Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

  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.

  Arthur made himself comfortable near the fire, his back propped against a tree and one leg stretched in front of him, the other bent at the knee. How long he sat, he had no idea, really, but it rather surprised him to realize that he actually enjoyed the peace and tranquility of this particular wilderness, this bit of solitude. There was nothing but the sounds of the woods—the scratching of tiny paws as squirrels chased one another around the trunk of a pine tree, or the limbs of the trees creaking as they settled under the weight of the changing night air. If he were a betting man, which he was, he’d wager Phillip’s debt that before the mist grew so thick he could no longer see a sliver of moon, Mrs. McKinnon would come walking into this little nook of the clearing, having given up on her ridiculous notion of a coach.

  He heard the owl again, only closer now, and got up to gather a little more wood for the fire.

  The sound of her shriek ripped through the peaceful evening like a knife. Arthur reacted without thinking, yanking his gun from the holster at his side as he raced into the clearing, trying desperately to see beyond the little ring of light his fire cast. He almost missed her hurtling toward him in that black bombazine, spotting the flash of her red satchel just as she plowed into him. She threw herself at him, threw her arms tightly around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder as he fought for balance.

  “Robbers!” she shrieked into his coat.

  He held her trembling frame tightly to him as he peered into the black. “Be still, be still now. Take a breath and tell me what you saw.”

  She shook her head, knocking strands of lavender-scented hair into his mouth. “Not saw. Heard. I heard them!” she gasped, and leaned back from her death grip of him just enough to peer up at him with eyes as round as blue china saucers. “A-a crackling sound … a-and a whistle of a sort! I am certain they are just on the other side of the road!”

  Crackling sounds. Arthur fought a smile. “Wait,” he whispered, pressing a finger to his lips to quiet her. She literally held her breath; her mouth was not two inches from his chin. After a moment, he heard the scratch of squirrels followed by the distant hoot of an owl. Mrs. McKinnon released her breath in one long sigh, right into his shoulder.

  “Was that what you heard? A pair of squirrels, Mrs. McKinnon. The woods are teeming with them.” She said nothing; her arms slid from his neck. He stooped a little, tried to see her face. In the weak light of the fire, he could see that her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, and her face deathly pale. He took pity on her, ran his hand soothingly down her back. “Would you like to sit with me for a time?”

  She nodded, stepped away, and swept the back of her hand across her cheek in a self-conscious gesture. Arthur motioned toward the fire as he returned his pistol to its holster. “I was rather confused by the sound myself until I actually saw the little beasts,” he lied.

  With a meek smile, Mrs. McKinnon stooped to retrieve her satchel, then moved wearily to the small fire, sinking in a cloud of black, her satchel on her lap. For the first time since their unfortunate meeting, he noticed how tired she looked. It must have been a harrowing day for her, alone out here in the middle of nowhere as she was.

  He left her for just a moment to gather some wood, then built the blaze up before propping himself against the tree again. Mrs. McKinnon dug through her satchel, her forehead furrowed in concentration. She had lost her bonnet somewhere, and her hair, the color of midnight, gleamed in the firelight, particularly the thick strands that had come loose from the prim bun at her nape.

  She actually had a very pretty face, he thought as she put the satchel aside and placed a small red bundle on her lap. Not a great beauty, but nonetheless very pleasing to the eye. Her eyes were her most stunning feature, her nose cute and pert, her full lips the color of young plums … yes, very pretty, actually. He might even go so far as to say exceptionally pretty—

  “Biscuits,” she said, working the knot of the bundle free. “May—my cousin—she packed them for me.” She laughed nervously, smoothed the side of her hair with her palm. “I suppose she thought I might go starving in Dundee.”

  “So you’ve come from Dundee?” he asked, mildly curious as to what sort of business would have brought Mrs. McKinnon to be stranded here.

  She nodded as she untied the knot, but offered no explanation. Reaching inside the bundle, she retrieved what she called a biscuit and held it out to him.

