Julia London 4 Book Bundle (119 page)

As Arthur crested the hill just beyond the barley field in Glenbaden, he noticed that something seemed not quite right. As Sassenach trotted easily across the cut field, a deep foreboding crept up his spine—something was terribly wrong. There was no one about, no smoke rising from the chimneys, no barking dogs, squawking chickens, or Thomas storming out to greet him.
No Kerry.

The place was deserted.

As the horse cleared the barley field, Arthur guided him toward the white house, mentally running through the few plausible explanations he could imagine for the strange desertion. Perhaps there was some sort of gathering taking place; after all, they had all come out to watch him tend Moncrieffe’s horse. But that did not explain the absence of the livestock. Perhaps they had moved the cattle to better grazing, but—

The sound of gunfire shattered the deadly quiet.

Arthur immediately spurred the horse forward. When he reached the white house, his feet were moving before he hit the ground. He drew his pistol as he
reached the door, cautious of what he might find on the other side.

That was when he heard her bloodcurdling scream.

Kerry’s scream was so shrill, so piercing, that it sent a raw shiver down his spine. Instantly, he kicked the door open with such force that it slammed against the wall and rushed inside, running toward the sound of her scream as his nostrils filled with the acrid smell of gun-smoke. His pulse pounding with terror, he raced for the first door on the right, caught himself on the doorframe, and trained his pistol on the room.

The scene stunned him; he slowly lowered his pistol.

A man who looked vaguely familiar lay on the floor, blood pooling thick and dark beneath him and oozing slowly across the pine-plank floor, puddling around a large, jagged rock. Arthur could not quite place him, but this much was certain: he was dead. His eyes stared up at Arthur, the astonishment with which he had met his death still in them. Kerry stood next to him, her old gun on the floor beside her, bloodstains on the knees of her disheveled gown where she had knelt beside the man. Her body trembled violently; tears streaked her cheeks, falling from terror-filled eyes as she stared at Arthur. Slowly, she lifted hands covered in blood out to him.

“Look at my hands,” she whispered.

He couldn’t look anywhere else.

“Get it off,” she said, lifting them higher, but when Arthur did not move immediately, she began to shake them violently.
“Get it off!”
she screamed.

Her terror moved him at once; he grabbed her hands in his and attempted to cover the blood so she could not see it. At the same time, he dragged her across the room as she screamed at him to get the blood off and plunged her hands into the basin. The water turned scarlet red; Arthur shielded her as best he could while he washed the blood from her. Kerry babbled hysterically about what had happened, but he needed no explanation—it was
clear what had occurred here. His only concern was getting her out of that room, away from the dead man, before they were discovered.

But who
was
he?

“Kerry!” he said sharply as he wiped her hands clean with a linen cloth. Kerry did not seem to hear him—her gaze was now riveted on the dead man.
“Kerry!”
he said again, shaking her roughly until she looked at him. “Who is he?”

“Charles Moncrieffe,” she whispered, her eyes welling all over again. “Moncrieffe’s son!”

Ah God.

He had not liked Moncrieffe from the moment he saw him, and his instincts had been confirmed when Thomas told him that Moncrieffe was a man of considerable power and influence who possessed the soul of a snake. A panic began to rumble in the pit of his belly as Arthur stared down at Moncrieffe’s son, the same, gut-tightening, suffocating panic he had felt the moment Phillip had died.

He had no idea what to do. Were this England, he would feel quite secure in notifying the authorities. His word and his name alone would keep out any unnecessary inquiry into the matter and the whole unfortunate matter would be handled discreetly, with no harm to Kerry. But this was not England. Not only was he unfamiliar with the laws, he was a Sassenach, as detested as the lowest insect by some. If anything, his presence would create more scrutiny. And judging by what little he knew of Moncrieffe, there was no telling what the man could or would do once he learned of his son’s death.

His only option—until he had time to think, at any rate—was to get her away from here before anyone discovered what had happened.

He grasped Kerry’s arms, forced her to look at him. “Where is Thomas? May?”

She shook her head and looked again at Moncrieffe’s son; Arthur shook her again. “Kerry, listen to me! Where is Thomas?” he fairly shouted.

