Julia London 4 Book Bundle (104 page)

“A few minutes rest will do no harm,” he said authoritatively, and gestured again toward the rock. The pain of her first step made her knees buckle; Arthur Christian made a sound of disapproval, and before Kerry could protest, he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the rock. “You should have told me sooner,” he scolded her as he put her down. He went down on one knee before her and slid his hand to her calf. The quick, scorching heat of his touch through her thin stockings made her flinch; he looked up, brows raised. “You may put your modesty aside, Mrs. McKinnon. They are, after all, only feet.”

Aye, they were only feet, but the feel of his fingers on her leg as he unlaced her boot was sending pulses of white-hot heat all through her. He leaned back on his
heels, propped her foot on his thigh and gently massaged the bottom of her foot.

Oh Lord, she had died and gone to heaven.
The sensation of his massage on her foot was
divine
—sweet and painful at once, soothing the muscles all the way up her leg. Kerry closed her eyes, let the gloriously wonderful sensation fill her. When his deep chuckle broke the spell, she reluctantly opened her eyes.

“You purr like a cat. Now then, we’ll have to have those stockings off,” he said, and nonchalantly reached to remove the boot from her other foot.

“We’ll have what?”

“The stockings must come off. Your heels have been rubbed raw and must be bandaged.”

Kerry blinked, amazed that first, he could tell her to take off her stockings without the slightest hesitation, and second, that she could take her stockings off in the presence of a man who was not her husband. But when he began to massage her other foot, all sense of propriety fled her head. She hardly cared if he was the Holy Pope in Rome—she would do just about anything for him to continue massaging her feet.

He laughed, patted her foot affectionately, and stood, smiling down at her. “I need to find something suitable for a poultice. Off with the stockings, my dear.”

My dear.
The small endearment drifted over her like silk, and Kerry smiled, a little deliriously, and continued smiling as he disappeared into the woods. Had she ever been so affected by a man? Certainly Fraser had never dissolved her with a mere touch. She dreamily did as she was told and removed her practical stockings, wincing at the sight of her blistered heels.

He returned a few moments later with a handful of ivy. He knelt before her again and, sliding his hand halfway up her calf, lifted her foot to examine it. “Dear God,” he muttered, frowning, then carefully put her foot down. “You should have told me sooner,” he said again, and popped several of the ivy leaves into his mouth,
chewing them as he removed his neckcloth. He fished a knife from his boot and split the cloth, ripping it into two long strips. Then he removed the pulp he had made from his mouth and winked at her. “Forgive me, madam,” he said, and pressed the chewed leaves to the blisters. The effect was instantly soothing—Kerry sighed as he wrapped one half of his silk neckcloth tightly around her heel and ankle.

When he was through wrapping the other foot, he instructed her to don her stockings so that he could help her into her boots, chuckling as he turned away to give her some privacy. Kerry smiled at his broad back. This man, this stranger, was titillating her with the heat of his touch and his apparent cheerful nature.

Perhaps she had done herself an enormous favor when she shot him.

“I’m done,” she said.

He turned and fetched one boot. “All right, then, lets see if these boots won’t last you a while longer.” He carefully lifted her foot; between the two of them, they managed to slip the boot on her foot. He made her stand and walk before he would consent to moving on. The poultice buffered the blisters and the bandage kept the boot from slipping. While her heel hurt, it was certainly bearable.

“I canna thank you enough,” she said, grinning her great approval as she sat to fit the other boot. “They are greatly improved.”

Smiling, he took the second boot from her hand. “It occurs to me that with our new level of familiarity we might consent to using our Christian names, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked, slipping the boot on her foot.

Oh aye, she would agree.

“Splendid. You may have your choice—my name is Arthur William Paddington Christian. Lord Christian to some. Merely Arthur to my mother. I suppose that should do just as well as any of them. And what is your name, Mrs. McKinnon?”

“Kerry. Just Kerry.”

Arthur William Paddington Christian seemed taken aback by that; his hazel eyes locked with hers as he murmured,
“Just Kerry.”

