Julia London 4 Book Bundle (138 page)

Tears slipped from her eyes, raced down her cheeks.
Aye, she had promised him once, but only to keep him from swimming in the same despair that threatened to drown her now.
How had it all come to this?
She didn’t want Arthur to see her hang. It was her last and final wish—he could
not
see her hang! He was trying to move forward, to be closer, and she suddenly panicked, certain if he got any nearer she would lose the last fragments of her composure. “Go!” she shouted at him, drawing the attention of several around her. A few men looked over their shoulders to see whom she addressed. It caught him off guard, drew him up short, his face colored slightly. He clenched his jaw even tighter, glared at her.
“Go!”
she shrieked at him.

“Mrs. McKinnon!” the justice called to her, craning his neck to see who she addressed.

Kerry turned away from Arthur, her last sight of him his pained bewilderment.

Her heart felt as if it was shattering into a thousand different pieces.

There was nothing left of her, nothing left to hang but an empty shell. A strange calm descended over her, and impassive, she looked at the justice as he demanded some semblance of order in the hall.

When the crowd finally settled, the justice frowned at Moncrieffe. “You were saying, sir?”

“My lord commissioner, upon receipt of the letter from the Bank of Scotland, Thomas and Kerry McKinnon scattered their clan, stole the beeves, and murdered my Charles when he happened upon them! They killed the poor boy because the only way Kerry McKinnon could honor the debts owed the Bank of Scotland was applying the terms of her husband’s agreement, which meant marriage to my son!”

The justice looked at Kerry. “You received word the debts were due?” he asked gently.

The question confused Kerry. She had received a letter from the Bank of Scotland, weeks before Charles’s
death. She slowly nodded. “Several weeks before,” she said wearily. “I received word of the debts several weeks before … before this happened.”

Moncrieffe snorted. “My lord, if the court pleases, Mr. Durwood Abernathy of the Bank of Scotland!” Moncrieffe called dramatically.

Mr. Abernathy, too?

As Mr. Abernathy walked to stand in front of the justice, he looked at Kerry with such regret that she cringed with shame. In a trembling voice, he informed the justice that he had indeed sent a letter to Mrs. McKinnon informing her that the McKinnon debt was to be collected on 21 July. Although she had never received that letter, when Mr. Abernathy stepped down, Kerry believed her fate was sealed.

But not Arthur. He knew Kerry had not seen that letter—
he
had broken the seal himself! A thought suddenly occurred to him, and he pushed through the crowd, to Mr. Regis, who was busily searching through a sheaf of papers.

“Regis!”

“Not now, Christian!”

“Listen to me—”

“Can you not see I am presently engaged? Good
God
, man. If you want her to live, you willna bother me now!”

The anxiety and the fear in Arthur had reached a desperate pitch. They had one small chance as he saw it, one very slim hope. He lunged at Regis, knocked him against a small table where his things were stacked. “Listen to me, Regis,” he breathed. “I need time. I know how to free her, but—”

Regis shoved hard against his chest. “Do not
tell
me what to do!” he spat. “I told you I couldna save her bloody neck! Surely even
you
can see how grim the situation is now!” He sliced a murderous look across Arthur, turned back to his papers.

The terror suddenly exploded in Arthur’s chest, ripping through his heart and his mind. He grabbed
Regis, whirled him around and caught his throat in one hand.
“I need time!”
he bellowed. “She never saw the letter, Regis! I broke the seal!
She never saw the goddamn letter!
”

Regis grabbed Arthur’s wrist with both hands, his eyes now reflecting his fear as he gasped for breath. “All right, then, she never saw the letter! How can that help us now?”

He didn’t understand!
The sudden feel of dampness on his cheeks astounded and mortified Arthur. He lifted his free hand, touched his cheek. Tears.
Tears.
He looked heavenward, blinking, silently pleading—pleading that he might lead
this
loved one out of the morass, might know the richness of life only she could show him.
Please God, let me have this chance.
He lowered his gaze, dropped his hand. “Willie Keith,” he said hoarsely. “The lad who delivers the post …”

Regis’s mouth dropped open. No other explanation was apparently necessary; his eyes rounded with surprise and he whirled quickly around, riffled through his papers. “Go then. But be quick! I’ve a shepherd here, but I …”

Arthur did not hear the rest of what Regis said. He was already pushing through the crowd to the bailey.

