Julia London 4 Book Bundle (114 page)

Arthur sighed into her hair. “Yes,” he responded truthfully, reluctantly. “It is unwise.” He grasped her hands at his lapel, held them tightly in his own for a moment as he prepared to let her go.

“B-but I want to possess you, too,” she whispered.
“Completely.”

The utterance seized his heart; he felt an unusual tingling beneath his collar. He squeezed her hands tightly. “You don’t know what you are saying.”

A shy, lopsided smile spread her lips. “
Och
, have you forgotten I was married, lad?”

Arthur suddenly felt as wobbly as her smile. She knew exactly what she asked for, and he wanted her to possess him, wanted it badly. But he also realized in that extraordinary moment that he had brought her to this state of wanting, that in the time he had spent in
Glenbaden, he had seduced and cajoled and inveigled his way into her graces. Kerry had understated the obvious—this was not only unwise, it was insanity. Absolute insanity, and he had a moral obligation—albeit an extremely weak one at the moment—to stop this before it progressed any further and consumed them both.

He brought her hands to his mouth and kissed the backs of them before bestowing her with a roguish smile perfected through years of balls and routs and assemblies. “Madam, you could bring a man to a state of knee-bending devotion. It’s small wonder that your cousin wields such a heavy hand,” he said, and dropped her hands. “Speaking of that devil incarnate, I should best be about the odious tasks assigned to me today for God knows what he would do should he find me idle.”

He shoved his hands, hands that strained to touch her, deep into his pockets and stepped back, still smiling, even though his heart had climbed up to his throat, choking him. Kerry looked confused, but sheepishly dropped her gaze to her feet, unconsciously smoothing the hair at her temple. “Aye. He’ll not let you rest.” And she turned awkwardly toward the house, her step quick but uneven as she moved away from him, dragging all the dew with her as she went.

Arthur bit his lip, battled the urge to call her back … and his deep regret.

The next day marked the beginning of the barley harvest. The inhabitants of Glenbaden were, in Arthur’s opinion, overly excited about the prospect of such a small harvest, and he remarked as much to Thomas. That was because, Thomas stoically informed him, there was a crop to be harvested this year, unlike the previous two years, when the barley had not matured properly.

He showed Arthur the grass, explained how it would be used for bread and barley-bree, which Arthur understood to mean Scotch whiskey, and the stalks would
make winter hay to feed the cattle. Thomas showed him how to hold and swing the long curved scythes they used to cut the grass, and they walked side by side, cutting together in a solid rhythm. They were followed by two more cutters, and behind them, May and Kerry stripped the grain from the stalks, which Big Angus and two older men bundled into big rounds.

The cutting was a relaxing endeavor, the sort of mindless activity Arthur had come to appreciate in the glen. But while his mind enjoyed the respite from weightier thoughts, his body was cramping in agony by late afternoon. The muscles of his back felt as if they would burn clear through to his chest; his right hand was covered with a bloody blister from the friction of the scythe handle he had gripped all day.

When the late afternoon sun began to weaken into evening, Thomas halted the work for the day. Stretching his back, Arthur glanced behind him to the path they had cut, certain they were near to finishing the harvest. To his great astonishment, however, it seemed that less than a quarter of the field had been cut. As he stood gaping in wonder at that phenomenon, Thomas slapped him hard on the back and laughed. “Doona fret, laddie. There’ll be more for ye on the morrow,” he said, and laughed again as he walked away.

Arthur smirked at Thomas’s retreating back, taking some satisfaction in the knowledge that in two days’ time, when he left for Dundee and Mr. Regis, Thomas McKinnon would miss him. Oh
aye
, he would miss him very much indeed.

He walked after Thomas, following him and the others who, he thought irritably, remained remarkably cheerful after a day of such excruciatingly hard labor. They moved away from the white house, where an old, unused barnlike structure stood. Arthur was mildly surprised when Thomas turned left, going with the others instead of toward the house, where he fully expected to enjoy one of May’s delicious meals. Much to his great
chagrin on that score, Big Angus and May followed Thomas. He paused, hands on hips, desiring of a suitable explanation as to
why
his supper would not be ready at the usual time.

