Arthur rather doubted a highwayman worth his pearl-handled pistols would be so foolish as to camp this close to a road, even if it was practically deserted. “I rather think not.”
Her hands fisted tightly in her lap. “What do you suppose happened to the Crieff coach?” she almost whispered.
“Mrs. McKinnon, you are unduly frightening yourself. The Crieff coach had probably already passed when the driver put you out. There are no highwaymen here. No one has been along this road in hours and I am quite certain a good highwayman would study the public schedules before embarking on his rounds.”
She smiled with such relief that a curious shiver coursed right down Arthur’s spine, landing in the pit of his belly. “Of course, you are right.” She smiled again, but he noticed her hands were still fisted tightly in her lap. “I’ve read about England,” she said, clearly changing the subject. “In school, I knew a lass who hailed from Carlisle.”
“Carlisle. Near the lakes,” he remarked, and taking her cue, launched into a rambling description of England beginning with the peaceful Lake District where the Sutherlands had their ancestral seat, to the rolling landscape of the moors where he had a small country house. Somehow, his remark upon that led to a mention of the stark beauty of the white cliffs at Dover, and then the magic of the forests in the Cotswalds.
Somewhere in the middle of his rambling, she shifted so that she was facing him, her funny little boots peeking out from beneath her gown. Arthur realized he actually had quite a lot to say—no one had ever really inquired about him or his home.
Mrs. McKinnon was either very good at listening or was as truly fascinated as she seemed. With the exception of the occasional nervous glance over her shoulder, she seemed to hang on his every word. He watched the light dance in her clear blue eyes as he spoke and realized, at some point in the conversation, that it was refreshing to sit with a woman who did not ask him about women’s fashions, or what the latest rumor was among the ton, or what a pair of perfectly matched geldings might bring. Any one of a dozen questions Portia or any lady among the ton might have asked. Mrs. McKinnon asked about the English people, what they did to provide their living, where they were schooled, their hopes, their loves, their passions and fears.
“I beg your forgiveness, Mrs. McKinnon. I have put you quite to sleep,” he said after a while and withdrew his pocket watch. The late hour astounded him—he had not felt the time pass.
“Oh no!” she exclaimed, adamantly shaking her head. “It’s fascinating! I’ve not had the good fortune to travel beyond my home. I like hearing about England. It sounds so heavenly a place.” She covered her yawn with her hand.
“Thank you, but I think we have quite exhausted the subject for one evening.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll build the fire,” he said, and walked into the forest to gather more wood.
When he returned a quarter of an hour later, Mrs. McKinnon was lying on her side, her hands pillowed beneath her cheek, fast asleep. She looked much younger in her sleep, he noticed, in spite of the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Arthur shrugged out of his coat and carefully draped it over her.
He turned his attention to the fire, and when he had kindled the flames, he glanced again at Mrs. McKinnon. What was the woman doing out here, alone? What had happened in her life? He moved to sit at the base of the tree next to her as he pondered that. He drifted to sleep, slipping easily into a dream in which Phillip appeared behind a tree, just beyond Arthur’s grasp. But when he moved to catch him, he vanished, and Arthur struggled to remember if he had gone left or right, never really certain of where Phillip had come from or gone to.
The next thing he knew, he was waking in a dreamy state of arousal that strained against his buckskins. He forced his eyes open, noticed he was lying down, on his back, next to the dead fire. But he was not cold, because, as his mind slowly began to comprehend, Mrs. McKinnon—wrapped in his coat—was practically sprawled across him, her steady breath on his ear, her arm slung across his chest, and—merciful God—one leg hiked up and pressed against his groin.
Chapter Six
IT WAS BAD enough to have shot him. Worse to have gone running into his arms at the sound of a few forest creatures, but to awake practically on top of him—oh!
