Julia London 4 Book Bundle (113 page)

“What did he mean, then, that it changes nothing?” Thomas demanded suspiciously.

She shrugged, shifted her gaze to Arthur, who was on his haunches again, inspecting the injured fetlock as the horse munched happily at his sack of oats. “I really canna say that I know,” she lied. At Thomas’s skeptical look, she threw up her hands. “He’s got some maggot in his head, Thomas! I canna read his mind!” That only made Thomas’s eyes narrow with more suspicion, so Kerry looked around him, to where Arthur tended the horse. “He’s quite good with horses, is he not?”

“Aye,” Thomas growled, reluctantly shifting his gaze
to watch Arthur soothe the horse and wrap his fetlock with a cloth one of the baron’s men brought him.

Kerry watched him, too, careful not to show any emotion in spite of being greatly bothered by something Moncrieffe had said. She could not imagine that Fraser had an English acquaintance, for surely she would have known it. And even if he had known an Englishman, what could it possibly signify? It was obviously nothing more than Moncrieffe’s intimidation of her, an attempt to confuse her.

Still, it puzzled her.

She fretted over it, turning it around and around in her mind, trying to make sense of it as she watched Arthur finish his work and give the roan over to Moncrieffe’s man.

As the last of the group dissipated, Arthur, looking rather pleased with himself, strolled up the hill to where Kerry and Thomas stood waiting with the wagon. “I daresay the boy will feel much improved on the morrow. He’s a fighter, that one. Won’t let a nasty gash or a stubborn Scot get him down,” he quipped.

“Aye, you’ve got a way with the horses,” Thomas grudgingly admitted.

That caused Arthur’s grin to broaden impossibly. “Good God, McKinnon, do my ears deceive me, or did I hear a kind word fall from your mouth?” he asked, then laughed roundly when Thomas rolled his eyes, muttered his opinion in Gaelic, and fairly vaulted onto the wagon.

Still chuckling, Arthur smiled down at Kerry. “I’ll have that old goat you name cousin eating haggis from my hand before I’m gone, watch and see if I don’t,” he said, and casually put a hand on her back to help her up after Thomas.

Kerry’s legs moved, but for once, there was no strange flash of heat that she seemed to experience every time he so casually touched her. She barely felt his hand on her back at all—his words had stunned her, rumbling like thunder through her, rattling her to the core.

“… 
before I’m gone
 …”

It was the first time she had allowed herself to think of it, the first time she had seen the image of his back as he walked out her front door in her mind’s eye.

Never to return again.

How? How could she stand there and watch him leave?

An odd sense of panic swept her; she felt a hard urge to fling herself into his arms and beg him not to go, to never leave her or Glenbaden … but her head worked to overrule her foolish heart as Arthur climbed up beside her, settling comfortably against her, and reminding Thomas that he also had quite a way with milk cows, which immediately gained an argument from Thomas, who flatly refused to praise his skill
that
far. As the argument raged, Kerry’s practical head calmly told her heart that he would walk out her front door in a matter of days—of course he would!—for what was there in Glenbaden for a man like Arthur Christian? Oh aye, he would walk out of her door, and when he did, she would have to face the inevitable fact that she would never see him again. His presence here was nothing more than an interesting quirk of fate, a moment in time that had brought her an unexpected measure of comfort in her darkest hour.

He had woken her up one morning, shown her the sun. How could she now watch him leave, knowing that with his departure she would slip into an eternal sleep again?

For as much as she loved him,
adored
him, Lord Arthur Christian of the English Sutherlands was as far removed from simple Kerry McKinnon and Glenbaden as any one human being could be. For as much as she
desired
him—
and oh God, she did
—he was never meant to be here. Not now. Not ever. Not with her.

This interlude would end.

He would walk out her door, leaving her broken heart in his wake.

And she convinced herself, as they bounced along the rutted road home, that it was perhaps quite all right that he should leave her heart in pieces—she certainly had no other use for it.

Not after him.

