Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

  “Yes, well, I was to have met him in Dundee this very week, but he has sent word he has been unavoidably detained in Fort Williams.”

  “For a fortnight,” Kerry offered unthinkingly, and instantly bit her tongue for voicing her thoughts aloud.

  Arthur glanced up at her. “Yes, for a fortnight,” he said, his expression curious.

  Kerry felt a rush of blood to her neck, tried to put down the ridiculous idea that popped into her head. She abruptly turned away, fetched a platter of steamed cabbage that she placed on the table. She was a fool—a fool!—to be thinking what she was thinking! But really, what was the harm? Inviting him to stay in Glenbaden until his appointment with Mr. Regis seemed the least she could do in return for her life. The very least.

  With a surreptitious look at Thomas, who was regarding her closely, Kerry walked stiffly to where May was putting the finishing touches on the platter of trout.

  It was her home, after all. And if there was one thing for which Scots were known, it was their hospitality, were they not? It would be the worst offense to send him off with nothing to occupy his time for an entire fortnight. “We would be honored to have you stay here until Mr. Regis returns,” she said quickly.

  The invitation was immediately met with a sputtering of ale from Thomas. Beside her, May smiled quietly as she arranged the trout on the platter.

  “I shouldn’t think of imposing, Mrs. McKinnon,” Arthur responded.

  Kerry turned, very nearly sighed aloud when she saw the smile glimmering in Arthur’s hazel eyes. “It wouldna be an imposition, it would be our pleasure.”

  “Och,” Thomas muttered, but he thankfully said no more than that as he frowned deeply at the trout May set on the table.

  “Well … I should make myself very useful, then. I would very much like to help if I can.”

  Thomas looked up, smiling thinly. “Would ye, now?” he asked, and chuckled.

  The meal passed in light conversation, which suited Arthur perfectly, as he was far too intent on the excellent food to be bothered with talk of cattle and barley. The trout was prepared to perfection, the Yorkshire pudding delicately flavored, even the cabbage—a dish Arthur typically avoided as being far too pedestrian for his palate—was seasoned so deliriously that he could not resist a second helping.

  When the plates had been cleared, and Thomas and Big Angus were deeply engrossed in a conversation having to do with sheep, Arthur leaned back in his chair and surreptitiously watched Kerry as she moved about the kitchen—rather, he watched her hips move beneath skirts free of petticoats, the long black braid swinging above them. He was filled with a lazy but potent desire to touch her, feel the softness of her skin beneath his fingers, his lips. Grateful when Thomas and Big Angus finally rose from the table, he flashed an indolent smile at Thomas when he told him that the day started early in Glenbaden.

  “Indeed? And how early would that be, sir?”

  “We rise with the sun here,” Thomas stiffly informed him, then glanced at Kerry’s back. “If ye think to be about, we could use the hand ye offered.”

  “I would be delighted,” Arthur drawled, and dipped his head in mock salute to the crusty Scot. Thomas muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath as he followed Big Angus out of the kitchen. The lovely little May smiled dreamily as she floated past him after the two men.

  With the Grants and Thomas McKinnon off to God knew where, Arthur watched Kerry in silence as she dried the last dish and placed it on a shelf. It occurred to him that he had never seen a woman in a kitchen other than Cook, and even that infrequently. Actually, he had rarely been in kitchens, was unaccustomed to the warmth. It was fascinating, really—Kerry moved fluidly among the pots and sacks and dried herbs. He felt an odd sense of calm watching her, as if in this one room, in this corner of the world, all was right.

  When Kerry finished, she stood with her back to him, gazing out of the lone, unadorned window. Arthur stood and strolled around the table to stand beside her. “It was exceedingly kind of you to invite me to stay.”

  “We are honored.”

  “I think,” he said, taking her hand in his, “not as honored as I.” She glanced at her hand in his, and with a small sigh, surprised him by leaning against him. But she suddenly straightened and reached for the bucket of water she had used to clean the dishes. With a shy smile, she said, “I think there is naught lovelier than the moon over Glenbaden. Will you walk with me, then?”

  Oh yes, he’d walk with her … right over the edge of a cliff if she asked.

