Julia London 4 Book Bundle (120 page)

“Why
yes
,” he answered quickly, hoping to high heaven Roger Douglas was a good thing. “Do you know of him?”

The girl dropped her gaze, smiled softly, and if Arthur wasn’t mistaken, even blushed a bit.
Aha.
“Aye, I know him,” she said, her voice noticeably softer. “He’s a bit of legend in the glens. For his cures, he is.”

Thank you God.
“A fine reputation that reaches into England, you know. I would not have come so far except that this mount has been with me since I was a lad … my grandfather made a gift of him when he was but a pony. I confess, I am quite attached to the old fellow,” he said, marveling at how easily the lie flowed from his tongue.

“Has yer horse a name, then?” she asked.

Oh fine, a bloody name. “He does. I call him … Bruce,” he said, pulling the name from some distant lesson on Scottish history.

The girl’s countenance brightened considerably. “Bruce,” she echoed softly, then suddenly moved toward him.

Arthur immediately braced his legs apart, prepared to battle the waifish girl if he must. “Now see here, lass—”

“The bucket be behind ye there,” she said, pointing over his shoulder. “I’d ask that ye leave it on the road and I’ll fetch it in the morning. Ye know where to find him, eh?” she said, gesturing for the bucket. Arthur hurriedly fetched the bucket and handed it to her. “Roger, I mean to say,” she added sweetly.

“Mr. Douglas? Ah, I … actually, I’m rather glad you asked as I am not entirely certain. Might you point the way?” he asked as she walked to a wooden trough along one wall.

Lifting the lid, she bent over, her back to him. When she straightened and faced him again, she had filled the
bucket with raw oats. “ ’Round the dock of Loch Eigg ye’ll see a path leading off to the right. He lives among the pines of Din Fallon. Aye, Roger Douglas will cure your horse,” she said, blushing again when she said his name. “You’ll tell him, will ye not, that Lucy McNair sends her warm regards?”

Arthur took the bucket from her hand and bowed deeply. “You may depend on it.”

She blushed furiously now and awkwardly fingered the collar of her gown. “Be careful my
da
doesna see ye,” she said.

Arthur smiled. “I shall be
quite
careful. Thank you, Miss McNair. You may very well have saved Bruce’s life.” With that, he left the blushing girl and walked quickly to the door, peeking outside to see about the dog before he slipped out. As it was nowhere in sight, he flashed one last roguish smile over his shoulder at Lucy and slipped outside, running quickly across the field and into the woods with his bucket of oats. Only when he was safely under the cover of the woods did Arthur stop, prop himself against a tree, and press a hand to a stitch in his side, amazed by his sudden sense of exhilaration.

Remarkable.
He had just stolen a bucket of oats. Not only had he stolen it, but also he had lied to a pretty girl with no more remorse than a slug.

He pushed away from the tree, hurried down the path to where he had left Kerry.

Sassenach—or
Bruce
, for God’s sake—didn’t like that he couldn’t have his oats immediately, but Arthur forced him to walk on a little farther, until he was well away from the McNair camp. He stopped by a small stream, helped Kerry down once again, then placed the bucket of oats in front of the horse. While he ate, Arthur unsaddled him and rubbed him down as best he could with the old blanket that had come with the deal.

Then he turned his attention to Kerry.

She was rocking back and forth at the foot of a tree, her forehead pressed to the tops of her knees, which she hugged tightly to her chest. She had barely said a word since they had left Glenbaden, had not inquired as to their destination. Nothing. Her shock was evident, her astonishment and grief palpable. Arthur had never shot a man in his life; the closest he could come to understanding her desolation was the manner of Phillip’s death and the anguish he had seen in Adrian. In all of them.

His heart went out to her. The burdens Kerry had shouldered these last months were inconsequential to the burden of having taken a man’s life if even to save her own.

And exactly how would he save her now? With a grunt of exasperation, he picked up the two bags he had unleashed from the saddle and carried them to where Kerry sat hugging herself. He then heard her faint moaning and squatted down beside her, put his hand on her shoulder. But she did not lift her head.

