Julia London 4 Book Bundle (110 page)

“They are not particular,” she said, her nose wrinkled in offense to the slop.

“I beg your pardon, I am to do
what
?” Arthur asked again, still incredulous.

“Toss it about. The hogs, they’ll root about for it,” she said patiently, then frowned lightly at his apparent distaste for the task. “If you prefer, I’ll—”

“Oh no,” he said quickly. He was not about to give Thomas McKinnon the pleasure of humiliating him. If the residents of Glenbaden slopped hogs, then by God, so would he. “I’ll be quite all right.” And very nobly putting down the urge to flee, he walked to the pen, swallowing the obscenity on his tongue when the hogs began moving toward him, their round snouts wiggling furiously as they tried to touch him. Aware that Kerry watched him—and for all he knew,
Thomas
—Arthur took a deep breath, held it, and began to pour the slop for the hogs.

After he had finished that chore—satisfactorily and in record time, he was quite certain—Kerry cheerfully led him to a barn that looked as if it would collapse at any moment. Inside, one sway-backed dairy cow munched contentedly on her hay. “She’s to be milked,” Kerry said, and shoved a bucket into Arthur’s chest. “I’ll
gather the eggs, providing that old hen cared to grace us with any.”

“Really, haven’t you a milkmaid or someone of similar occupation to do this?” Arthur groaned as he took the bucket.

Kerry laughed. “Take care with the teats, now,” she warned him in all seriousness. “Nell willna care for it if you squeeze too hard. There you are, then,” she said, and with a jaunty little wave, turned and walked out of the ramshackle barn, assuming, apparently, that he was quite the expert in milking cows.

Lord God.
With a heavy sigh, Arthur warily approached her, carefully positioning the milk stool and bucket before patting the old girl’s rump. “I’ve not had a complaint yet, Nell. We wouldn’t want to dampen a man’s spirit with one today, now would we?” he said, and lowered himself to the stool, studied the mechanics of her udder, and grimacing, reached beneath to relieve her of her milk.

A half-hour later, he considered the milking, like the slopping, an astounding success—Nell complained three times, but she only managed to butt him off his stool once. Arthur was wise to her after that; with grave determination, he righted the stool, informed Nell that he would have her milk if it killed them both, and doggedly continued until every teat was dry.

By late morning, when most self-respecting English gentlemen would only just be rising, Kerry was dragging Arthur through a thick mist over a very rutted path. On his back, Arthur carried heavy stone-cutting tools, the purpose of which, Kerry explained, was to help Thomas shore a fence. Arthur could scarcely wait.

But first, Kerry would apparently make a few calls.

At the first cottage Kerry stopped, Arthur was introduced to Red Donner, a man almost as big as Angus, with gray streaking through his bright red hair. He had, evidently, sliced one of his sausage-like fingers, but was
adamant that Kerry not apply the salve she withdrew from her basket. He was so fearful of it that he scarcely noticed Arthur at all, merely nodded his enormous head before objecting again to Kerry’s plan, half in English, half in Gaelic.

“We’ll not be without your fiddle, Red Donner,” she insisted firmly, and in a matter of minutes, Red Donner’s hand was in hers, and she was spreading a very offensive-smelling unguent into his wound while the man wailed like a child.

The second cottage was set back in a thick copse of trees, around a bend in one of the many hills that bordered Glenbaden. The location of the cottage was curious, Arthur thought, as if the owner had intended to be removed from all neighbors. Kerry did not bother to knock, but stooped and disappeared through the small door.

A few moments later, a hideous shriek rent the tranquility of the glen; Arthur started toward the cottage, but Kerry emerged, her face a wreath of smiles. “Winifred,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “She’s as old as this glen, curses every day she lives to see, and threatens to shoot me for bringing her bread. Yet she eats it, and she’s no gun,” she said, and walked on.

The last cottage, situated just where the rutted path ended, belonged to a young widow with three small children. Loribeth’s husband, Kerry explained, had drowned trying to save their youngest child, who had wandered off and into the loch. They never found the baby’s body, and Loribeth had never been the same. When the young woman appeared at her door, looking drawn and ragged, Arthur’s heart went out to her. He wondered exactly how she might put food in the bellies of three children, but then he realized how—Kerry had brought biscuits and a rasher of ham.