Kerry had almost killed herself getting off him, her arms and legs flailing as if she was being attacked by a horde of angry bees. She stumbled clumsily to her feet, at which point she had been completely unhinged by that wicked grin of his and had promptly tripped, just narrowly missing a headlong pitch into the grass. Her embarrassment only worsened as she tried to shove her skirts down—which wasn’t exactly easy, seeing as she had managed to twist her crinolines into something of a mishmash. Then she realized her hair was falling all around her shoulders in one glorified tangled mess of curls. Christ God!
It did not help, not at all, that he just pushed himself up to his elbow and said in his wonderfully rich, silky smooth voice, “And top of the morning to you, too, Sunshine.” Like a cat, he came gracefully to his feet, shook his fingers through golden brown hair that seemed one thick wave, then stretched his arms out wide and yawned. “Rather anxious to begin the walk to Perth, are we?” he asked over his shoulder as he strolled casually into the woods.
Kerry stared at his retreating figure, not sure if she should shout after him that she had no intention of going to Perth, or flee with all her humiliation in the opposite direction while she could. God, oh God, how was it that she had picked the most beautiful stranger in all the world to shoot? He was breathtakingly handsome—she had noticed that even when his face was contorted in that awful way when he was cursing the loss of his horse. His face, bless it, was shaped by angels, square and strong, with high cheekbones and a noble chin. And his eyes. His eyes were the most beautiful hazel eyes she had ever seen, tobacco-brown flecked with shimmering green and gold. And he was tall, over six feet, broad shouldered—when he walked into the woods, she swore she could see every muscle in his hips and thighs move in all their splendor.
She had felt his arousal under her knee—
Kerry suddenly whirled around. This was ridiculous! She had found herself practically panting last evening, watching his long, tapered fingers move as he spoke of England, the gentle curve of a smile on his lips, the sparkle of pride in his eye. How on earth she had ended up sleeping with him was beyond her—but it had given her a burning rash deep inside she could not scratch.
What madness! She had shot him! And in a few moments, they would go their separate ways, her apologizing one last time and he graciously making some little jest of it. She would not see this beautiful stranger again. So why was she almost breathless in her anxiousness around him? Had she forgotten she was a widow and barely eight months at that? For heaven’s sake, he was the son of an English nobleman! This … this preposterous infatuation was just one more thing the good Lord had thought to throw at her, one more thing with which she had to contend.
All right, there it was then, a silly infatuation with an exceptionally handsome man. Fine. She would take her leave of him as she ought—but not looking a fright. Her hair felt a complete mess; the Lord only knew what had happened to her hairpins—no doubt half of them were up on the road along with her bonnet.
Kerry abruptly dropped to her knees next to her satchel, yanked it open with a jerk that almost tore the handles from it, and dug until she found her hairbrush. She frantically pulled it through her unruly hair, but froze at the sound of his cheerful whistle.
“Glorious morning, Mrs. McKinnon!” he opined. Kerry slowly lowered her arm and looked at him from the corner of her eye. He was blindly and artfully tying his neckcloth. “We should quite enjoy our walk.” He retrieved his rumpled riding coat, gingerly putting his injured arm into one sleeve, seemingly oblivious to the fact that there was a gaping and ragged hole in it.
Oddly embarrassed, Kerry shoved her brush into her satchel. “Aye, it is indeed a bonny day. But I’ll be walking to Dunkeld. Not Perth.”
&n
bsp; He paused in the dusting of his trousers to frown at her. “What, do you think to wait for that coach yet? I’d wager it is hours before one comes through, if at all. I should think our chances of finding suitable transportation are much better if we start toward Perth.”
“I must be home, sir,” she said politely, and came to her feet, self-consciously wrapping her hair into one big knot at her nape that she was fairly certain resembled a small animal attached to her head.
His frown deepened. “Mrs. McKinnon, Dunkeld could be miles from here. Please be sensible and return to Perth where you can take another coach.”
“I doona intend to lose another day. My family will be frantic. And besides, I will find passage on a flatboat going upstream, not a coach.” That, she thought, as the idea spilled out of her mouth, was a brilliant solution. If she headed due north, she would reach the River Tay, and from there, could follow the tributaries to Loch Eigg.