  It was what he would call a scone. With a smile, Arthur gratefully accepted her offering. “Quite nice when served with a little Devonshire cream and a bit of jam. Thank you.” He sank his teeth into the bread—and moaned with delight. In spite of being in the bundle for Lord knew how long, the scone was flaky and moist, practically melting in his mouth. “My God,” he mumbled through another bite. “Food of the gods—my compliments to your May, Mrs. McKinnon.”

  She smiled then, that same brilliant flash of warmth that had captured him momentarily on the road. That smile … yes, that was the thing that made her exceptionally pretty.

  “They are good, are they not? May makes them for Big Angus each Sunday.” Mrs. McKinnon took a small bite of her biscuit and chewed slowly.

  “Angus? Is that your son, then?” Arthur asked.

  She blushed, shook her head. “May’s husband, he is. I’ve no children.”

  Her voice carried a hint of wistfulness. “You’ve been widowed for a long time, then,” he remarked unthinkingly.

  “Eight months.”

  Eight months. Hardly any time at all. Poor girl—she undoubtedly still felt the brutal sting of it. God, he still felt Phillip’s death, even though almost three years had passed. He glanced at the pretty widow, felt a twinge of sorrow for her. She was too young to have experienced the death of a loved one. Too pretty to have suffered the sting of it. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

  She jerked her gaze to him, surprised. “Oh! Thank you—but my husband was ill for a very long time. He is at peace now, thankfully.”

  So the poor man had suffered. Arthur wondered how she had endured it as he munched his biscuit. Lady Whitehurst had endured her husband’s long and painful death by carrying on with his groom. He mentally shook his head at that notion—for some peculiar reason, he could not believe that the woman who had shot him was as merciless as that.

  They didn’t speak for a long while; he ate two biscuits to her one. When he waved off her offering of a third, she neatly bundled the remaining two and stowed them in her satchel, then readjusted herself beneath her voluminous skirts, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. From his vantage point he could see her slender waist and square shoulders. She seemed a strong, healthy woman; Arthur had to pity the man who would catch the nefarious disease that would take him from the arms of a woman like Mrs. McKinnon.

  After a moment of silence, she asked,
“Do you live in Scotland, then?”

  Arthur snorted. “Indeed not. I’ve come to settle some business matters for a friend.”

  “All this way?”

  “Yes. In vicinity of Pitlochry.”

  “Aye.” She nodded. “A wee bit north of here yet, but the coach passes through there, I think.”

  At the very least, it brought him a small amount of satisfaction to know that at least he had been on the right road. That idiot hotel clerk. If he should ever return to Perth, he would—

  “I am really very sorry that I shot you.”

  Arthur started. He hadn’t realized he was rubbing his wound and shook his head. “It’s quite all right, Mrs. McKinnon. I’m quite certain the gangrene won’t set in for a day or two.”

  That earned him a roll of her pretty blue eyes, which made him smile. “I am mortified, you know. I should have known just by looking at you that you were no robber!”

  “And just how would you know by looking that I was not a robber?”

  “Och, it’s obvious,” she said, flicking her wrist impertinently. “A robber would not wear clothing as fine as that, and he would surely be even filthier.”

  That made Arthur look down—he was filthy. Yet another new experience.

  “And I think they doona shave.”

  He was with her—right up to the shaving part. “Not shave? Why shouldn’t a robber shave?” he asked, confused by her logic.

  “Why, he needs his whiskers to mask his identity! Once he has committed his robbery, he shaves his whiskers, so that not a single person can say with certainty that it was him.”

  “Aha. I had not realized that was how one went about a robbery.”

  “I read it in a novel,” she blithely explained, and looked uneasily over her shoulder, peering into the mist, missing his broad smile. “I’ve heard there are highwaymen along these very roads,” she muttered. “They camp in these woods, doona you think they do?”