But Elliot knew that if he made the mistake of touching Juliana, he wouldn’t stop at comfort. He’d tilt her head back and kiss her lips, as he’d done at her debut ball, the night she’d permitted the one kiss.
They’d both been eighteen. Before Elliot had gone to hell and back, that chaste kiss would have been enough for him. This time, it would not be enough, not by a long way.
He’d kiss down her pretty throat to her bosom, nuzzle her gown’s neckline with its points of lace, and feather kisses to her shoulders. Then he’d lick his way back up to her ripe lips, seam them with his tongue, coax her to let him inside.
He’d kiss her with long, careful kisses, tasting the goodness of her mouth while he held her and did not let her go.
Elliot would want to take everything, because Lord only knew when he’d have the chance again. A broken man learned to savor what he could when he had the opportunity.
“It will stay with me forever,” Juliana was saying. “Poor Juliana St. John. Don’t you remember? She’d already put on her wedding clothes and gone to the church, poor darling.”
What did a man say to a woman in this state? Elliot wished for the eloquence of his barrister brother, who stood up in court and made elegant speeches for a living. Elliot could only ever speak the truth.
“Let them say it, and to the devil with them.”
Juliana gave him a sad smile. “The world is very much about what they say, my dear Elliot. Perhaps it’s different in India.”
Dear God, how could anyone think that? “The rules there are damn strict. You can die—or get someone else killed—by not knowing them.”
Juliana blinked. “Oh. Very well, I concede that such a thing sounds worse than people expecting me to hide in shame and knit socks for the rest of my life.”
“Why the devil should you knit socks? Do what you like.”
“Very optimistic of you. Not fair to me, but I’m afraid I will be talked about for a long while now. And I am now on the shelf. Thirty years old, and no longer an ingénue. I know that women do all sorts of things these days besides marry, but I am too old to attend university, and even if I did, my father would die of shame that I was such a bluestocking. I was raised to pour tea, organize fêtes, and say correct things to the vicar’s wife.”
Her words slid over Elliot without him registering them, her musical voice soothing. He lay back and let her talk, realizing he’d not felt so at ease in a long while.
If I could listen to her forever, if I could drift into the night hearing her voice, I might get well again.
No, nothing would be well, never again, not after the things he’d seen and done, and what had been done to him. He’d thought that once he took refuge in Scotland again, it would stop. The dreams, the waking terrors, the utter darkness when time passed and he knew nothing of it. But it hadn’t, and he’d known he had to put the next part in his plan to work.
Juliana was studying him, her blue eyes clear like a summer lake. The beauty of her, the memory of those eyes, had sustained him for a long time in the dark.
Sometimes he’d dreamed she was with him, trying to wake him, her dulcet voice filling his ears. Come on, now, Elliot. You must wake up. My kite’s tangled in a tree, and you’re the only one tall enough to get it down.
He remembered the day when he’d first realized what he felt for her—they must both have been about sixteen. She’d been flying a kite for children of her father’s friends, and Elliot had come to watch. He’d retrieved the kite from a tree for her and earned a red-lipped smile, a soft kiss on his cheek. From that day forward, he’d been lost.
“Elliot, are you awake?”
His eyes had drifted closed on memories, and now Juliana’s voice blended with the remembered dream. He pried his eyes open. “I think so.”
“You did not hear me, did you?” Her face was pink in the dim light.
“Sorry, lass. I’m a bit drunk.”
“Good. Not that you’re drunk, but that you didn’t hear me. Never mind. It was a foolish idea.”
He opened his eyes wider, his brain coming alert. What the hell had he missed?
The darkness did that to him sometimes. Elliot could slide past large portions of conversation without noticing he had done so. He’d come back to himself realizing people were waiting for his response and wondering what was the matter with him. Elliot had decided that avoiding people and conversation was the best solution.
With Juliana, he wanted to know. “Tell me again.”
“I don’t think I ought. If it were a cracking-good idea, you’d have leapt on it at once. As it is…”
“Juliana, I swear to you…I drift in and out. I want to hear your cracking-good idea.”
“No, you don’t.”
Females. Even ones he’d been secretly in love with for years could drive him insane.
Elliot sat up and moved closer to her, his feet on the floor. He stretched his arm along the back of the pew, not touching her but close enough to feel her warmth. “Juliana, tell me, or I’ll tickle you.”
“I’m not eight years old anymore, Elliot McBride.”
He wanted to laugh at her haughty tone. “Neither am I. When I say tickle, I no longer mean what I did then.” He touched her bare shoulder with one finger.
A mistake. The contact shot heat up his arm and straight into his heart.
Her lips were close to his, lush and ripe. She had faint freckles across her nose, ten of them. She’d always had them, had always tried to rid herself of them, but to Elliot, every one was kissable.