How in God’s name did
one find
Willie Keith? He had no notion of where the boy lived! Arthur rode Freedom hard, reining to a wild stop in the first hamlet he came to. No one was about; they were all apparently at the tower. Frustration and fear groped at him, tried to sweep him under with their current. He swung down from Freedom, left the horse to drink from a trough as he stalked from one cottage to the next, pounding at each door. At the last one, he did not bother to knock, but in a fit of frustration, lifted his leg and kicked it open. “Is there
no one
in this godforsaken place?” he roared.

The cry of an infant startled him; he lurched forward, through the door. A woman stood against one wall, her suckling infant at her breast. She cried out, brought her
hand up to the baby’s head. A strange heat instantly swept through Arthur, he quickly held up his hands to show her he meant no harm. “Forgive me, madam, but it is with some urgency that I find the lad Willie Keith. He delivers the post.”

Too stunned to speak, she could only nod. Arthur dug his nails into his palms in a mad effort to maintain his composure and forced himself to ask,
“Where … might … I … find … Willie Keith?”

“Killiecrankie,” she whispered, and Arthur’s heart surged on a new wave of hope. He pivoted away, raced for Freedom. He did not allow himself to think how far Killiecrankie was, just spurred Freedom to the west, lowered his head, and forced all thoughts from his head except that of Willie Keith.

Freedom covered the distance in a quarter of an hour, but the hamlet was just as deserted as the last. Only a blacksmith remained behind, hard at work. Arthur strode to him, his hand resting on the butt of his gun holstered at his side. “I beg your pardon, sir, but it is imperative that I find Willie Keith at once!”

The blacksmith looked up, eyed him casually before turning back to his work of forging a horseshoe. “He’s delivering the post, just as he does every week.”

“Yes, but
where
? It is a matter of great importance!”

“Aye, but I canna help you, milord. Willie travels many different roads, he does. I’ve no notion where he might be.”

Calmly.
“Have you any idea then when he might return?”

“Oh aye,” said the blacksmith, thrusting the shoe into cold water. “Not ’ere dusk, you can be sure.”

That was too late.
That was too goddamned late!

The world at last crumbled under his feet, and Arthur turned away, walking unevenly. He felt himself sinking, rapidly descending down into the brink of hopelessness. He felt his failure keenly, felt it as sharply and as fresh as a knife to his heart, and his mind’s eye was
suddenly filled with the deadly pallor of Kerry’s skin as she stood in the box, swaying with the fatigue and weight of the testimony—the
lies
—against her.

He walked, blindly, paralyzed by his inability to save her, the crushing knowledge that it was done, that he could not stop the tide of this ordeal from taking her, from taking the one person he loved above all others.

That thought overwhelmed him; his legs buckled and he suddenly found himself on his knees in the middle of the rutted lane that marked the center of the hamlet. Tears filled his eyes, tears of gross frustration, of loss—
he had lost her.
He had lost the one person who could make him believe heaven existed on earth. The loss was so devastating, so suffocating that he was insanely reminded of Phillip. How often he had tried to imagine the despair that might bring a man to end his own life.

How he hoped to God Phillip had not felt anything as keenly as this.

A sound, a faint whistle brought his head up and he looked to the right, gasping. Phillip stood leaning against a cottage, his arms folded beneath the hole in his chest, his legs crossed negligently, his blond hair wildly mussed. Arthur sucked in his breath, and slowly sank back on his heels. He had lost his bloody mind.
Was he mad?
How could he see Phillip now if he hadn’t gone completely mad—

Phillip nodded his head in the direction of a cluster of cottages. A movement between them, the flash of red, and the faint whistle again. Arthur struggled to his feet, followed the sound of the whistle, moving backward, until he saw the flash of red again, coming toward him now.

Willie Keith.

Arthur hastily wiped his sleeve across one eye. “Willie,” he said, holding out his hand. “Willie, listen to me now, lad. You must help me.”

Willie eyed him apprehensively. “Aye,” he said uncertainly.

“You care for our Mrs. McKinnon, do you not?”

The boy’s face instantly flamed. He looked down at his satchel and bit his lip.

“She needs you now, Willie,” Arthur said slowly, and took a tentative step forward. “You know that she needs you now, don’t you?” he asked softly.