“He’s gone,” she cried. When Arthur dug his fingers into her flesh, she winced. “Evicted, all of us,” she said, closing her eyes as tears seeped from the corners. “Big Angus and May, they’ve taken everyone to Dundee to seek passage to America. Thomas and Red Donner drove the beeves to Perth. I am to meet him there. He’ll not understand when I doona come.”

Her explanation both shocked and confused him. Any hope he had of breaking the news to her gently was dashed with the understanding that not only had the McKinnons received the letter, but they had uprooted themselves and abandoned Glenbaden. Yet he did not understand why she had stayed behind. “Why in God’s name are you here alone?”

“So Thomas would have time to reach Perth,” she muttered helplessly, and looked at the dead man again. “The beeves, they’re all we’ve got, and we feared Moncrieffe would take them—oh God, I will surely hang for this!” she cried.

Arthur rather feared that she would—he had to get her out of there, as far from Glenbaden as he could. Then he would think through it all, figure out what to do. He grabbed her hand and yanked her behind him, pausing only long enough to hurriedly stuff some of her scattered things into the old red satchel. He snatched it up with his free hand and quickly continued on, stepping over the body of Moncrieffe’s son, then yanking a crying Kerry hard behind him when she whimpered at having to do the same.

Once they were outside, he tossed the satchel on the back of Sassenach, quickly fastened it down behind his. Kerry had not stopped crying, did not stop as he lifted her up onto Sassenach’s back and swung up behind her. Anchoring her securely to him with one arm, he spurred
Sassenach on, hoping to high heaven the horse had the mettle he suspected he did, because Arthur needed him to ride just as hard for Loch Eigg as he had come.

And Sassenach did indeed give it his spirited best, but he tired halfway to the loch, slowed to a steady trot, and caused the panic in Arthur to expand to frightening proportions. For the first time in his life, he had no idea what he was doing or what he
ought
to be doing. He had never, not once, walked into a situation that he did not know how to walk away from. His fear for Kerry was terrifying him, his only coherent thought was that he
had
to get away from Glenbaden—
but to where?
To England? And what then? He could hardly take her to London, could he? How in God’s name would she survive that world?

There was her mother. He recalled that she had a mother still living, somewhere near Glasgow. There was something else about her mother, too, but it escaped him at the moment. Would she be safe? Could he take her there?

Kerry was no help in the matter. She had stopped crying, and for that he was grateful. But she had fallen into something of a silent shock, balling up against his chest with her head down and her fingers gripping his arm. He tried to speak to her and elicit some response,
any
response, but Kerry could scarcely shake her head or murmur anything more than she had killed a man.

When they neared the ferry crossing at Loch Eigg, the sun was just beginning to sink into the horizon. A handful of souls waited to cross over to the road to Perth instead of walking the great distance around the loch. Arthur decided against waiting for the ferry with them—someone might later recall seeing him with Kerry. But Sassenach was worn through; his head bowed between his shoulders, his pace little more than dragging. The horse had to be fed and watered if they had any hope of making it around the loch.

Pulling his hat low over his eyes, Arthur shifted in
the saddle and tried to shield Kerry from the group gathered at the dock, nonchalantly raising a hand in greeting to two men who peered closely as they passed. One of them slowly raised his hand in return as they cleared the dock and headed away from the group. Arthur breathed a silent sigh of relief and anxiously spurred Sassenach forward, but the horse was barely moving at all.

They rode for another hour, Sassenach hardly managing to put one hoof in front of the other and Kerry seeming to fall deeper into her shock. His dismay was overwhelming—he panicked that they would be stranded out here, his horse dead, Kerry in some insensible state. Once Moncrieffe discovered his son dead—if he hadn’t already—there would be a full-scale hunt of the Highlands, and the two of them would hang from the nearest tree. This was a state of vulnerability he had never before in his life experienced, and it frightened him half unto death.