The sound of her name on his lips was magical; he continued to hold her ankle and her gaze, his eyes seemingly probing her, down to where her heart was now pounding wildly beneath her breast. She hadn’t experienced a man’s touch in years, what seemed like a lifetime, really, and she hadn’t known she was so hungry for it. Had Fraser ever looked at her so … 
potently
? Kerry felt her face flood with heat, felt the tingle of his fingers on her skin, felt all of her senses suddenly sharpened by the mere presence of him.

And then suddenly he let go, dropping her foot to the ground and quickly lacing her boot before coming to his feet. “Well then, Just Kerry, shall we find the River Tay?” he said, and stepped away to remove his collar now that his neckcloth was wrapped around her feet.

Yes, she thought, they had best find the River Tay before she did something foolhardy—like throw herself on top of her beautiful stranger and kiss his breath away.

They walked for what seemed hours, but Arthur was damned glad of it, for every step he took moved him one step farther away from the insanity that had invaded him in the woods. For one long, incredibly intense moment, he had fought a raging desire to kiss the words
just Kerry
from her lips. It was the way she said it, the brilliant little smile behind it, the luster of her blue, blue eyes. Something in him had snapped and burst into a desire for a kiss that he had not felt in a very long time. And he had almost acted on it, too, imagining that he would start with her trim ankle, work his way up her shapely calf, then proceed to kiss every inch of Just Kerry.

It hadn’t helped that he had awoken this morning
with that very shapely leg slung across his groin. He had thought about it all day as she had marched in front of him, that little bum swinging from one side to the other and back again …

Fortunately for them both, he still possessed some semblance of reason, but what in God’s name was he thinking? That he would simply tumble a Scottish widow in the woods then deposit her on her doorstep before continuing on his merry way? All right, she was terribly alluring with that mess of black curls and pale blue eyes. And when she had unbuttoned the top of her traveling gown for a bit of relief from the heat, the hint of tender flesh exposed at her throat had almost undone him. He wanted to sink his teeth into that flesh, shove his hands through her hair, feel the soft curve of her bare breast against his skin.

With every bone-jarring step he prayed that the desire would disappear, and would have walked all day for it, but it did not feel enough. He had even tried to stop the absurd thoughts floating around his head by asking about her visit to Dundee. That tactic had actually boomeranged on him—listening to her halting description of a husband who had left her in what he gathered was a situation of some straits just made a strange, primordial anxiety surge to the forefront of his mind. Arthur had instantly disliked the deceased Mr. McKinnon.

His anxious state of mind grew even worse when she asked about his family. When he explained to her that Alex was the duke of Sutherland, she was as impressed as he knew she would be, exclaiming just like every other woman he had ever known. But then she asked what exactly it meant to be the brother of a duke, and he found himself explaining the structure of the aristocracy and the peerage, the hierarchy and use of titles, et cetera, the sound of his voice droning in his own ears.

“Do you have one of the titles, then?” she asked after his lengthy explanation.

Arthur’s skin crawled with resentment. “No,” he answered flatly.

To his amazement, she merely shrugged. “Seems like a bit of bother anyway, does it not?” She had sweetly remarked, then had launched into a discourse about a certain Mrs. Donnersen who apparently claimed to be a descendent of Swedish kings. Kerry blithely reported that it was the collective opinion of the entire glen that Mrs. Donnersen was actually the descendent of a pig farmer from the Lowlands. As she rambled on about the pig farmer’s daughter, Arthur realized that not only had his lack of title not reduced him somewhat in her eyes—a reaction he was entirely accustomed to—but it hadn’t even registered. The woman simply didn’t care! It forced him to observe her in yet another new light—the light of a woman who was not impressed with titles or the delicate balance of power among the British elite. It made him feel … 
free.

As the day wore on, Arthur admitted to himself that he was quietly fascinated with Kerry McKinnon. It pleased him that she was well read. When he remarked on it, she dismissed it by saying that her husband had been ill a long time and that she had read to pass the time. He learned that she had boarded at a girl’s school in Edinburgh, and that she lived in a valley called Glenbaden, where the McKinnon clan had lived for generations. She referred frequently to May and Big Angus, whom he now understood were relatives, and even more frequently to Thomas, another cousin, whom Arthur gathered she regarded more as a brother.