Willie nodded very slowly, took one small step backward without looking up.

Arthur knew then. How he knew it, he did not know, but he knew the poor child had seen Charles Moncrieffe die. He moved slowly, very carefully placed his arm around the boy’s shoulders, gave him a comforting squeeze. “There are times, Willie, when a man must help his friends, even if he’s very afraid. What do you think, we’ll have us a bit of a chat, shall we? Man-to-man,” he said calmly.

Willie Keith sniffed, dug his fingers into his eyes. Arthur patted his arm and quietly led him toward Freedom, holding him tightly against his side, comforting him.

Only when he had the boy securely on Freedom’s back did he look back to where Phillip had stood and shown him Willie Keith.

He was gone.

Kerry did not believe her legs would hold her much longer. She gazed up at the rafters of the old tower, swaying slightly, wondering if she would hear the angels singing when she died.

She had long since lost track of what Mr. Regis was doing. He was questioning an old shepherd about the best grasses on which to graze sheep, and then cattle. She actually agreed with Moncrieffe—she had no idea what the relevance of it was. It had gone on for what seemed hours; Justice Longcrier seemed to be losing patience, too. With his head propped against his fist, the fingers of his left hand drummed incessantly against the table as he frowned at Regis.

At the very least, Arthur had heeded her and gone. At least she hoped so. Her vision was blurred now, but she looked around her, looked for his face, the familiar aristocratic stance. He had gone. Squinting, she dragged her gaze to Thomas, who seemed quite intent on the old shepherd. She wished she could tear her thoughts away from the inevitable. Part of her wanted to throw herself on the mercy of the justice and beg him to spare her the agony of waiting. Another part of her wanted to live as long as she could, every second of every moment she had left.

If only she could sit for a moment.

“Mr. Regis!” Longcrier suddenly blurted. “I’ve learned quite enough about sheep herding. Whatever do you mean by all of this?”

“My lord commissioner, I had intended to demonstrate that the best grazing land for sheep were on the lands that Mrs. McKinnon owned.”

“Yes, yes, so you have! What of it?” the justice pressed.

Regis frowned, splayed his hands across the table and seemed to silently debate the question. “I would put forth a theory, my lord.”

Justice Longcrier sighed loudly. “Very well then. But this shall be your last theory, Mr. Regis.”

“I believe Baron Moncrieffe coveted Glenbaden—”

“I beg your pardon once again, sir!” Moncrieffe bristled.

“You advised Mrs. McKinnon not to raise sheep, did you not?” Mr. Regis shot back. “By her own, undisputed testimony, you advised her to raise beeves, even though it was obvious the land couldna support the herd! Did you not tell her thus so that she might fall further into debt and then
you
could have her land to graze sheep? Was that not keeping with your previous expansions of the sheep farming, sir?”

The hall grew quiet. Kerry blinked, tried to focus on Regis.

“My lord commissioner, we have heard from a
peddler who claims Thomas McKinnon presented himself as Mrs. McKinnon’s husband while Fraser McKinnon lay dying in a back room. I would suggest that her cousin sought to give the illusion of a husband in case the peddler thought to prey on an innocent woman. As for Mrs. McKinnon’s mother, the woman is a religious zealot with a history of condemning every thing and everyone, regardless of the truth! We have also heard from a doctor who saw Thomas McKinnon driving the beeves to market. We know that at this point, Mrs. McKinnon had dispatched her kin to Dundee, where she hoped they might gain passage to America. Why would she send her kin away if not for their own welfare? They had lived in that glen for several generations, alongside her, alongside Thomas McKinnon. It doesna seem particularly prudent if she conspired murder—who better to witness on her behalf than her own kin?”

Justice Longcrier was sitting up now, watching Mr. Regis with some interest. “That may very well be, sir,” he said. “But you have not accounted for two facts: first, that Mr. Abernathy sent word that her debts were due just before she sent her clan wandering, and second, how did Charles Moncrieffe come to be killed?”

The hall grew quiet as the crowd waited for his answer. Mr. Regis looked across to Kerry; his desperation was plain. “Mrs. McKinnon told you that she hadna seen the letter, my lord,” he said quietly. “I believe that to be true. I believe that letter, and another from her mother, were delivered about the time Charles Moncrieffe came to call.”