“I can’t let you do that,” he said solemnly.
Surprised by the arrogance, Kerry laughed. “It is not your decision!”
“I would be remiss as a gentleman if I let you foolishly wander off.”
“Foolishly wander off? Surely I needna remind you who is Scot and who is not?” His shout of laughter was answer enough, but he replied with a resounding “No.” Arrogant cretin. “Well then, I’ll thank you for your help and I’ll be off now.”
“Mrs. McKinnon—”
“I’ll walk to Dunkeld before I take even one step toward Perth!” she fairly shouted. Lord, now what was she saying?
His beautiful hazel eyes narrowed; his cheeks puffed out as he considered her, until he finally let the air go in one loud swoosh. “All in all, I’d say you are about the most obstinate woman I have ever encountered. Go on, then, carry your fool self off to some danger,” he said, and stuffed his hat down on his head. “I don’t intend to watch after you like a child.”
“No one asked you to do so,” she shot back. “Perhaps I should be watching you like a child—at least I would know to tether my horse.”
His face darkened. “Is that so?” he drawled, lowering his head like a charging bull.
Something inside her twitched—Kerry quickly snatched up her satchel and took several steps backward. “Aye then. I am grateful for your … your, ah, companionship last evening, and I do so regret having shot you at all, but, well, accidents will happen, will they not, and I hope you have a lovely time of it in Scotland all the same, and a safe journey to England when the time comes, but if you will excuse me now, I really must get home.”
Now he was advancing. She turned and walked quickly—sprinted, rather—across the clearing, to a point where the forest thinned and one could see through to another small clearing. She glanced over her shoulder—he had stopped, was watching her walk away, the scowl still on his face. She couldn’t help herself; she lifted her hand. “Farewell!”
He didn’t answer right away; a moment or two passed before he responded gently, “Farewell, and Godspeed, Mrs. McKinnon.”
A vague but deep sense of regret invaded her. It had been a very long time that she had been near a man so virile, so handsome—Enough! There was no time to mope about a beautiful stranger; she had enough on her mind. With a jaunty wave, she marched into the woods, swinging her satchel at her side.
Arthur watched her walk into the copse, saw the tendrils of morning mist begin to close around her. The woman wouldn’t listen to reason if her very life depended upon it. Moreover, she was too headstrong for her own good, she went about shooting unarmed men, she slept like the dead, and she was so damned alluring there ought to be a law against it.
So when his feet began to move independently of his head, Arthur decided he had lost his bloody mind. His feet put up the argument that, lest he forget, he was terribly lost, and for all he knew, he ought to be walking in the same direction as she anyway. If that wasn’t enough, his heart further argued that he was a gentleman, and a gentleman did not allow a lady to walk off into potential danger—not a woman with a derriere like that, at any rate—no matter how infuriatingly stubborn she was, the silly little Scot! Ah, but what could he do? It was plainly obvious she was desperately in need of his help.
Before he even recognized what was happening, Arthur was suddenly only a horse length behind her, following the gentle bounce of that round bum to hell for all he knew.
What did he think he was doing? Kerry glanced over her shoulder a third time, moaned at his charming smile, and jerked her gaze straight ahead. Following her, that was what, and had been for a good hour or more. But to where for God’s sake? He was so determined to go to Perth! This was impossible—she could not have a fancy Englishman follow her home!
Exasperated, Kerry paused by a fallen log at the edge of the heath where the forest rose up again and turned around. Her satchel by her side, her arms folded tightly across her middle, she glared at Arthur Christian as he strolled to where she stood as if he was out for his Sunday constitutional. “Do you follow me now?” she demanded.
“Absolutely not,” he said, as if insulted by the notion. “I am going with.”
Her mouth dropped open—indignation, confusion, and a strange, pleasurable heat swirled through her all at once. “Going with? You … you canna just follow me home!”
“Why not?”
“B-because!” she stammered, confused by the change in him. “Because it’s not right! I doona even know you! You are to Perth, not the Highlands!”