They reached a tributary of the River Tay in the late afternoon; when Kerry saw it, she jumped up with a squeal of delight. “Oh, thank God,” she cried, and whirled toward him, her hands clasped anxiously at her breast. “Hurry with you now—there’s bound to be river traffic!” With that, she picked up her skirts, running ahead of him, the black bombazine floating out behind
her. Arthur shifted the satchel to his bad arm and calmly walked after her.

She was practically spinning in air when he finally reached the banks. “A flatboat will come any time now, you’ll see!” she said breathlessly. “They travel up and down, between Pitlochry and Perth.”

Perhaps, but as he didn’t actually see one, or
any
sign of one for that matter, Arthur lowered himself to the ground under the shade of a tree to watch her pace, hoping for her sake that a boat did come along soon, because he did not like the looks of the dark clouds gathering in the east. Kerry’s enthusiasm began to wane after a half hour of pacing—he supposed she imagined the river was virtually teeming with flatboats, all colliding with one another in their haste to take on passengers in the middle of nowhere. He, on the other hand, imagined it was much like her Crieff coach—there would be traffic on the main artery of the River Tay, but it likely would be nothing short of a bloody miracle to find a boat out on this little branch.

He was actually quite surprised when she came running toward him, pointing eagerly downstream.

Arthur tossed aside the long blade of grass he’d been absently chewing and came slowly to his feet as the edge of a flatboat slid slowly into view around the river’s bend. It had a crude, box-like structure built at one end—the cabin, he presumed, only it looked more like a coffin. On the opposite end was a stack of crates, unmarked. He could just make out the heads of two men guiding the boat along with two long oars.

Kerry made a move; Arthur caught her wrist and pulled her into his side. “Stay here. I’ll speak with them.”

He walked down to the river’s edge while the flatboat negotiated the narrow turn in the river. As the boat moved closer, Arthur saw that the two men manning the boat were twins. Built solid and square with perfectly round heads, they reminded Arthur of a team of
matched bulls, practically indistinguishable from one another. “Good day, gentlemen!” he called as they straightened the boat.

The twins exchanged looks. “Aye, g’day,” one of them responded, staring at Arthur curiously as he strolled alongside them.

“I wonder, sirs, if you would be disposed to helping a pair of stranded travelers?”

Neither man responded; they merely stared at him. Not exactly the talkative sorts, then. Arthur forced a smile. “We were put off a coach to wait for another, you see, but alas, it never came. We find ourselves without conveyance.”

One twin cocked his head and raked a curious gaze over him. “You’d be English,” he announced, as if that was news to Arthur.

“I am from England, that is true.”

The twin immediately shook his head. “No. Canna take you.”

What in the hell was this? Since when did a laborer refuse him? “I beg your pardon?” Arthur demanded with all the airs of aristocracy bred into him.

The twins looked at each other. “No Lobsterbacks or sheepherders.”

Lobsterbacks? Sheepherders?
“Now see here, sir! There haven’t been any
Lobsterbacks
to speak of in more than twenty years! And furthermore, would you begrudge a helpless
widow
passage?” he demanded hotly, gesturing wildly to where he had left Kerry standing.

“Aye, that’d be right,” one said agreeably. “Ye can beg your passage from the next boat that comes.”

“And when might that be?” Arthur snapped.

“Mayhap tonight,” the man answered curtly, and turned away. “Or mayhap the morrow.”

Their irreverent demeanor infuriated him. Arthur groped for the gun at his side, but Kerry’s voice upstream stopped him. He swiveled around, saw her standing on the bank ahead of him, her satchel in one hand.

“Good day, laddies!” she called, smiling that brilliant smile of hers. She had one hand on her waist, innocently holding her skirt in such a way as to flash a hint of her calf at the two men.

One of the twins looked up; a smile instantly broke his stoic face. “
Och
, lassie! Got yourself in a wee bit of trouble, have ye?”

“On my honor, you wouldna believe me if I told you! A dreadful day!” she said, turning so she could stroll beside the boat slipping upstream. “I know you, surely! I’ve seen the pair of you in Dunkeld, no?”