A
RTHUR ROSE BEFORE
dawn the next morning, thanks to another hazy nocturnal visit from Phillip, who stood to one side as Arthur doctored the horse in the heath. Except that the horse had been shot and was dying, and Phillip stood, twirling his hat on one finger, yawning with boredom at Arthur’s efforts to save the horse. “You won’t save him—he prefers death to this life,” he remarked nonchalantly, and Arthur had jerked around, intent on strangling Phillip for his indifference.

He had awakened before he could reach him.

He had also awakened before anyone else in the glen. So having had a breakfast of cold bread, he was sitting on a tree stump just in front of the white house, where he paused in the task of buffing his boots long enough to admire the sun rising above the horizon. He had discovered, having been in Glenbaden more than a week now, that much to his great surprise, the early morning hours were among the finest of the day. He loved the morning, a simple truth he had never known.

He had never risen with dawn’s first light before now. But in Glenbaden, he did so each day and would wash and shave, dress in the simple clothes that allowed him enormous freedom of movement, then walk quietly
down the hall, following the scent of ham May prepared for the men before they began their work.

But he would always pause before the door of Kerry’s room, which she left slightly ajar, and push it open just enough so that he might gaze at her sleeping. She was angelic in those morning hours of sleep; she slept with her hair unbound, spilling all around her and framing her lovely face. Arthur longed to touch one of the delicate curls at her temple, touch two fingers to the place where the skin was tender and soft …

But he always continued on, taking care to keep his steps light so as not to wake her.

At the scarred wooden table, Arthur would devour the oats and ham May put before him, tending to eat twice as much food as he had ever had in London. He found this particularly interesting, because his trousers were looser than they had ever been in his life, despite his eating as much as the enormous sow they kept.

Once he had his fill of the hearty breakfast, he would join Thomas and Big Angus in the yard, where Thomas, having abandoned his considerable efforts to kill Arthur, would divide the chores among them. And then he would be off, walking briskly through the crisp, cool morning. It pleased him tremendously to watch the mist lift as the sun made its slow path across the morning sky, and he remained quietly astonished at how the light would begin to dance across the dew-soaked grass, its warmth spreading throughout the glen. It was a beauty he had not often seen in his six and thirty years on this earth, and only then as he approached it from a night of revelry. But in London, the air was often so thick with smoke and other unhealthy vapors that he wasn’t entirely certain anything like dew existed.

Dew.

Good God, what was happening to him?

He was adrift in strange waters, that was what. He was floating and bobbing merrily around a question to
which he had no answers. Astounding, but he
enjoyed
this existence in the Scottish glen. He relished the hard work, the sense of accomplishment … the sense of
purpose.
Yet this life was alien to him, and really, wholly unsuitable to a man of his stature in the
ton.
He was the proverbial fish out of water, the English gentleman playing at a bit of rustic farming. Yet he liked it, liked it very much indeed; there were so many things that touched him here, he thought, as he watched the sun chase away the morning mist. Touched him deeply.

A sound to his right caused him to turn, a smile slowly spread his lips. Kerry walked sleepily across the small yard toward the pump, her hand covering a yawn. She was barefoot; the hem of her gray skirts wet from dragging across the morning dew. She paused at the pump, stretched her arms high above her head for a moment, and then leaned forward, her back strong and lean as she filled a bucket with water.

That was, he thought idly, exactly what he found so beautiful about her. The more he watched Kerry in the midst of Glenbaden, the more he found her completely and utterly irresistible.

She had, in the course of these days, come to embody all the qualities of a woman he now realized he craved. Kerry McKinnon was real; there was no pretense about her, nothing false. She was not afraid of work, and in fact, he would wager that she worked as hard as any man he had ever known. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that it was she who kept this little glen alive, kept them all moving, working, living. Even he, a jaded veteran of the highest reaches of cynicism,
believed
her cheerfulness when she greeted her neighbors and remarked on another fine day—even those that were miserably cold and wet. But that was what was so unique about Kerry—he truly respected her unwavering ability to endure hardship without the slightest complaint, and moreover, he truly admired her grit to survive when it was so painfully obvious that there was no money.