But as the path curved around the far end of the loch, he spotted a trail of smoke in the dusk sky, and he felt a faint glimmer of hope. He reined Sassenach toward the smoke, and after a quarter of an hour, had tethered the horse and helped Kerry down—or rather, caught her as she fell down—to rest against the trunk of a shaggy birch. “I’ll be back,” he murmured, and soothed a loose curl from her face. But Kerry turned away, lost in her shock, and the panic flared in him again.
Damnit
, he could not afford such panic now!

He forced himself to turn away from her and crept through the woods toward the trail of smoke, eventually espying the cluster of thatched-roof cottages nestled against the side of a hill. There were four of them, grouped together at strange angles. A barn-like structure stood off to one side.

It was exactly what Arthur had hoped to find.

A quick search of the landscape told him no one was about, with the exception of a dog lying in front of one cottage, his head resting between his paws. Not an
encouraging sight for someone who was about to steal a bucket of oats. Oh yes, he could scarcely believe it himself, but he, Arthur Christian, was about to cross the threshold into common thievery.

There was no time like the present.

The dog, however, gave him pause. Arthur pondered that dilemma for a moment, wondering exactly how a common thief would appraise the situation, until his gaze fell on some stones at his feet. A conniving little chuckle escaped him as he bent and picked up several of them. Selecting one of the larger ones, he stepped out from the cover of the trees and threw the rock as hard as he could in the opposite direction of the barn. It had the desired effect—the dog’s head suddenly popped up, its ears pricked in the direction where the stone had landed. Arthur threw another stone and the dog scrambled up, trotting off in the direction of the noise, its snout to the ground. “One more for prosperity,” he muttered, and threw another large stone to the right of the others.

The dog disappeared into the woods.

Arthur sprinted across the meadow for the barn, crouched low and running as fast as he ever had in his life.

Entering the barn was easy; he quickly slipped inside, scanned the four cottages to make sure no on had seen him, then slumped against the rotting door to catch his breath. As he dragged air into his lungs, a prickly feeling crept along his neck, and he suddenly realized he was not alone. Slowly, he turned his head … and instantly, instinctively, flashed a charming smile at the young girl seated beside the milk cow, as if he sneaked into barns all the time.

Caught in the act of milking, the girl’s hands were still on the teats of the cow as she blinked up at him in evident surprise.

“Now aren’t you a bonny lass,” he tried, falling on habit as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “A bonny lass indeed.”

The girl did not move.

“You’ll forgive my manners, won’t you? I’m afraid I’ve a bit of a problem,” he whispered conspiratorially “I’ve a rather sick mount, just below here on the road to Perth.” Nor did that pronouncement elicit any response from the girl, with the sole exception of her hands, which she moved from the teats of the cow to her lap. Arthur cleared his throat. “I had rather hoped to borrow a few oats.”

“Ye mean to steal,” she said simply.

Well … not to put
too
fine a point on it. Arthur pulled his hands from his pockets and shrugged innocently, palms upward. “There you have it. I am quite appalled that it has come to this, I truly am, but you find me in rather a predicament, I’m afraid. My horse is in desperate need of a little sustenance, and the grazing in these parts is not particularly fit for horseflesh, is it?”

To his surprise and relief, she shook her head. He flashed his best roguish smile and very casually strolled into the middle of the barn. “You see? I was quite right about you. A very bonny lass with a heart of gold.”

“My
da
will kill ye,” she announced casually. “He doesna care for the English. Says they be thieves and robbers of all things Scottish.”

Damn.
Trumped before he had even laid his hand. The girl stood, carefully wiped her hands on her patched skirt, and Arthur frantically racked his brain for something to keep her there with him, short of physical force. He could not,
would
not, hit a young girl.

But he’d wrestle one if he absolutely had to.

“Your
da
,” he drawled, “is an astute man. I should put the noose around my own neck, I swear I should, but you see, I cannot let my horse die. He’s quite ill, and I have ridden all day.
All day
,” he repeated vehemently as he frantically sought an explanation. “That’s right, lass! Ridden all day to, ah … see a man here in the Highlands they say can cure any beast.”

To his great and considerable surprise, the girl
paused in the straightening of her apron and looked up at him. “Roger Douglas?” she asked carefully.