  Fortunately, he had to merely follow her outside, where she absently poured the water from the bucket onto what looked to be a garden patch, then set it aside and carefully wiped her palms on her apron. With a smile, Arthur held his hand out to her. Kerry looked at it so suspiciously that he could not help but chuckle. She smiled sheepishly at his laugh, slipped her hand into his, and the two of them strolled in comfortable silence into the heath beyond the house. The night air was thick with the scent of boxwood and heather; the small loch below them shimmered in the moonlight. Arthur glanced up at the sky, to the thin trails of mist streaking across the moon. Kerry was right; he had never seen anything quite as stunning as the light of a full moon spilling around them. “It is beautiful here,” he murmured appreciatively.

  “Aye,” she softly agreed, and with a wistful sigh, tilted her head back to gaze at the stars. “I’ve not been far beyond this glen, but I canna imagine a lovelier place in all the world.”

  Arthur was hard pressed to disagree with her and joined her in gazing up at the stars. There were millions of them, seemingly so close that it felt as if they almost touched his face.

  He lowered his gaze and looked at Kerry. Her skin, bared to the moon above, had the rich luster of pearls. Her lips were starkly dark against her face, and Arthur was assaulted with the memory of those lips, the satin feel of her cheeks. He let go her hand and reached out to touch the column of her neck.

  Kerry did not move; she held very still as he caressed the hollow of her throat, the long sleek line to her jaw. When he slipped his hand around to the side of her neck, she lowered her head and looked at him with luminous blue eyes that seemed to reflect his own growing desire.

  Desire he had no right to feel.

  He had no intention of staying in Glenbaden. He had had his little adventure; he would go in a matter of days. He had no right to kiss those lips, to perhaps relay a promise he would not keep. Yet he could not seem to tear his gaze away from those eyes, or the desire they reflected up to him. Wholly mesmerized, he gazed into the pale blue irises, his heart and mind seized by the moment, by the Scottish moon over Glenbaden.

  Kerry leaned into him, rising slowly on her toes; he was confused in a vague way as to what she was about, until her lips brushed against his, settling lightly on his bottom lip, scarcely touching, but clinging to him all at once. Whether it was her boldness or the erotic simplicity of that kiss, it stunned him. He stood frozen in the moonlight, helpless against the heat that rapidly spread though his veins. But when he felt her falter, all his male instincts rapidly took hold—he quickly moved to anchor her, wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her into his chest and returning the simple kiss with one that surprised him with its intensity.

  He swept boldly into her mouth, drinking her in. Kerry responded with the fever she had shown him before—her hands swept up around his neck, her tongue darted out to tangle with his. When he dragged his mouth to her ear, she kissed his eye, his temple, her hands running down his arms, across his chest, bending her neck so that he might caress the slope of it into her shoulder with his mouth. Arthur heard her sigh, felt her mouth on his chest through the rough linen shirt, the grip of her fingers in his arm. He could feel her body against his, every quivering inch of it, but as his hand drifted up her ribcage, brushing against the side of her breast, she caught a ragged breath in her throat, shifted away from his caress.

  It took Arthur a moment to gain his mind; scarcely abl
e to think, he focused on the feel of her fingers as they drifted across his lips.

  Kerry’s fingers rested on his lips. “I … I fear I might abandon all morals to your touch, Arthur. I seem to be on dangerous ground here with you now.”

  As hard as he tried, Arthur could not think of a reassuring response to that; it seemed odd that she chose those words, words that struck so very close to what he was feeling.

  And had he been able to think of a reassuring response, it would have drifted into the night on the tails of the mist, because Kerry slipped away, walking quickly to the house and leaving him to stand alone in the heath.

  Leaving him to a hunger that he feared would not now or ever be completely sated.

  Chapter Nine

  THAT NIGHT ARTHUR dreamed of England.

