She was nowhere.
He rushed to the edge of the flatboat, his fears confirmed when he glanced toward the Richey Brothers and one of them pointed downstream.
Bloody hell! With a heavy sigh, Arthur tossed her satchel to shore, cast a quick but fierce and final frown at the two Richey brothers, then plunged headlong into the dark waters of the River Tay tributary.
Chapter Seven
THE HARDER SHE fought, the deeper the current pulled her into the river’s clutches. Kerry felt herself sinking with the weight of the voluminous bombazine skirts that marked her a widow. Was this the answer, then? She was to die so soon?
Her feet hit the sandy bottom—she had sunk so fast! No! her mind screamed, and she struggled again, kicking wildly but vainly against the weight of her clothing, dragging her arms against the water in a desperate bid to lift her head above the surface. Her lungs were burning, felt as if they would explode at any moment. God grant her mercy, it was over! She would die alone, drown in the river in her best black bombazine.
A strange sense of calm was beginning to wrap itself around her when she felt the hand of God clamp down on her shoulder. It was God—she felt herself being dragged upward, felt God’s legs kicking for both of them, powerful strokes, propelling them upward, upward, until her face broke the surface. Kerry dragged air into her lungs with a ragged cry, gasping, unable to get enough into her lungs. Oblivious to the rain, to the pull of her body through the water, to the struggle to lift her onto the riverbank, she gasped for air, choked on it, sputtering bile and water, then gulped for air again.
It was several moments before the cloud began to lift from her brain and she realized she was on terra firma, rain pelting her upturned face.
“It’s all right, Kerry, you are quite safe.”
God had saved her—He had sent Arthur to save her life! The understanding of what had happened dawned harshly—tears erupted, blinding her, and she lunged into him, burying her face in his neck as she sobbed uncontrollably.
“There now, sweetheart. You are quite all right,” he said soothingly, caressing the back of her head.
No, no, he didn’t understand! “I almost died, Arthur. I almost died! You saved my life!” she wailed hoarsely, and choked on another sob.
Arthur forced her to lift her face to his, shook his head. “I would not let you perish, Kerry. And really, you weren’t under terribly long. It’s quite shallow.”
He did not understand, could not fathom how close she had come to slipping the bonds of this earth but for him. “I thought you were God,” she murmured.
That was met with a moment of silence as his gaze pierced hers hard, then slowly dropped to her mouth. “Not God. Just a man.” And he bent his head to hers.
The unexpected, soft touch of his lips paralyzed her—until the sensation exploded within her core, jolting her back to life. It was so surprising, so tender, that her body reacted of its own accord, melting into him, clinging to the warmth of his lips.
A moan rumbled deep in Arthur’s chest and suddenly his arms were around her, crushing her to him, nipping at her lips, sucking them, licking them. Kerry forgot the rain, forgot the river, forgot everything else as she opened her mouth and felt his tongue sweep boldly inside, tangling with hers, sweeping over her teeth, into her cheeks and producing a storm of emotion in her.
Her heart was pumping furiously now, stealing her breath again. She was aware that she answered the ardor of his kiss with an urgency of her own, one borne from years of unanswered desire, of living in a sick house with the wasting, rotting flesh of a man. She desperately explored his mouth, dug her fingers into the thick waves of his golden-brown hair, stroked his ears, his shoulders and arms, then gripped him with the same strength he had used to pull her from the waters so that he would not let her go. One large hand covered the whole of her ribcage; the other cupped her cheek and ear as he drew her bottom lip between his teeth, then dragged his mouth from her lips, to her chin, to the hollow of her throat.
The hunger burning in her was overwhelming; she feared she might shatter at any moment, that her limbs would fail her. She clung recklessly to him as she dropped her head to one shoulder and bared her neck to his mouth. Arthur’s lips seared her skin, scorched the lobe of her ear. His breath in her ear sent a white-hot shiver of anticipation coursing through her veins. His hand swept the swell of her hips, pushed her body into his. Through the dripping fabric of their clothes, she could feel the ridge of his erection and inhaled a ragged, impassioned breath.