“Actually, I am to Pitlochry. But it would seem to suit us both if I were to see you home and then continue on.”
“But you cannai I can hardly go running about the countryside with a perfect stranger!”
“Why thank you kindly, madam, but I am hardly perfect,” he said, smiling impudently.
Kerry gaped at him. How had she done it? How had she managed to get herself into such a predicament? Was the weight of the world not enough for her? Must she also bear this catastrophe? She sank down onto the fallen trunk and stared helplessly at him. “It’s my punishment, no? I shot you and now you would ruin me.”
He chuckled, sank down on his haunches next to her. “Actually, I’d prefer to strangle you,” he cheerfully corrected her. “But the truth is that I am a gentleman, Mrs. McKinnon, and I cannot let you wander off alone. If you are too stubborn to return to Perth, then I shall just accompany you home. There is no point in arguing, my mind is very much set on it. Now. Since I’ve determined to be so very sporting about the whole thing, how about giving over one of those delectable scones?” he asked, motioning to her satchel.
She stared at him, tried to determine if those hazel eyes lied, but saw nothing other than an insufferably cheerful sparkle and the flecks of green. Apparently she had lost what was left of her senses, because after a moment, Kerry reached for her satchel. “They’d be called biscuits around here,” she muttered.
They sat side by side on the fallen trunk, munching the last two biscuits. Part of her thought she ought to protest a little louder, but another part of her smothered what was undoubtedly a weak protest altogether. From all appearances, there was no life in this wilderness except sheep and, truly, she was grateful for the companionship. As for her reputation, well … she hardly cared anymore. Only one step away from being married to some religious zealot or a man with the mind of a child, she might as well throw caution to the wind. If she was to be ruined, it certainly did not hurt that it would be in the company of such a magnificent specimen of man.
When they finished their biscuits, she had made up her mind. He could accompany her to Dunkeld, and she said as much. The man smiled at her as if it had been a foregone conclusion all along, and offered his hand to help her to her feet. She ignored the tiny jolt of heat that went through her when she laid her hand in his; she dismissed the gratitude when he picked up her satchel and very jauntily perched it on his shoulder. And she refused to allow his gaze to melt her into a puddle by staring straight ahead at the ground in front of her as they set
out.
“I would ask, however, if you are quite certain that the River Tay is due north?”
“I am quite certain,” she responded airily. “We shall reach it by noon if not before.”
But at the noon hour, they were still deep in the forest, guided only by an occasional glimpse of the sun above the treetops as they trekked across terrain that grew increasingly steep. Kerry’s feet were killing her—the boots she wore were her good ones, handed down from Mrs. Wallace. They were too big for her feet, so she reserved them for church and important outings such as her disastrous call to Moncrieffe House and Mr. Abernathy in Dundee. They were not made, obviously, for long treks into the Highlands, and she could not help but envy Arthur Christian’s fine leather boots. Her heels screamed with blisters, and now she was having difficulty keeping up with the beautiful stranger.
He had gone ahead; he was standing on top of a large rock, looking off into the distance when she finally climbed up a steep incline. “No sign of the river as yet, I’m afraid,” he said apologetically, as if he were the one to have suggested this ridiculous trek.
The announcement brought her dangerously close to tears. She looked helplessly around them—nothing but trees and more trees, the only change being that the forest ground was growing rockier and they were moving higher. The air was cooler, too, and she could smell the faint but distinct scent of rain.
They were lost.
She had made them lost. For all she knew, she had led them in the opposite direction of where they needed to be. It was more than she could bear, and much to her mortification, her bottom lip began to tremble. She quickly bit down on it, convinced that the most humiliating thing she could do at this moment was cry.
“There’s no cause for despair, Mrs. McKinnon,” he said kindly, and leapt gracefully from the rock. “We’ve managed to keep on a northern course. We’ll find your river yet.”
One fat tear slipped from her eye and rolled down her cheek; she looked down. How could he be so kind? So … so generous after all she had done to him?
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