Julia London 4 Book Bundle (101 page)

“You are
bleeding
,” she needlessly reminded him.

“It is merely a flesh wound—”

“
Och
, what foolishness. Kindly remove your coat.”

“I will be quite all right until we reach a village. You’d be a much greater help to me if you fetched your carriage. Where is it?” he asked, glancing down the road.

“My carriage?” She laughed. “I doona have a carriage, sir!”

“Then your
mount
, or whatever the conveyance by which you are traveling today,” he insisted testily.

“My
conveyance
would be my
feet.
”

Now she was being coy, that was all, and Arthur was in no mood for it. He leaned forward, scorching her with the fiercest scowl he could muster. “Madam, I have had a rather long day of it. As you have managed to shoot me and chase my horse away, I should very much appreciate it if you would produce your mode of travel and let us be on with it!”

“You should have tethered your horse.”

Arthur’s head snapped back with surprise; he
clenched his jaw and stared at her, wholly unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a careless manner. Oh yes, he would hand the wench over to the authorities in Perth with absolute glee. “Perhaps I should have,” he said smoothly. “And perhaps
you
should have
announced
yourself instead of firing that rusty old pistol! Now
where is your horse!
”

With the long strip of white cotton dangling from her fingers, the other arm akimbo, the woman’s pale blue eyes sparkled with feminine ire. “Perhaps the shot ruined your hearing, eh? I doona
have
a horse!
Or
a carriage! I was waiting for the coach from Crieff when you paused in your little jaunt to rob me!”

“I did
not
 …” Whatever he might have said died on his tongue, because he suddenly realized she was telling the truth. And if she was telling the truth, that meant they were stranded.
Stranded!
In the middle of a bloody wilderness with dusk falling and a mist rolling in.
Please God, what had he done to deserve this?

She realized it at exactly the same moment, he knew, because her eyes grew impossibly round and she murmured,
“Oh no,”
before clamping a hand over her mouth in dismay.

“Oh
yes
,” he said, and the absurdity of their predicament all at once struck him as ridiculously funny. If he hadn’t known better, he would swear he was an actor in one of the halfpenny plays on Drury Lane. The laughter bubbled up in his chest, spilled out, and he was suddenly laughing so hard that tears blinded him as he struggled out of his coat. Still laughing, he thrust his arm out so that she could bandage it. “Have done with it then!”

Bloody wonderful this was. The stranger was insane as well as angry, Kerry thought. Aye, well, he had every right to be angry—she winced as she looked at the wound and motioned to it again. “It should be cleaned first,” she said, and inclined her head toward a small clearing.

Still chuckling, the stranger nodded. Kerry moved
immediately, picking up her satchel and marching briskly. And she kept moving, past an old stone fence, practically sprinting to a stream she had discovered earlier in her haste to get away from the robber.

On the stream’s banks, she fell to her knees and took several deep breaths, completely unnerved by the experience of having just shot someone, particularly when said someone might very well be the world’s most beautiful stranger. Lord God, as if her life could possibly get any worse, this man had to ride into her life like a thief and scare her half out of her wits! How was she to know he was a gentleman? What could she possibly have thought when she saw him stride to her satchel and begin to rummage through it? In her haste to hide when she heard him approaching, she had forgotten it. And then she had shot him—
shot
him!

She plunged the strip of her cotton drawers into the cool water, then wrung the excess moisture from it.

All right, well, she had shot him because she feared for her life, thank you very much. Thomas had warned her about the highland thieves—but good
God
, he was hardly a thief! He was a gentleman from
England
, of all places, who had thought to find the owner of the satchel she had left lying in the middle of the road! Aye, but there was something odd about him, something a wee bit insane.… Kerry forced herself to her feet and turned. The beautiful stranger was sitting on what was left of the old fence, his hands braced against his knees, staring … rather, his gaze was boring a hole right through her.

Making her knees tremble.

Trembling knees or no, she would bandage that wound before they parted company. It was the least she could do, having inflicted it. She willed her legs to move and walked toward him, feeling the intensity of his gaze trickle down her neck and spine. When she reached him, she avoided that pointed gaze altogether by dropping to her knees, setting her satchel aside, and peering closely
at the wound. When she carefully probed it with her fingers, he flinched, sucked in his breath, gritted his teeth … but kept staring at her with those hazel eyes.

