Jennifer Ashley - The Seduction of Elliot McBride

“Trickster,” Juliana said, but she was still laughing.

“Only in part. I’m trying to demonstrate that you can throw off your shackles and enjoy yourself once in a while. The world will not stop if you do.”

Juliana watched him spread out the blankets, her hands on her hips. “Oh, very well. I know I can be a bit zealous about organizing. But I like it.”

“I’m not demanding you give it up every day.” Elliot stretched out on the blanket. “Just every once in a while.”

Juliana carefully collapsed next to him, leaned down, and kissed his lips. “I think I don’t mind.” She looked at their bundle. “We have food. But nothing to drink.”

“We can take a drink from yon river,” Elliot said. When Juliana blinked, he grinned. “Or wait for Hamish to bring the jugs of water and wine as I asked him to.” He ran his hand down Juliana’s bodice to rest his palm over her abdomen. “I told him to give us an hour or so alone, first.”

Juliana’s cheeks went pink. “An excellent idea.”

“I brought something else.” Elliot reached into the pocket of his coat for the box that Mahindar had handed him this morning and opened it.

Inside, on a bed of velvet, lay two rings. One was a wide gold band; the other, a narrower band encrusted with sapphires.

Juliana took a quick breath. “Ours?”

“I told Mahindar what to order the day of our wedding. They’re finished, and here.” Elliot drew out the smaller ring, lifted Juliana’s left hand, and slid it onto her third finger. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

Juliana studied the ring, her smile happy. She took the man’s ring and slid it onto his finger.

“With this ring, I thee wed.”

Elliot couldn’t stop his smile. The cool band was heavy on his finger, clasping him just right, belonging there.

He took Juliana’s hand again and kissed it, right over the ring. Then he pressed their hands together on her belly.

“Is Mrs. Rossmoran right?” he asked. “Is there a wee one?”

Juliana went quiet, and for a moment, Elliot’s heart squeezed with worry. Then she smiled. “She is.”

“Dear God.” Elliot’s lungs ceased to work. He tried to say a few more things, such as, I’m going to be a father again. You’ve made me so happy, love. Do you think it will be a boy or girl?

All he could do was roll onto his back and stare up at the blue sky and sunshine.

Priti’s birth had occurred while Elliot had been imprisoned, her existence unknown to him until Mahindar had sprung it on him, releasing an ember of joy and wonder. This was the first time Elliot would be a father alongside the child’s mother, watching Juliana carry it, being there when the baby came into the world.

It was too much to take in.

Juliana blocked the sun from him, curls escaping her pins. “Elliot, are you all right?”

“I am.” Elliot sounded so calm. Inside him was a riot of noise, of joy, of beating drums and claxons, of all the sounds of India on a festival day. “I am fine. I never have been so fine.”

He tugged her down to him, wrapping his arms around her and rolling her gently to the blanket, taking care. “I am everything that is all right.”

Elliot kissed her beautiful smile, the dimple at the corner of her mouth, the tip of her tongue.

The darkness inside him, which had been reticent of late, reached for him with spidery fingers. Elliot moved his thoughts back to the little one nestled inside Juliana beneath him, and the darkness snapped away.

While Elliot had been imprisoned in the caves, thoughts of Juliana had given him the freedom he needed to keep himself alive. They hadn’t been able to reach that corner of his mind, and so hadn’t been able to imprison him entirely. Juliana had been his secret, his knowledge that no one could touch.

This child inside her was another knowledge that they could never take from him.

Elliot’s home, his wife, his family. All his, and all real.

The darkness died with a whimper, and Juliana welcomed Elliot, unhindered by pain and shadows, into her arms.

LONDON 1890

He doesn’t have the ace.

Daniel held four eights, and had backed that fact with large stacks of money.

Mortimer thought he was bluffing. He’d been trying to convince Daniel that he’d drawn the straight, that he’d been given an ace from the young woman who dealt the cards at the head of the table.

The other gentlemen in the St. James’s gaming hell called the Nines had already folded in Mortimer’s favorite game of poker. They and the rest of the hell now lingered to see the battle of wits between twenty-four-year-old Daniel Mackenzie and Fenton Mortimer, ten years older than Daniel and a hardened gambler. So much cigar smoke hung in the air that any consumptive who’d dared walk in the door would have fallen dead on the spot.