“It is our custom to celebrate the start of a harvest with a common meal.”

Arthur turned toward the sound of Kerry’s voice behind him, wincing at the sharp stiffness in the muscles of his neck. “Indeed?”

Kerry nodded, walking easily to where he stood, apparently unaffected by the hard work of stripping the grain. “We’ve a Scotch broth, only we’ve not any mutton.”

He had no idea what that meant, but said lightly, “Sounds delightful,” and pressed his hands to the small of his back. “And when does this veritable feast begin?” he asked, glancing idly at his blistered hand.

She stopped, suddenly grabbed his hand. “Dear God!” she exclaimed, and Arthur was shaken from the cloud of her lavender scent as she peered closely at the blistered hand, pulling his arm out so that she might better see his wound. She stared at it for a moment, then glanced up, her eyes filled with empathy. “Arthur … your
hand.
”

He shrugged. “A bit of a blister, that’s all.”

“A
bit
?” she echoed incredulously, and probed it gently, looking up to him again when he flinched at the pain that caused. “It must be tended,” she said authoritatively. “Come.” She released his hand and walked purposefully ahead. He did not dare think to do anything else but follow her.

He followed her into the kitchen of the white house, where Kerry pulled a small wooden stool before a shelf lining the top border of the window. She stepped onto the stool and, reaching up on the tips of her toes, extracted a jar filled with the strange green-colored substance he had seen her use on Red Donner.

She leapt from the stool, impatiently motioned him onto the bench at the table. “You’ll not care for the scent, but it will draw the blood and water from beneath your skin.” Then she opened the jar, and he instinctively recoiled against the pungent odor that filled the room.

“The odor willna last long,” she pertly informed him, and stuck two fingers into the jar with a little more gusto than Arthur liked, digging out a thick dollop of the stuff.

“I do not fear it, madam, in small doses. Are you certain this requires so much of the stuff?”

Kerry ignored him. “Here now, give me your hand. This might sting a bit, but you’ll be dancing with May when I’m through, you have my vow.” When he did not move as quickly as she liked, she grabbed his hand and jerked his arm forward. Before he could even open his mouth, she had slapped the foul paste on his palm, and an immediate fire went racing up his arm and down his torso, causing him to yelp with surprise.

But Kerry was strong and held his hand firmly in hers as she rubbed the grainy paste across the blister. The fire was almost instantly followed by a tingling cool; Arthur could feel the blister begin to diminish as the pus was slowly drawn. After a moment, Kerry stopped rubbing the paste onto his hand and retrieved a strip of cloth from a basket near the stove. She sat next to him, his hand on her lap, and wrapped it tightly. “You must keep this wrapped for two days or it will not heal properly.”

Arthur looked at his hand, then at Kerry. She smiled sweetly, wrinkling her nose a bit. “It didna hurt terribly, did it now?” she asked.

How could he know? He was too focused on the cute little wrinkle on the bridge of her nose. He leaned forward, intent on kissing that wrinkle, but Kerry abruptly turned her head, and his lips fell to her shoulder instead. They sat that way for what seemed an eternity—his lips on the gray gown that covered her shoulder, her head
turned slightly away—until Kerry turned toward him. Arthur caught the corner of her mouth as she turned, seeking the full of her lips.

One slender hand came up to cup his jaw as her lips parted beneath his.

Unthinkingly, he clasped her to him in a fierce embrace and kissed her fully, aware of every place they touched, of the smell of lavender, of the feel of her thick braid between them, the silken feel of her fair skin. He kissed all of that without leaving the soft valleys of her mouth or her tongue or her ripe lips. He kissed it all, touched it all, until the knowledge of his imminent departure began to pound away at his conscience.

He lifted his head and pressed her head against his chest with his bandaged hand and tried to catch his breath. Kerry’s hand fell limply from his cheek to his shoulder; he held her even more tightly to him then, feeling her disappointment and not wanting to ever let go. His heart felt jagged inside him—he was torn between his great desire and his sense of propriety, weak though it was. Somehow, propriety won, and he heard himself say the unthinkable: “You know I must go soon.”