“Kerry,” he said softly. “Kerry, look at me.” She did not seem to hear him at all. Arthur shoved out of his riding coat, spread it on the ground next to her, then put his hands on her shoulders. “Sleep now,” he said, and forced her onto her side. Kerry curled up in a ball on his coat; the weak evening light glimmered on her cheeks where her silent tears had charted a new path.

The girl was drowning in her grief.

Arthur sat at the base of the tree beside her and laid his hand on her shoulder. She startled him by suddenly curling up tightly next to him, putting her head on his lap. He laid his arm across her shoulders and with a sigh, leaned against the tree and debated what he should do.

The moon rose and slowly tracked across the sky as Arthur debated every conceivable option, watching Kerry drift from one bad dream to another. By the time the moon had begun its descent, he had decided: he would take Kerry to Glasgow, to her mother. It was the
only plausible course of action. He could not take her to England—as much as he loved her, she was unsuited to his world. Nor could he take her to Perth. Moncrieffe would be looking for them, and he could not risk finding Thomas only to find Moncrieffe. At least in Glasgow, she might have a chance of hiding from Moncrieffe. It was not an ideal solution, but a reasonable one. He would offer her family money; urge them to migrate to America with the others given the circumstances.

It was the only practical solution.

He kept telling himself that, over and over, hoping he might actually believe it.

Kerry felt the jostling through a fog and forced her heavy eyes open. She blinked, focused on the moon and tried to remember where she was.

It all came rushing back to her, bearing down on her chest with great weight.
She had shot a man to death, had watched the shock in his eyes as he realized the life ebbed from his body.
She drew her breath, closed her eyes, prayed that it was a nightmare.

“Come now, sweetheart. We’ve got to go before the sun rises.”

It was his voice, her Arthur, her knight-errant, who had appeared in the midst of that monstrous occurrence and taken her away.
She had shot a man to death.
The ache in her head, the pounding at her temples was fierce and relentless. She rolled away from the sound of his voice, unwilling to face reality.

“Kerry. We must be on our way before we are found.”

She was a criminal. They would hang her if they found her.

“Come on then.” She felt his hands beneath her arms, pulling her up. Her feet were numb; she stumbled as she tried to put them under her. Nothing seemed to move or work as it should. Arthur’s arm came around her middle, mooring her to his body, moving her across the small
clearing to the saddled horse nearby. “Be a good girl, up now,” he muttered, lifting her onto the saddle and putting her hands on the pommel. “Hold tight now.”

He disappeared from her view for a moment; she felt the tug of the saddle as he fastened the bags behind, then the pull of his weight as he swung up behind her. He put his arms around her as he gathered the reins and she felt his lips against the crown of her head as the horse started to move. “Ah, sweet lass,” he murmured sorrowfully, spurring the horse into the night.

Ah, sweet lass, what have ye done?

S
HE MUST HAVE
slept again; when she awoke, the morning sun was rising and lifting the mist with it. Her every joint ached; Kerry shifted and immediately felt Arthur’s arm tighten around her.

“Thank the Lord above—I was beginning to think your sleep was perhaps permanent,” he said above her.

“Where are we?”

“Ah, and she speaks, too, thank God.” He tenderly brushed the curls from her forehead. “We are to the west of Perth as best I can tell. I’m afraid I’ve not a suitable compass for this journey.”

Kerry put a hand to her throbbing temple. West of Perth.
But Thomas was waiting.
He was, wasn’t he? The terror began to fill in the edges around her clouded memory, creeping forward, bringing with it another, monstrous memory to her consciousness. “Thomas is waiting,” she muttered, not wanting to relive the terror again.

“Yes, well, about that. I shall endeavor to find a way to get word to him, but you mustn’t hold much hope of it.”

That response confused her—she turned her head, wincing at the bright sunlight as she tried to peer up at him. “Get word to him?”

Arthur frowned, flicked the reins against the horse. “We cannot risk Perth. That is the first place Moncrieffe will look, particularly when he realizes the beeves are also missing. He will likely surmise they have been taken to market and will go to Perth to have a look about, so I’m afraid it’s too great a risk at present.”

Not to Perth? Then to where? And what of Thomas? The drum in her head pounded harder. She closed her eyes as the terror pushed forward into her consciousness, the memory growing sharper. “We must go to Perth,” she mumbled. “There is no other place for me to go.”