Kerry abruptly sat back on her heels. “It’s naught more than a flesh wound.”

His eyes narrowed. “I gathered as much.”

Kerry dabbed lightly at the wound with the wet cloth, “ft was an accident,” she heard herself say. “I didna intend to harm you, I promise you that. I … I jumped when you jumped, you see, and for some reason it just, ah … 
ahem.
Went off.” She shot him a quick glance. “I’m really very sorry for it, truly. Mortified, if you must know. I’ve never shot another being in all my life.”

“That’s somewhat reassuring,” he remarked dryly.

“You’ve naught more to fear,” she babbled on. “I doona know how to load it.” Oh honestly, what was she
saying
?

Her remark certainly gave him pause—he cocked his head to one side and looked at her as if
she
were the deranged one. “I beg your pardon, madam, but do you often go traipsing about the wilderness with nothing more than an old gun you don’t know how to fire, much less load?” he asked incredulously, frowning slightly when she shook her head. “Might I inquire then as to the
reason
you are here with that ridiculously old pistol?”

“I
told
you,” she responded impatiently, “I am waiting for the coach from Crieff. The Perth driver said it would be along directly.”

His handsome face lit up at that. “Aha! A rescue! How directly?”

“Well … perhaps not
directly
,” she quickly corrected him.

He frowned. “Then
when
, exactly?”

Kerry suddenly dipped her head, hiding beneath the rim of her bonnet as she fussed with the dry half of the white cotton. “Noon,” she muttered, and could almost sense the rise of his chest as it filled with steam.

“Do you mean to tell me that you have been waiting alone here for a coach for more than six hours? That driver ought to be hanged for abandoning a defenseless woman!”

“I am
not
a defenseless woman! I have a gun!”

“Oh, righto, that you do—a gun you don’t know how to use or reload!”

As there wasn’t any good response to that, Kerry concentrated on wrapping the dry cloth around his arm, tying the loose ends into a neat little bow with the lacy ends of the fabric. The beautiful stranger looked down and groaned. She sat back, slapped her hands together, and pretended to ignore him as he examined her work. “All in all I suppose it isn’t too badly done,” he drawled, then flicked a hazel gaze to her. “For a pair of ladies’ drawers.”

“A half pair,” she indolently corrected him, and gained her feet, busying herself with the straightening of her skirts—anything but looking in those eyes.

The stranger sighed loudly and came to his feet. “Well then, I suppose we ought to find something that will pass as shelter before night falls.”

Shelter
? “I beg your pardon?”

“Shelter,” he said, his hands sketching an imaginary house between them. “From the elements. Wind, cold, that sort ofthing.”

“N-no, sir,” she stammered, taking several steps backward. “I will wait here for the coach!”

“What in God’s name is the matter …” his voice trailed off. He shook his head, glanced up the road for a long moment before fixing his gaze on her again. “Mrs.—Pardon, but now that we are on the most familiar of terms,” he said, gesturing to his arm, “might I at least have your name?”

“McKinnon,” she mumbled.

“Mrs. McKinnon, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Arthur Christian at your service.”

“How do you do?”

“Why just
splendidly
, thank you. Mrs. McKinnon, the Crieff coach is not coming. Now, as I see it, we have two choices. We can begin the walk back to Perth now—”

Kerry snorted. “I’ve no intention of returning to Perth now!”

“All right, then, on the morrow,” he said blithely. “In the meantime, we can endeavor to find a place where we might wait out the night and hope to high heaven that the coach actually comes on the morrow.”

She gaped at him. “Mr. Christian! I doona know who you are or what your custom is in England, but … but surely you know that to
seek shelter
with …” she stopped, looked down the road that curved to the north as she released her fluster in one long breath, nervously adjusted her bonnet, and whispered loudly, “It would be the height of impropriety to seek shelter with a man I doona know. Any man, for that matter.” She paused, glanced at him from the corner of her eye, and felt the prickly heat under her collar. “I’m right sorry about the shot, I am, but I canna do more. I must bid you a good day.”