She did not move, did not speak.

“I must be to Dundee.” I
must stop your eviction!
“You know this, don’t you?”

He felt the tremble in her body before she lifted her head and pushed away from his embrace, looking across the room, away from him. “Aye, of course I do,” she said, and rose to her feet, swiping up the jar of thick paste in one hand as she moved away from him, toward the shelf. “You will miss me when you are gone, you know,” she said hoarsely, and tried to laugh.

“I … I shall miss you greatly, Kerry,” he muttered helplessly.

She did not respond, but climbed up on the stool, put the jar away, then climbed down and picked up a potato, pretending to study it. “When?” she asked.

He sighed wearily, glanced at his bandaged hand and
tried desperately to ignore the tug at his heartstrings. “On the morrow.” He looked up, saw her hand swipe at her cheek.

“Doona look at me so,” she said, turning the potato anxiously in her hand. “It’s naught but the onion.”

Except that it was a potato. He did not know what to do, did not know how to comfort her, or himself for that matter. But when Kerry turned toward him a moment later, she was smiling.

Yet she avoided his gaze, looked everywhere around the kitchen but at him. “Well then, you are properly patched for your journey. Shall we join the celebration, then?” she asked, and moved toward the door as if she intended to go on, regardless of his answer.

His was a peculiar feeling at that moment, an odd mixture of true regret and a sense of relief, as if he had almost strayed too deep into the ocean, had almost lost his footing in it. He rose, smiled insouciantly “Let’s,” he said simply, and followed Kerry out of the house and into the waning light of the sun as it cast gold shadows on the uneven path. He walked along that golden path into a circle of gay laughter as the little community Kerry nourished drank from a common jug of whiskey.

D
USK HAD DESCENDED
in Glenbaden, and Kerry could only hope that the shadows masked her devastation.

It was ridiculous, she thought as she took the whiskey jug May offered her, to be so
affected
by his announcement. She had known it would come, probably could have predicted the moment he would choose to go. Not for a single moment had she believed it would end any differently. So why then, did it feel as if her heart was being torn in two?

Because she had come to adore him, unlike any other man she had ever known.

She took a swig of bitter Scotch whiskey and passed the jug along.

He had proven himself a rock, a man with a strength of character and disposition that made him quite literally irresistible. He seemed so very capable, so able to take everything in stride that she had, on more than one occasion, longed to tell him of her troubles, to lay her head on his chest and let him solve them for her. She had even allowed herself the fantasy of what it would be like to grow old with him. She loved him.
She loved him.

Therein lied the spring of the violent conflict of her emotions. She loved him, but she could never have him.
A man like Arthur Christian belonged in the fancy drawing rooms of England where such troubles as hers did not exist. She could not and would not entangle him in hers.

Of course he would go … 
but how would she ever bear to watch him walk away?

Kerry shook her head, forced herself to focus on Red Donner playing a lively jig on his fiddle, his sliced finger obviously much improved. Molly McKinnon and Belinda Donner danced to his tune, their skirts hiked high over their legs, their arms linked as they spun round and round the small fire as if they had not a single care in the world.

The poor women had cares they were not even aware of, she thought morosely, at least not until the morrow. She had already decided to tell them the truth, that they had less than a fortnight to decide what to do with their lives, as she was incapable of devising a way to save Glenbaden.

She would tell them all, admit her failure.

Just as soon as she was certain Arthur was gone—she would not add humiliation to her hurt.

The jug was passed to her again, and Kerry took another healthy swig before passing it along to someone on her right. Just beyond the circle in which they danced, Arthur sat on the ground with his shoulder propped against an old oak keg, watching her. Watching her in just the way he had from almost the moment they met, with a piercing hazel gaze that made her skin heat beneath her woolen gown. She kept her gaze averted from his, trying desperately to overcome the overwhelming sentiments warring in her body, her heart, and soul. God help her, but her longing was greater than she could possibly fathom, and the fear of his leaving agonizingly real. She desperately craved that heat and the odd tingling in the pit of her belly when he looked at her. She craved her mind’s image of him, holding himself above her, thrusting deeper still …