“Ah, God … Kerry,” he murmured in her ear, then suddenly, as if she had been rudely startled from a dream, it was over. His hands slid up her arms until he found her wrists; he pulled her hands from his neck and clasped them tightly against his chest. “No more,” he said, and closing his eyes, pressed his forehead to hers, seemingly as breathless as she was. After a moment, he lifted his head and tenderly laid his palm against her cheek. “We must find shelter or you’ll catch your death.”
Shocked by her brush with death, numbed by the raw life in his kiss, Kerry could not respond, afraid if she spoke she would ask for more. Arthur took her firmly by the hand; Kerry stumbled alongside him, heedless of the distant thunder or the river rushing nearby, blind to everything but the warmth of his hand wrapped around hers, the comfort and safety in it, and the desire to feel that hand everywhere on her body.
Arthur found an overhang of sorts, where the river had cut yards below the bank and the canopy of trees above blocked most of the rain. He led her to a ledge just barely large enough to hold them both. He helped her remove as much of her wet clothing as was decent, then his own.
Silent, Kerry sank down, exhausted and bewildered by a kiss that had awakened something long dormant in her. That awakening seemed the final straw—the weight of her life, the frustration and fears and hopes and needs came crashing down on her, and the tears erupted anew. She tried to stop them with every ounce of will she had left, but she was suddenly mired in an overwhelming sense of despair. “I’m sorry,” she muttered miserably, appalled that she could not seem to make herself stop.
Arthur said nothing, but eased himself down beside her. Silently, he put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her head to his chest and held her, brushing the wet hair from her eyes and her face, caressing her back in long, comforting strokes while Kerry cried until there was nothing left in her. The last thing she knew before drifting into a dead slumber was the steady beat of his heart against her cheek.
What in God’s name was he doing?
What insanity had befallen him, what monumental foolishness had seeped into his brain? Arthur stared at the woman sleeping beside him, her hair a wild mess of curls and dark corkscrew ribbons spilling all around her. Her lashes, thick and black, brushing skin with the luster of opals. A pretty widow …
But a Scottish crofter’s widow! And one who was perched precariously on a ledge in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands at that!
Arthur looked away from her, stared at the black sky above, indistinguishable from the steep hills around them.
What, dear God in heaven, what was he doing? What divine forces had moved that he might find himself here, in the middle of absolutely nowhere, the sudden protector of a pretty young widow struggling to make her way home? Some protector—who was he to lead her out of this quagmire? And how could he possibly have allowed himself to join her in this quagmire? Bloody hell, he had no earthly idea what they might do now!
Except walk. Yes, keep walking, for surely they would eventually walk off the face of the earth or meet with some semblance of civilization.
He stole another look at her. Jesus, he was a Rogue! It was hardly as if he was so pure a gentleman that he never took advantage of women in vulnerable situations. Frankly there were times he had actually created vulnerable situations, but those situations had involved women of the ton, women who understood and knew how to play the game. This woman … this woman was as innocent about the world as she was stubborn. This was a p
oor crofter’s wife who had, somehow, managed to find herself abandoned in the country and was trying her best to stand up to the mounting challenges of this extraordinary little journey.
All right, he had no right to have taken advantage of her. But devil take it, those crystal-blue eyes were drowning in tears, and her lips, God, her lips! He had meant only to comfort her, had only meant to kiss her once.
Righto. And he believed in fairies, too.
Worse yet, she had responded with such fierceness, such incredible longing, that just the memory of it made him hard all over again.
