where they joined.
The wind slammed into the house, and Elliot thrust for the last time, burying himself inside her. He groaned again, fire flickering on the edges of his vision.
Juliana skimmed her hands down Elliot’s body, touching him everywhere, her face relaxed in the warmth of passion. Her hair was a mess, curls awry, her naked body the best place his could be.
“Say it again,” he said, kissing her swollen lips.
Juliana smiled, the smile languid now, and brushed her fingertips over the base of his neck. “I love you.”
Did the words sound best when they burst out of her in passion, or said sweetly in aftermath? Or whispered into his ear while she’d held him as he’d wept?
Elliot would make her say it in all ways, in every room in the house—and on the grounds, in the dogcart, in the train when they finally went back to Edinburgh. In every place they ever were throughout their lives, Elliot would make it his quest to discover where and how the words
“I love you, my wife.” He let his voice go soft.
A smile spread across her face. “Is
“It does.”
“Then…
Hearing the words, in beautiful Gaelic, while she lay under him in bed was undoubtedly the best of all.
“Ye did, lass.
“Mmm. For what? Letting you teach me Gaelic?”
“For all of it.”
Juliana knew what he meant. Elliot loved that he didn’t have to explain himself all the time to her. She understood.
Juliana touched the tip of his nose, and gave him her most beautiful, warm, and loving smile. “In that case, my love, my bonny husband…You’re welcome.”
Chapter 30
FOUR WEEKS LATER
Elliot found Juliana in the morning room, July’s warm air carried on a light breeze through the window. She was elegantly beautiful in her pale lawn gown buttoned all the way up her throat, her hair dressed casually in a twist of curls.
As usual, she had a notebook open on the table beside her and a pile of letters and cards on a second table. Ink, paper, and blotting paper were spread out before her, waiting for her to cover them with her practical words.
Elliot walked into the room and closed the door behind him. “Good afternoon, my wife.”
Juliana scribbled something into her notebook and looked up at him. She took him in—his boots and kilt, a loose coat slung over a loose shirt—and flashed her beautiful smile. “Good afternoon.”
“We’re going on a picnic,” Elliot said.
“How delightful.” Juliana wrote down another note. “Who is going? You and Priti? Or Uncle McGregor and Mr. McPherson? Or—”
“You and I.”
Juliana’s brows rose, her pen stopping. “Are we? When?”
“Right now.”
Juliana looked at him in bewilderment. “On the moment? I’ve just started my correspondence.”
“On the moment. Right now. Put down your pen.”
“But I have all this to finish.”
Elliot started for her. Before he could reach her and snatch the pen from her hand, Juliana quickly laid it down and rose to her feet.
“Very well,” she asked. “But may I ask why?”
“Why the picnic?” Elliot shrugged. “Why not?”
Juliana cast a glance at her paper-strewn tables. “I have much to do, Elliot. When I hire a secretary, perhaps I can leave whenever I like…”
Elliot caught her hands and pulled her away from the tables. “Not when you hire a secretary. Now. I’m going to sway you away from your papers, lists, and organization. I’m going to thoroughly seduce you from it, my wife. Right now.”
He saw her soften, the desire glow in her eyes, the spark of mischievousness he’d always sensed in her, even when he was slipping the frog into her pinafore pocket. She hadn’t screamed and tried to beat it away from her. She’d calmly dipped her hand into her pocket, released the poor thing into the grass, and walked away, giving Elliot a superior look over her shoulder.
Juliana still had the mischievousness, but her frantic fears that the world would condemn her if she slipped in any point had kept her from enjoying it.
Elliot wanted to teach her to find and revel in that part of herself again.
“All right then. A picnic.” Juliana turned for the bellpull. “I will have Mahindar fix us a basket. I’m sure he will make up a splendid one.”
“No.” Elliot stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “No basket. We see what we find on the way. No planning. No organizing. No lists.”
Her lips parted. “Oh.”
“Turn around.” Elliot caught her shoulders and gently turned her in place. “Out the window. Pick a direction down the path. That is where we’ll go.”
She hesitated, ready to argue again. Elliot leaned down and bit the shell of her ear. “Go,” he said.
Juliana sped away to the windows. She stepped out of the longest one and hopped down to the path that ran around the house. There she paused, looking around, trying to decide which direction to go.
Elliot stepped out after her, took her arm, and tugged her with him down an overgrown path leading east. “This way.”
“I thought I was supposed to choose the direction.”
“You were debating which was the best way to go. Making lists of for and against in your head. Weren’t you?”
“Um. Yes.”
“This direction is random. We go.”
They couldn’t walk side by side down the narrow walk, but Elliot didn’t mind coming behind Juliana, where he could observe her small bustle swaying as she went.
The walkway led to the path that skirted the river and wended its way to the footbridge to Mrs. Rossmoran’s cottage.
As they rounded a bend, Elliot caught sight of movement in the brush. He hesitated, the wary hunter in him returning, but then he recognized the rough McIver kilt Hamish liked to wear, and the colorful silks of Nandita’s scarves. The two were standing in the shadows, very close together.
Elliot watched them for a moment, their innocence reminding him of when he and Juliana had shared their first dance, then he turned away and caught up to Juliana.
The river rushed beneath them as they walked over the footbridge together, as strongly as it had the night Elliot had stood on the larger bridge, looking over the water in black despair.
