“Days?” Her heart squeezed. “I don’t understand. Why should he do this? This is his home.”

Hamish loomed at her shoulder. “Because he’s a madman, ain’t he?”

Juliana swung on him. “Hamish McIver, don’t you ever say that again. If you do I’ll…I will speak to your mother about it. Mr. McBride is not mad. He was held for a long time against his will, and that is hard on people, isn’t it? It stands to reason he still has bad dreams about it.”

“But he’s awake now.”

Hamish had a point, and Juliana hardly understood it at all. But she thought of some of the things Elliot had told her: I drift in and out…Sometimes I can’t remember the things I’ve said or not said…

“The lad is right,” Mahindar said. “The sahib is a bit mad now. He never quite recovered from his imprisonment, the poor man.”

“Stop,” Juliana said in a loud voice. “No more talk of madness. My husband is not mad. But we must find him.”

Both started at her tone and scurried away to resume the search.

They hunted everywhere. Mr. McGregor joined in, for once not arguing, scolding, or shouting, despite his obvious fragile condition from imbibing the night before.

The man put a bony hand on Juliana’s arm. “There is a place he could be. I used to go there when I was a lad, pretending there were ghosts.”

Hamish paled at the word ghosts, his freckles standing out on his white skin.

“This house is too new for ghosts,” Juliana said briskly, even as she let McGregor lead her away.

“But it was built over the old castle,” McGregor said. “Which was th’ McGregor stronghold for six hundred years. Before that, it was a keep to defend this little valley against all comers.” He climbed down the stairs from the scullery and led her along the passage to the boiler room, where they’d found Nandita cowering the morning before. “There’s still a way to get to the old McGregor castle—the ruined cellars below it, anyway. Found it when I was a boy.”

Mr. McGregor moved to the other side of the boiler room and pried a piece of grimy paneling from the wall. Behind this was a narrow niche that looked like a broom cupboard, empty and unused. McGregor shone the candle lantern he’d snatched up onto the flagstone floor.

“Trapdoor,” he said.

“Where?” Juliana stared at the floor but saw nothing that looked like a trapdoor.

McGregor chuckled. “My nanny and tutors could never find it either.” He set down his lantern, dug his fingers under at what looked like a haphazard crack in the floor, and pulled.

The entire piece of flagstone came up and away, revealing a hole into dank blackness.

“Come on,” McGregor said cheerfully. “It’s not deep. A sturdy Highland lass like yourself will find it no trouble.”

He dropped through the hole and landed on hard-packed earth five or so feet down, enough room for the small-statured McGregor to stand upright. A tall man like Elliot, though, would find it a tight fit.

McGregor helped Juliana down then reached back up for his lantern.

“I thought these were the dungeons, when I was a lad,” he said, flashing the light on the irregular walls, the old, old stones still a solid foundation for the house above. “But they were the wine cellars. I found a plan of the whole place once.”

The darkness was vast, the many walls forming a maze. Juliana crept close behind McGregor, hoping his memory for the place hadn’t failed him.

She heard a noise. Movement.

McGregor heard it too and stopped, shining his light into a corner of two thick walls. The lantern caught on something that glittered. Eyes.

A powerful form lunged out of the darkness. McGregor’s lantern went flying, and the candle extinguished as the lantern clattered to the floor. McGregor cried out, then Juliana heard the thump of a body slammed against stone.

She ran toward the sound and found the hard-muscled figure of her husband kneeling on the floor, McGregor kicking and flailing under him. McGregor’s breath grated, and any words he tried to form were incoherent.

“Elliot!” Juliana shouted as loud as she could. She grabbed Elliot’s shoulders and tried to pull him away.

Elliot resisted, twisting to loosen her grasp while keeping hold of McGregor, but Juliana clung fast. She put her lips to his ear and begged, “Elliot. Stop.”

He didn’t respond. Juliana wrapped her arms all the way around him, tears filling her eyes, her voice breaking on a sob. “Please.” She kissed the line of his hair.

Elliot froze. All movement ceased, Elliot’s body becoming immobile as a marble statue. Beneath him, McGregor coughed.

“Juliana,” Elliot whispered, bewildered, uncertain.

“I’m here.”

Elliot turned, swiftly, almost violently, his hands finding her arms, her shoulders, her face. “Juliana.”

“I’m here,” she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady. “You’ve given poor Mr. McGregor quite a fright.”

“I’m all right.” McGregor coughed again and cleared his throat. “Lad, you have a powerful grip. We’ll have some Highland games, and I’ll put my money on you to win every round.”

Elliot ignored him. He ran his hands over Juliana’s face and down her arms again. Juliana touched him in return, their only connection in this dark place. She cupped his face, her fingers finding his lips.

“What am I doing here?” he asked her in a harsh voice.