  He stood in the formal drawing room of his Mount Street home, Portia beside him as he greeted guests. Then Phillip appeared, his blond hair wildly mussed, his shirt stained red with blood, weaving in and out of the crowd, smiling at Arthur over the shoulders of his guests. He came so close, but when Arthur reached for him, he melted into the crowd. He turned to Portia, only it was Kerry now standing beside him, wearing a plain gray broadcloth amid the sea of pastel silks, her blue eyes glittering. He leaned forward to kiss her … but she stopped him cold with a punch in the ribs. He groped for the injured rib, but she hit him again, hard.

  Ouch. “Och, ye sleep like the dead.”

  The gritty sound of Thomas McKinnon’s voice dragged Arthur from the depths of a very comfortable sleep. He felt the discomfort in his side again and opened his eyes. In the dim light of a single candle, he could see it was the toe of Thomas’s boot that was striking him in the ribs, the bloody bastard.

  He rolled away, presented Thomas with his back, and asked through a wide yawn, “Is there something I might do for you at this ungodly hour, Mr. McKinnon?”

  “I told ye that we start early in Glenbaden. If ye’ll be up, we could use yer back,” he said, nudging Arthur again with his boot. “Up with ye now.”

  The next thing Arthur heard was the clip clip clip of Thomas’s boots as he walked out of the room.

  With a groan, he slowly raised himself and focused his blurry gaze on the window. He blinked, tried to clear the sleep from his eyes, because it looked pitch-black outside. He blinked again … God’s blood, what time was it?

  He dressed, stumbled to the kitchen, and frowned. Thomas was there, sipping from a cup of steaming coffee, a bowl of oats next to a platter piled high with scones in front of him. Kerry was there, too, busy at the basin. She glanced over her shoulder and flashed a brilliant smile that only made Arthur’s head hurt. “Good morning, Arthur Christian! You slept well, then, I trust?”

  Arthur fell unceremoniously onto the wooden bench beside him. “Very well indeed, until a few moments ago.”

  Thomas lifted a wiry brow. “I suppose then that the English doona believe in a full day’s work.”

  “The English, sir, are so very efficient at a full day’s work that there is never a need to rise in the middle of the bloody night!” Arthur snapped irritably. “Now where did you find that brew?”

  Thomas casually inclined his head toward a table and an iron vessel beneath the window. Arthur pushed up and dragged himself to fetch a cup.

  “Big Angus, he’ll be along in a moment. Have ye any experience with livestock?” Thomas asked.

  Arthur poured steaming coffee down his throat before answering. “I am rather remarked upon for my skill with horses, so yes, I suppose I’ve a bit of experience,” he said testily, and ignored Thomas’s derisive chuckle.

  “Thomas McKinnon, mind you now,” Kerry said from the basin. “I’ll keep him occupied, you needna worry over it.”

  “Aye,” Thomas said, his blue eyes smirking, “I’d see that ye do.”

  The sun was only beginning to creep above the horizon when Arthur realized that a self-proclaimed skill with horses did not necessarily translate into any discernible skills with livestock, and in particular, hogs. He could scarcely believe it when Kerry handed him a large bucket filled with a most foul smelling, rancid-looking offal and pointed toward a pen of hogs in the middle of the cluster of thatched-roof cottages. Arthur looked at the hogs, then at the slop, then at Kerry.

  “They are not particular,” she said, her nose wrinkled in offense to the slop.

  “I beg your pardon, I am to do what?” Arthur asked again, still incredulous.

  “Toss it about. The hogs, they’ll root about for it,” she said patiently, then frowned lightly at his apparent distaste for the task. “If you prefer, I’ll—”

  “Oh no,” he said quickly. He was not about to give Thomas McKinnon the pleasure of humiliating him. If the residents of Glenbaden slopped hogs, then by God, so would he. “I’ll be quite all right.” And very nobly putting down the urge to flee, he walked to the pen, swallowing the obscenity on his tongue when the hogs began moving toward him, their round snouts wiggling furiously as they tried to touch him. Aware that Kerry watched him—and for all he knew, Thomas—Arthur took a deep breath, held it, and began to pour the slop for the hogs.

  After he had finished that chore—satisfactorily and in record time, he was quite certain—Kerry cheerfully led him to a barn that looked as if it would collapse at any moment. Inside, one sway-backed dairy cow munched contentedly on her hay. “She’s to be milked,” Kerry said, and shoved a bucket into Arthur’s chest. “I’ll gather the eggs, providing that old hen cared to grace us with any.”