“There is Glasgow.”

The soft tone of his voice did not dull the stab of his words—they sliced across her like a knife and she jerked away from Arthur’s body, very nearly falling from the horse. “Careful! You’ll break your neck!” Arthur sharply admonished her, tightening his hold on her and the reins.

“Not Glasgow!” she cried, ignoring his warning. “You canna mean it!”

“It is the only option—”

“No!”
she shrieked, and struggled fiercely against his hold, suddenly desperate to be away from him. Her struggle forced him to rein to an abrupt halt, and Kerry immediately shoved away from him, leaping to the ground, landing on what felt like thousands of needles when her feet hit the earth. Arthur was right behind her, and she tried to run on her lifeless legs, to flee the very suggestion of Glasgow. The terror was now rifling through her, squeezing the breath from her lungs, choking her until she could scarcely draw her breath.

She felt the hard clamp of his hands on her shoulders just before he jerked her back into his chest, capturing her in a tight embrace. “Mind yourself, Kerry McKinnon,” he breathed into her ear, “I am hardly of a mind to chase you into the brier. I know you don’t want to go to Glasgow, but what choice do you have, given the circumstance?”

“Not Glasgow!” she cried, striking at his grip. “I
doona care what will come of me, but I willna go to Glasgow, I
will not!
”

“Stop it at once!” he bellowed, and with uncommon strength, grabbed her shoulders and whipped her around to face him. His expression was taut; dark circles stained the area beneath his eyes and a heavy beard shadowed his chin. He looked as exhausted as she felt. “Heed me, madam. I cannot let you go to Perth and risk Moncrieffe finding you there. I will not see you hanged, do you quite understand me? The only thing that seems to make even a bit of sense is to take you to Glasgow!”

He meant it, every word. The life quickly drained from her; her knees began to buckle. Kerry closed her eyes and felt herself falling.

“Come now,” he said gruffly, shaking her, trying to make her stand. “It’s hardly as bad as all that. I’ll see to it that your mother has the means to see to your welfare—you won’t be made to toil in some factory—”

“No,”
she sobbed. “Please, no! I
canna
go to her, Arthur! You doona understand—”

“I understand that there is no one who can protect you, Kerry,” he said, roughly forcing her chin up so that she would look at him. “You have no one, save your mum. Thomas cannot help you now. I’ve no choice but to take you—”

“Then leave me here to die!” she shrieked hysterically. “I’d rather die, I
deserve
to die for what I’ve done, so leave me to it then, out here among the wolves! But not Glasgow, Arthur!
Anything but Glasgow!
”

Clearly shocked by her hysteria, Arthur stared down at her, his hazel eyes searching her face in confusion. His grip on her arms began to hurt as a dozen waves of emotion scudded across his eyes, and for a moment, a single moment, Kerry hoped. But at last, he softly begged her to understand. “Kerry, sweetheart, what else can I
do
? Give me another choice, give me but one …”

There was one, all right. Death. Kerry preferred
death over life with her mother and the zealots she lived among. She preferred death to thinking about the loss of Glenbaden or killing Charles Moncrieffe. But when Arthur put his arm around her shoulders and began to coax her back to the horse, her legs moved of their own will to live. Mute, she stumbled along beside him, numb to his softly urgent reassurances, her mind filled with the incredible catastrophe that had suddenly become her life. It was as if some Greek tragedy was being played out here, on the stage she knew as Scotland, with everything she had ever known slowly disintegrating beneath her. Perhaps, she thought morosely as Arthur helped her up to the saddle, she had gotten her wish. Perhaps this was death.

They rode until Sassenach could go no farther, plodding along for what seemed hours. Kerry did not speak—she seemed resigned to her fate, much like Arthur imagined a condemned man would face his certain death.

He was horribly, hopelessly confused.

It was clear that after all she had faced in the last year, the very thought of Glasgow was what would finally defeat her. God’s blood, it defeated
him.
Who could look at her now, her despair filling the space around them, and deliver her to Glasgow? It was beyond his capacity as a man to commend her to a person or a place she would, obviously, rather die than inhabit. But it also was beyond his capacity as a member of the British aristocracy to take her to London, to a world she didn’t yet know she would despise.