Upon leaving Loribeth’s cottage, Kerry turned into what seemed like an endless meadow of tall grass, moving on to where he was to meet Thomas. The thought of
Thomas suddenly reminded him of the heavy stone-cutting tools on his back. “And what exactly do you suppose Thomas means to do to me with these?” he drawled, adjusting them again on his back.

Kerry laughed gaily. “He’s ornery I’ll grant you, but he’ll be grateful for the help, he will.”

Arthur doubted that. Doubted it even more when they reached the piece of fence in question. As Thomas gruffly explained that his task was to shore an old rock fence to keep their few head of cattle from wandering too far, Arthur wondered just where in the hell Thomas was afraid the cattle would go, what with rocky hills sweeping up either side of the meadow. But he rather supposed that question would earn him nothing more than another look of complete disdain. The old fence was disintegrating, and for the life of him, Arthur could not imagine how shoring this one spot could possibly make any difference.

“Well then, I suppose I shall leave you to your work,” Kerry chirped, and with a wave and a soft smile, turned to make her way across the meadow again.

As if on cue, Thomas dropped a large stone at his feet that landed with a deep
thud.
He very tersely instructed Arthur how he was to collect a few stones and split them, and then use the pieces to rebuild the fence, showed him how to wield the axe, watched him a time or two, then abruptly turned around and began to walk back across the meadow.

Arthur watched him for a moment before he realized Thomas intended to leave him there. “Ho, McKinnon! Just where in the bloody hell do you think
you
are off to?”

Thomas scarcely paused to glance at Arthur over his shoulder. “I’ve me own work to do!” he called, and kept walking, leaving an incredulous Arthur alone to the chore of repairing the fence. Well, that convinced him. Thomas fully intended to kill him.

Thomas almost succeeded.

Splitting the rock was backbreaking labor. Even though the day was cool and the breeze steady, Arthur dripped with perspiration. His hands ached from holding the cutting tool he used to spall the large stones and the muscles in his back burned with the effort of lifting the stones to the wall. He was beginning to feel parts of his body he had not even known existed. But as miserable as his body was, there was something very cathartic about the activity. The physical exertion made him feel alive; in a rather strange way it was far more rewarding than he ever might have imagined. He could feel and see the fruits of his labor, the progress toward an end, the concrete results of his exertion. In London, a full day’s work meant various social calls where little was truly accomplished. But here in Glenbaden, it seemed that every activity had a purpose, and every purpose was the common good.

He had been raised from the cradle to avoid physical labor, so it was therefore nothing short of astounding that it was as exhilarating as it was this day.

But oh God, he hurt!

Shortly after midday, Arthur paused to stretch his back. He glanced across the meadow and a slow smile spread his lips. The sun had finally penetrated the blue mist; he could see Thomas and Kerry walking toward him. A pail swung carelessly at Kerry’s side; she moved languidly through the tall grass, her thick black braid of hair draped carelessly over one shoulder, her free hand skating across the top of the grass. The simple gray gown she wore hugged her slender frame and Arthur could remember the feel of it in his arms, her hips pressed firmly against him. The memory of that kiss seeped into every bit of his consciousness; his pulse began to rise steadily as he turned fully toward her, enchanted by the sight of her gliding as if on air, as if she and this landscape had stepped out of a master’s painting and into life.

“Mind ye doona let the spittle drip onto that borowed
shirt,” Thomas said as he walked past him on his way, presumably, to inspect the fence. Arthur sliced a quick and impatient gaze across the man’s back, dropped his cutting tool, and moved forward to greet Kerry.

She graced him with a beatific smile. “I should have known,” she said as he reached to relieve her of the pail she carried. “Thomas would put the king himself to work.” She stopped, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she gazed up at him, eyes dancing with mirth.

“I am quite convinced he may succeed in seeing me dead by day’s end.”

Somewhere behind him, Thomas snorted at that. Kerry’s rich laughter drifted across the tall grass. “Aye, he’s a bit hard around the edges, but he’s a good heart.”

Frankly, Arthur would require more evidence of that before he’d be convinced, but he wisely chose not to argue the point and glanced at the pail. “What have you got here?”