Mr. Christian’s eyes rounded with the apparent disbelief that she would not seek some sort of shelter with him. “Mrs. McKinnon, I could not, in good conscience, allow you to stand here all night and wait for a coach that is not going to come. Given the circumstance, I think you may trust that your reputation will be spared.”

She could feel the flames in her cheeks with the implication behind that statement and quickly stooped to retrieve her satchel, which she held tightly to her chest. “You willna dissuade me, Mr. Christian. I’m to wait here for the coach. Good day.” As if that wasn’t definitive enough for the man, she waved him along.

But he didn’t move. “Mrs. McKinnon, you are being rather foolhardy—”

“Excuse me, sir, but is it considered acceptable behavior in England for ladies to go wandering off with
perfect strangers?” she interjected quickly and, tightening her grip on the satchel, leaned to peer around him and up the road. Where in heaven’s name was that blasted coach?

“I honestly don’t know why I should bother,” he said to the sky. “Very well, Mrs. McKinnon. You win. I shall seek shelter and
you
may wait all night for your imaginary coach.” He shrugged back into what was left of his coat and began marching across the tall grass of the clearing toward the hedgerow.

But halfway across the clearing, he stopped, pivoted about, and marched back, past Kerry, who was still rooted to her spot, and to the road. There, he retrieved her useless pistol and returned it to her. “If you are set upon by strangers, at the very least you could strike them with the butt of this gun. That should put a body down for a good twelve hours,” he said, and with a mock tip of his hat, began walking in the direction of the trees again.

Set upon?
Set upon
? Her pulse quickened. “Mr. Christian!” Kerry fairly shouted after him.

He stopped, turned slowly. A faint smile turned the corners of his mouth. “Yes, Mrs. McKinnon?”

“W-what do you mean … if I am set upon?”

“Set upon,” he said with a slight shrug. “Attacked. Robbed. Highwaymen, Mrs. McKinnon. You will do well to strike them with the butt of your pistol as a means of self-defense.”

Highwaymen.

“Good day and good night!” he called, and continued walking toward the trees as Kerry’s mind filled with the ominous possibilities of attack, the faces of horrid thieves and murderers who would find her here, alone, unprotected—save for the butt of an old pistol.

She squeezed her satchel even more tightly to her chest.

————

When Arthur reached the forest, he skirted to the right and found a place where tall grass afforded a barrier of sorts from the road and extended beneath the trees. It seemed as good a place as any to bed down for the night. He couldn’t help himself; he glanced over his shoulder. Mrs. McKinnon was standing in the exact same place, staring up the north road, her satchel still clutched to her chest.

Obstinate wench.

He half-hoped a highwayman would come along and frighten her almost to death for being so stubborn. What, was the entire Scottish nation born with some sort of malady that made them all so bloody hardheaded?

He tore his gaze away from her and looked around him. A few handfuls of the tall grass would make a bed of sorts, and where the grass gave way to dirt and ivy beneath the trees, there was enough kindling to start a small fire. Fortunately, in taking stock of his pockets, he discovered he had a cheroot or two and some matches, along with his gun, a small purse—thank God he had put the bulk of his funds in an account with the Bank of Scotland—and a kerchief. If he was to build a fire, he best be about it—the mist was beginning to settle over the treetops.

Arthur momentarily forgot Mrs. McKinnon and set about gathering wood.

A half hour later, he stood looking down at the fire he had built—in spite of his aching arm, thank you—feeling rather pleased with himself. It had been quite a long time since he had started a fire from scratch. Barnaby, his head butler, saw to such things as the hearth at his various estates. The only time he had made a fire was when he was a boy; he and the Rogues had begun several small ones in places they weren’t allowed such as the kitchen, the laboratory, and on one particularly cold night, beneath the headmaster’s bedroom window.

He turned and looked up toward the road. Dusk had
fallen with the mist and he could no longer see Mrs. McKinnon. But he could well imagine her standing there, her spine ramrod stiff, that awful satchel clutched tightly to her. He heard the sound of an owl in the distance, answered by the howl of a wolf even farther away. She knew where he was. If she wanted the warmth of a fire, she could come down here and risk her blasted virtue.