The game of choice at this hell was whist, but Mortimer had recently introduced the American game of poker, which he’d learned during a yearlong stint in that country. Mortimer was very good at it, quickly relieving young Mayfair aristos of thousands of pounds. And still they came to him, eager to learn the game and try to beat him.

Ten gentlemen had started this round, dropping out one by one until only Daniel and Mortimer remained.

Daniel kept his cards facedown on the table so the nosy club fodder couldn’t telegraph his hand to Mortimer. He gathered up more of his paper bills and dropped them in front of his cards. “See you, and raise two hundred.”

Mortimer went slightly green but slid his money opposite Daniel’s, his fingers shaking a little. Daniel picked up another pile of notes and laid them on the already substantial stack.

“Raise you again,” Daniel said. “Can you cover?”

“I can.” Mortimer didn’t dig out any more notes or coin, but he obviously hoped he wouldn’t have to.

“Sure about that?”

Mortimer’s eyes narrowed. “What do you take me for? I can cover the bet. If you’d like to question my honor in a private room, I will be happy to answer.”

Daniel refrained from rolling his eyes. “Calm yourself, lad,” he said, making his Highland accent broad. He lifted a cigar from the holder beside him and sucked smoke into his mouth. “I believe you. What have you got?”

“Show yours first.”

Daniel picked up his cards and flipped them over with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. Four eights, one ace.

The men around him let out a collective groan, the lady dealer smiled at Daniel, and Mortimer went chalk white.

“Bloody hell. I didn’t think you had it.” Mortimer’s own cards fell faceup—a ten, jack, queen, seven, and three.

Daniel raked in his money and winked at the dealer. She really was lovely. “You can write me a vowel for the rest, Mortimer.”

Mortimer wet his lips. “Now, Mackenzie…”

He couldn’t cover the bet. What idiot wagered the last of his cash when he didn’t have a winning hand? Mortimer should have taken his loss several rounds ago and walked away.

But no, Mortimer had convinced himself he was expert at the bluffing part of the game, and would con the naive young Scotsman who’d unashamedly walked in here tonight in his kilt.

A hard-faced man on the other side of the room sent Mortimer a grim look. Daniel guessed that the ruffian had lent Mortimer cash for this night’s play and wasn’t pleased that he’d just lost it all.

“Never mind,” Daniel said. “Keep what you owe as a token of appreciation for a night of good play.”

Mortimer scowled. “I pay my debts, Mackenzie.”

Daniel glanced at the bone-breaker and lowered his voice. “You’ll pay more than that if ye don’t beat a hasty retreat, I’m thinking. How much do ye owe him?”

Mortimer’s eyes went cold. “None of your business.”

Daniel shrugged. “I don’t wish to see a man have his face removed just because I was lucky at cards. What do ye owe him? I’ll give ye that back. Ye can owe me.”

“Be beholden to a Mackenzie?” Mortimer’s outrage rang from him.

Daniel filled his pockets with his winnings and took his greatcoat from the lady dealer. She ran her hand suggestively across Daniel’s shoulders as she helped him into it, and Daniel tucked a banknote into her bodice.

“Aye, well.” Daniel took his hat from the lady who gave him an even warmer smile. “Hope you can find tuppence for the ferryman at your funeral. Good night, man.”

He turned to leave and found Mortimer’s friends standing in front of him.

“Changed my mind,” Mortimer said. “The chaps reminded me I had something worth bargaining with. Say, for the last two thousand.”

“Oh aye? What is it? A motorcar?”

“Better. A lady.”

Daniel hid a sigh. “I don’t need a courtesan, Mortimer. I can find women on me own.”

Easily. Daniel looked at ladies, and they came to him. Part of his attraction was his wealth, part of it was the fact that he belonged to the great Mackenzie family and was nephew to a duke. He never argued about the ladies’ motives; he simply enjoyed.

“She’s not a courtesan,” Mortimer said quickly. “She’s special. You’ll see.”

An actress, perhaps. She’d give an indifferent performance of a Shakespearian soliloquy, and Daniel would be expected to smile and say she was worth every penny.

“Keep your money, pay your creditors,” Daniel said. “Give me a horse or your best servant in lieu—I’m not particular.”