He had known men who could not and did not endure the hardships Kerry McKinnon seemed to balance on the tip of one finger.

She was the very soul of this glen, the single light shining on its meager existence, and the reason, he suspected, that many of these poor souls remained, inspired and rallied by her determination. Arthur had no doubt whatsoever that she was partly the reason Thomas McKinnon had never left the glen as he threatened to do at least twice daily.

And he could only thank God that Regis had defied his order and gone to Fort Williams instead of coming straightaway to Glenbaden as he had instructed him to do. He could no more evict Kerry McKinnon than he could cut off his right hand. Oh, he no longer doubted it was Kerry’s eviction he had ordered; he had seen enough, heard enough to know.

It was astounding, if not oddly comical, that he had happened upon Phillip’s land in such a bizarre fashion. It was so unbelievable that a man had to wonder if there hadn’t been some sort of divine intervention. If Kerry hadn’t shot him in the road that evening, he never would have known who he evicted, much less stopped it. He never would have known the simple pleasure and beauty of this glen.

He never would have known Kerry.

Ah, Kerry.

There he was again, drifting into uncharted waters. In a matter of days, he would leave Glenbaden, find Mr. Regis, and stop the eviction. He could not and would not remove Kerry from Glenbaden; no, he would find a way to somehow fix this little mess, a way that would enable her to remain in this idyllic portrait she had painted in his mind and in his heart.

As for him, well, he wasn’t quite certain what he would do after that. He wasn’t certain of a bloody thing any more, really. Nothing seemed familiar to him, not his emotions, not his thoughts, not his body or his desires.

And as he watched her turn toward the house—flashing a brilliant smile when she saw him sitting there, he noticed—he wondered what he would do to fix himself, for while he would see to it that Kerry remained in Glenbaden where she belonged, he could not. He was forced by birth and duty and circumstance to leave this place and this quality of life he was beginning to cherish.

As well as the beautiful woman walking toward him now.

“I suppose now that you mean to frighten Thomas from his wits by rising before the dawn,” she said as she stepped into the yard.

“Actually, I was thinking that the sight of
you
up and about before the dawn should put him directly in his grave.”

Kerry laughed, pausing at the gate to push a curl from her face with the back of her hand. “A body must rise early ’round here or starve—most mornings, you’ve not left even a wee bit of bread for the rest of us,” she said, pushing through the gate.

“I beg your pardon, but I have merely followed the laws of nature—a man must eat what is placed in front of him or be devoured by Thomas in the course of some death-defying duty he has dictated.”

Kerry’s laughter spilled out into the morning mist as she gathered her skirts in one hand and moved forward. But her foot caught the sagging hem of her skirt and she stumbled; Arthur half stood, catching her by the elbow. She righted herself, but his hand closed tightly around her elbow, drew her to him. The sparkle in her pale blue eyes darkened; she flushed with a heat Arthur felt beneath his coarse linen shirt as the current of desire flowed between them.

His gaze locked with hers; slowly, he rose to his full height, unnoticing of the boot that slipped from his lap to the grass at his feet. He ignored the voice of warning in his brain and pulled her into his arms. A thought had
been plaguing him for days now, teasing the far reaches of his mind, dueling with the sense of duty instilled in him from the cradle.
He could not leave her, not without caressing her, kissing her breast.
“Try as I might, I can’t seem to stop wanting you,” he admitted softly.

Her lashes fluttered; she dropped her gaze to his shoulder.

“I can’t seem to stop wanting to taste your skin,” he said, and brushed the curl at her temple with the back of his knuckle so that he could kiss the supple skin there. “You are my last thought as I sleep and my first thought as the sun rises.”

Her body sighed; she whispered his name so softly that he barely heard her. He brushed his lips against her forehead. “You are beautiful,” he said against her skin. “So beautiful. I want to possess you, possess you completely, every inch of you.”

Her hands came up; she caught the open lapel of his shirt and closed her eyes. “You canna imagine how your words flutter like a bird inside me,” she whispered. “But … but this is
so
very unwise.”