  “Really, haven’t you a milkmaid or someone of similar occupation to do this?” Arthur groaned as he took the bucket.

  Kerry laughed. “Take care with the teats, now,” she warned him in all seriousness. “Nell willna care for it if you squeeze too hard. There you are, then,” she said, and with a jaunty little wave, turned and walked out of the ramshackle barn, assuming, apparently, that he was quite the expert in milking cows.

  Lord God. With a heavy sigh, Arthur warily approached her, carefully positioning the milk stool and bucket before patting the old girl’s rump. “I’ve not had a complaint yet, Nell. We wouldn’t want to dampen a man’s spirit with one today, now would we?” he said, and lowered himself to the stool, studied the mechanics of her udder, and grimacing, reached beneath to relieve her of her milk.

  A half-hour later, he considered the milking, like the slopping, an astounding success—Nell complained three times, but she only managed to butt him off his stool once. Arthur was wise to her after that; with grave determination, he righted the stool, informed Nell that he would have her milk if it killed them both, and doggedly continued until every teat was dry.

  By late morning, when most self-respecting English gentlemen would only just be rising, Kerry was dragging Arthur through a thick mist over a very rutted path. On his back, Arthur carried heavy stone-cutting tools, the purpose of which, Kerry explained, was to help Thomas shore a fence. Arthur could scarcely wait.

  But first, Kerry would apparently make a few calls.

  At the first cottage Kerry stopped, Arthur was introduced to Red Donner, a man almost as big as Angus, with gray streaking through his bright red hair. He had, evidently, sliced one of his sausage-like fingers, but was adamant that Kerry not apply the salve she withdrew from her basket. He was so fearful of it that he scarcely noticed Arthur at all, merely nodded his enormous head before objecting again to Kerry’s plan, half in English, half in Gaelic.

  “We’ll not be without your fiddle, Red Donner,” she insisted firmly, and in a matter of minutes, Red Donner’s hand was in hers, and she was spreading a very offensive-smelling unguent into his wound while the man wailed like a child.

  The second cottage was set back in a thick copse of trees, around a bend in one of the many hills that bordered Glenbaden. The location of the cottage was curious, Arthur thought, as if the owner had intended to be removed from all neighbors. Kerry did not bother to knock, but stooped and disappeared through the small door.

  A
few moments later, a hideous shriek rent the tranquility of the glen; Arthur started toward the cottage, but Kerry emerged, her face a wreath of smiles. “Winifred,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “She’s as old as this glen, curses every day she lives to see, and threatens to shoot me for bringing her bread. Yet she eats it, and she’s no gun,” she said, and walked on.

  The last cottage, situated just where the rutted path ended, belonged to a young widow with three small children. Loribeth’s husband, Kerry explained, had drowned trying to save their youngest child, who had wandered off and into the loch. They never found the baby’s body, and Loribeth had never been the same. When the young woman appeared at her door, looking drawn and ragged, Arthur’s heart went out to her. He wondered exactly how she might put food in the bellies of three children, but then he realized how—Kerry had brought biscuits and a rasher of ham.

  Upon leaving Loribeth’s cottage, Kerry turned into what seemed like an endless meadow of tall grass, moving on to where he was to meet Thomas. The thought of Thomas suddenly reminded him of the heavy stone-cutting tools on his back. “And what exactly do you suppose Thomas means to do to me with these?” he drawled, adjusting them again on his back.

  Kerry laughed gaily. “He’s ornery I’ll grant you, but he’ll be grateful for the help, he will.”

  Arthur doubted that. Doubted it even more when they reached the piece of fence in question. As Thomas gruffly explained that his task was to shore an old rock fence to keep their few head of cattle from wandering too far, Arthur wondered just where in the hell Thomas was afraid the cattle would go, what with rocky hills sweeping up either side of the meadow. But he rather supposed that question would earn him nothing more than another look of complete disdain. The old fence was disintegrating, and for the life of him, Arthur could not imagine how shoring this one spot could possibly make any difference.