“Cheese and eggs, some bread, and from May, a bit of shortbread.” She smiled, winked coyly. “It seems our May has taken quite a fancy to you.”

“Has she? I rather suspected the woman had uncommonly good taste.”

Kerry laughed again, lips stretching across even teeth. Through no conscious thought of his own, Arthur impulsively reached for her, slipping his hand around her wrist and squeezing fondly. “I love to hear you laugh,” he said softly. “It is music to me.”

Her smile faded slightly; she opened her lips to speak, but whatever she might have said was forever lost to Thomas’s intrusion. “Well then, ye’d best eat,” he said sharply, and took the pail from Arthur. “We’ll take a moment, no longer. More than a wee bit of work to be done here,” he informed them both, and stalked away with the pail.

“He doesna like it when I interfere with the work,” Kerry whispered with a wry smile, and then to Thomas, she called, “You’ll bring the pail, will you not, Thomas?”

“
Och
, aye, aye,” he said through a mouthful of biscuit.

She glanced at Arthur from the corner of her eye, still smiling. “I should go now.”

Stay.
Perhaps she read his mind; she didn’t move immediately. Her gaze seemed to lock with his and for a moment, Arthur believed she could see deep inside him, to the rather warm, lustful thoughts that were racing through him. But before he could look away, Kerry’s gaze dipped. Her cheeks pinkened; she giggled softly. Arthur followed her gaze, realized he still held her wrist and reluctantly let go, his fingers wistfully brushing her hand.

Still smiling, she stole one last look at Thomas and stepped away. “You’d best hurry before he eats your share.” Arthur nodded; Kerry began to walk backward, her steps reluctant, her smile terribly alluring. He couldn’t take his eyes from her, kept watching her, feeling his smile broaden when she at last turned and stole one last look at him before she moved into the meadow.

He stood there until she was halfway across, and only then did he turn around. Thomas had apparently finished his luncheon and was inspecting the work Arthur had done, slowly shaking his head.
Devil take him.
Famished, Arthur walked to where he had left the pail to have a look. One egg, a half-eaten biscuit, and a small block of goat cheese were all that remained. He jerked his gaze up to where Thomas was standing.

He could have sworn the old dog was laughing.

After a thorough critique of Arthur’s technique—naturally—Thomas left him again, returning for him as the sun was beginning its descent into the west. Arthur painfully gathered up his tools, quite certain his legs
would never carry him across the meadow, much less up the rutted path, but just as certain that Thomas McKinnon would never know how he ached. Somehow, he managed to get the tools on his back. Somehow, he managed to flash Thomas a grin that suggested he could continue his work for several more hours, and somehow, he was able to start out with what he hoped was a jaunty pace.

As they walked, Thomas eyed him suspiciously. Arthur supposed he was hoping he would collapse at any moment, and honestly, he was waiting for the very same event. In a very vain attempt to cover his discomfort, he sought to distract Thomas with conversation and cheerfully remarked, “Looks to be fertile land you’ve got here. You must support quite a lot of cattle on it.”

Thomas astounded Arthur by actually laughing at that. “This land wouldna support a bean,” he said, and chuckled again. “The beeves are sickly and the barley crop good only one in five years. Aye, Fraser McKinnon was a fool to have bought more beeves, he was—the land canna support more than sheep.”

Fraser … 
the name caused Arthur to misstep. It was the same name of the man from whom Phillip had bought land, then joined in buying livestock. No, it could not be … Fraser was the man’s surname—not McKinnon. Still … “Fraser McKinnon?” he asked.

“Aye. Kerry’s late husband. Dead almost a year.”

It was a ridiculous assumption, an inconceivable notion that it could be the same man. Besides, his Fraser was alive and well and owing quite a lot of money. “If the land doesn’t support cattle, then why do you raise them?” he asked, forcing the ludicrous thought from his mind.

Thomas glanced impatiently at Arthur as if he was being purposefully obtuse. “The wee bit of Clan McKinnon land in this glen belonged to my cousin Fraser. It was he who bought the beeves—beeves so sickly we lost almost an entire herd to fever. What few
were left have not produced ’til now. If the market holds, we’ll sell the beeves if they birth and take as many Blackface in trade as we can. We’ll have to make do ’til then.”