from rougher country where the hunting’s not so good. They don’t have much up in the hills, and I don’t begrudge them a hare or two.”

“He’s not a poacher,” Juliana said. “The man Elliot is chasing is dangerous. I saw him.”

Both men stopped. “Saw who?” McPherson asked.

“A man Elliot knew in India.”

McPherson and McGregor exchanged a glance. “Lass,” McGregor said. “I hate to say it to ye, but your husband’s
been acting a bit strange. Ye know he has. There’s no one more dangerous in the hills than the pair of us. And him.”

“But I
saw
him. Priti—you saw the man here, didn’t you?”

Priti looked up from feeding the goat a fat head of cabbage. She nodded then turned her attention back to her more interesting friend.

“What did he look like?” McPherson asked, in the tone of someone humoring her.

“Like a Highlander,” Juliana said impatiently. “In a kilt and boots, like one of the workers. But different. Like Elliot.”

That’s what had struck her—while the men here were sunburned pink from working in the summer outdoors, Mr. Stacy’s skin had been burned deep brown, like Elliot’s. Both men had lived a long time in a country where the sunlight was far stronger than that of northern Scotland.

“We need to find him,” she repeated.

When the older men continued to look at her skeptically, she swung away in exasperation. “Fine, then I’ll find someone who
will
help me. Hamish!”

She ran back toward the house. There were plenty of men there from the village and those who could be spared from their farms, all happy to earn the extra wages.

Juliana ran to the top of the staircase and shouted down at them all. “Gentlemen. Lads. Stop!”

One by one, they stopped hammering and pounding, looking around in curiosity to see what the lady of the house was screeching about. Hamish popped out from one of the upstairs rooms, hammer in hand.

Quickly Juliana told them what she wanted them to do. “An extra jar of ale to the man who finds my husband.”

Tools were dropped, and booted feet hammered on the stairs and the flagstone floor. The men eagerly raced out the door, scattering as they ran into the sunshine and wind.

Juliana knew that they, like McGregor and McPherson, weren’t particularly worried about Elliot, but why give up
the easy chance for some fine brew? She followed them down and out, but swept Priti up into her arms when the little girl wanted to go with them.

“No, Priti, you stay with me.”

Priti gave her a look of disappointment, then flung her arms around Juliana’s neck and kissed her cheek.

Mahindar came out, followed by the three women, to find Juliana. “You are wise, memsahib. The sahib will not be in any danger now, not with thirty men searching the hills for him.”

“Do you believe him, Mahindar? That Mr. Stacy has followed him here?”

Mahindar looked troubled. “I do not know. The sahib has had waking visions before. Certainties that he was being followed or hunted. When he first came home, he was so very ill.”

“What does Mr. Stacy look like? Does he have red hair? Very light red?”

“Yes,” Mahindar said cautiously. “But so does almost every man working here.”

He had a point. Because a Scottish man had a fading sunburn from India did not mean he was Mr. Stacy. Many gentlemen from England or Scotland went to the Raj—with the army, the civil service, or on their own to try to make a living.

Then again, Juliana had made her decision what to believe, and she’d stick by it.