Kerry sighed in her sleep; Arthur silently extracted himself and gained his feet, jammed his fists into cold damp pockets and tried not to think how she had opened her mouth so eagerly beneath his, had thrust her hands in his hair and raked her fingers across his shoulders. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Damn it all to hell, but the woman had captivated him long before that kiss, had knocked him for a loop the moment she had marched off into the woods in search of the River Tay. She was impudent and vulnerable, courageous and timid all at once. Her financial woes, whatever they were, brought a glint of determination to her eye that was immediately softened by the glow of admiration when she spoke of Glenbaden, and her Big Angus, May, and Thomas. She had walked miles without complaint until her cheap boots had forced her to stop long after he would have begged for mercy. She had fallen in the river, kissed him with fierce passion obviously smoldering beneath that black bombazine, and then had cried herself to sleep like a child.
God, she was exhausting!
But she was unique, unlike any woman he had ever known. He was, as much as he was loath to admit it, completely enchanted by the widow who had shot him. There was something about her that made him feel strangely alive, as if she had awakened him from a deep slumber with that shot, shown him a sun and a moon and the millions of stars that seemed to hang above Scotland.
Oh yes, he was dangerously enchanted.
Bloody fabulous. Enchanted with a woman he could never have. He had come to Scotland for Phillip, not to fall victim to such treacherous emotions. Christ God, he would see her home, say his heartfelt farewells and put her out of his mind. He would settle Phillip’s affairs and return to his life in England where women like Kerry McKinnon simply did not exist. He had perhaps caught a Scottish star in his hand, but he could only hold it for a moment.
There was no other option. As much as she had captivated him, had sparked his dying imagination, deep down inside he knew that very well.
————
The feel of the sun on her skin forced Kerry to open her eyes. Her head ached something awful; her arms and legs felt leaden. The cloying scent of boxwood and moldy clothing made her queasy and she moaned, slung an arm across her eyes to shield the sun, felt the ache spread to every conceivable fiber of her body. She had never felt so battered in all her life.
“I daresay I’ve never known anyone to sleep quite like the dead as you do Mrs. McKinnon.”
Oh no. Kerry peeked from beneath her arm at the scarred and muddied boots next to her face. Shifting her arm just a bit, she looked higher, past the sullied trousers, the stained silk waistcoat flapping open in the morning breeze, and what was once a very fine white lawn shirt opened at the neck. She blinked, tried to focus on the handsome face shadowed by a two-day growth of beard, but was suddenly besieged by the memory of her appalling behavior the night before and quickly covered her face again.
He sank down onto his haunches, pushed her arm a bit and bent to one side to peer into her face. “Do you intend to sleep all day, then?”
“No!” she croaked irritably and came to her elbows, ignoring his chuckle. “What time have you?”
He popped a dark purple berry into his mouth and shook his head. “I’m afraid I haven’t any idea,” he said, pulling his watch from his pocket. “That little swim of ours seems to have mucked up the workings of this thing.” He frowned, shook the watch violently. “If I had to guess, I’d say the sun has been up an hour, no more.”
An hour. She never slept so late. She suddenly bolted upright and attempted to stand. “We must be on our way!”
Arthur caught her arm and helped her to her feet. “Yes, well, we’ll go soon enough. First, you will eat this.” He held out a bunch of wild berries.
Amazed, Kerry stared at the berries. Berries that looked like a feast for kings. Her belly rumbled loudly in response. “Where did you get them, then?”
“The market stalls,” he said, and laughing, casually smoothed his hand over the top of her head. “It’s the best I can do short of pine bark, but you must eat something before we continue.”
She did not reply—her mouth was full of the wild berries. Arthur chuckled again and turned away from her, walked down to the river’s edge, and went down on one knee to dip water to drink. “Ach!” he spat. “Foul stuff!” But he dipped his hands again.
Devouring the berries as if they were her last meal, Kerry watched the muscles of his back as he dipped his hands into the water and brought them to his mouth to drink, then thrust his wet hands through his hair in an attempt to bring some order. The effect was not what he undoubtedly intended, but made him look wild and masculine—
The memory of his kiss suddenly flared, inflaming the skin beneath her collar. She turned away from the sight of him, but the memory stubbornly lingered on her lips. That extraordinary kiss had awakened something dead inside her, something that was now ascending to her throat.
“I must say you look no worse for the wear, madam—as lovely as the moment you shot me.” That backhanded compliment only made her flush deeper. She turned halfway toward the sound of his voice and self-consciously put a hand to her unruly curls. “You’ll be pleased to know that I am healing nicely.” He handed her the clothing she had discarded last night, and the smile he gave her made the blood in her veins feel as if it thickened.
She abruptly took the clothing and looked over her shoulder into the woods. “I, ah, I’ve got to …”
“Righto. I’ll wait down by the river’s edge.”
Kerry scarcely heard him—she was already moving for the cover of the trees, afraid she was making a complete fool of herself. She was acting as if she had never been kissed before! But she had never been kissed like that.
She did not know men like Arthur Christian.
And he undoubtedly did not know women like her. She forced herself to regain her composure, managed to don her damp clothing and stuff her hair into another thick knot, then cautiously emerged from the woods. Arthur had donned his coat again. It was remarkable that despite the ragged appearance of his clothing, he still managed to look terribly aristocratic. It was his bearing; the grace came naturally, patently oblivious to the ungodly circumstance in which she had put him.
He smiled in that devastatingly charming way of his when he caught her staring. “I know you had your heart set on a leisurely riverboat ride, but I’ve determined we should follow the river’s course on foot. If the foliage doesn’t kill us first, I believe we should stumble upon the main artery of the River Tay ’ere too long.”
Given her own keen navigational skills, Kerry could hardly argue with him. He bent, then straightened, holding her satchel. The sight of the tattered red bag astounded her—he had even saved her sorry belongings.
“Shall we?” he asked pleasantly, and Kerry nodded.
So they walked—she, admiring his movement from behind, he noting various genera of fauna to her, giving her a bit of a botany lecture. When even he tired of that, he asked about Glenbaden. Kerry told him what she could, but it seemed impossible to impart the beauty of her home, of the often-fierce winters that brought glorious springs. She tried to explain those of the McKinnon clan who remained scattered across the glen, decades removed from the powerful clan they once were. She did her best to avoid speaking of the hard times that had befallen them, but inadvertently, she mentioned a gaping hole in the roof of her house.
“A ho
le? I should think the lot of McKinnons would come to your aid,” he said, pausing idly to examine the leaf of an ancient oak tree.
“That they would, had I the means to purchase the lumber,” she said absently.
Arthur stopped his examination of the leaf. “What? You’ve still a hole in your roof?”
Kerry shrugged. “We’ll patch it, we will.”
Frowning, Arthur dropped the leaf, put his hands to his hips and looked down at his boots for a moment. He suddenly lifted a worried frown to her. “Pardon my asking, but is there no one who can help you?”
“Help me?”
He glanced at the river. “I mean to say, is there no one you can turn to for help with your … financial situation?”
Ah God, how pitiful must she appear to a man like him. Her face flamed with shame at her circumstance. “I manage quite well on my own,” she said stiffly.
“What of your father? Can’t your father—”
“He is dead.”
That garnered only a moment’s hesitation from him. “Your mother, perhaps.”
Kerry unconsciously raised her hand to her cheek; her fingers cool against her skin. “My mother,” she forced herself to say, “has married a reverend who prides himself on austerity. I appreciate your concern, but I will manage.”
He made no reply, just turned away to stare across the river to the other bank.
“It’s not as bad as it must seem to you now—I’ll not be destitute.” She laughed, trying to cover that obvious lie, but her voice, her laughter, sounded hollow to her. It was as bad as he apparently thought, and in fact much worse. But she’d not disgrace herself further by letting him know just how bad it was. She had suffered enough humiliation for one outing and had no desire to suffer any more in the eyes of this beautiful stranger.
“We should walk on,” she said, motioning ahead. He seemed to hesitate, if only for a moment, but he turned and walked on, leading the way through the undergrowth.
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