Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

  “Well then, I suppose I shall leave you to your work,” Kerry chirped, and with a wave and a soft smile, turned to make her way across the meadow again.

  As if on cue, Thomas dropped a large stone at his feet that landed with a deep thud. He very tersely instructed Arthur how he was to collect a few stones and split them, and then use the pieces to rebuild the fence, showed him how to wield the axe, watched him a time or two, then abruptly turned around and began to walk back across the meadow.

  Arthur watched him for a moment before he realized Thomas intended to leave him there. “Ho, McKinnon! Just where in the bloody hell do you think you are off to?”

  Thomas scarcely paused to glance at Arthur over his shoulder. “I’ve me own work to do!” he called, and kept walking, leaving an incredulous Arthur alone to the chore of repairing the fence. Well, that convinced him. Thomas fully intended to kill him.

  Thomas almost succeeded.

  Splitting the rock was backbreaking labor. Even though the day was cool and the breeze steady, Arthur dripped with perspiration. His hands ached from holding the cutting tool he used to spall the large stones and the muscles in his back burned with the effort of lifting the stones to the wall. He was beginning to feel parts of his body he had not even known existed. But as miserable as his body was, there was something very cathartic about the activity. The physical exertion made him feel alive; in a rather strange way it was far more rewarding than he ever might have imagined. He could feel and see the fruits of his labor, the progress toward an end, the concrete results of his exertion. In London, a full day’s work meant various social calls where little was truly accomplished. But here in Glenbaden, it seemed that every activity had a purpose, and every purpose was the common good.

  He had been raised from the cradle to avoid physical labor, so it was therefore nothing short of astounding that it was as exhilarating as it was this day.

  But oh God, he hurt!

  Shortly after midday, Arthur paused to stretch his back. He glanced across the meadow and a slow smile spread his lips. The sun had finally penetrated the blue mist; he could see Thomas and Kerry walking toward him. A pail swung carelessly at Kerry’s side; she moved languidly through the tall grass, her thick black braid of hair draped carelessly over one shoulder, her free hand skating across the top of the grass. The simple gray gown she wore hugged her slender frame and Arthur could remember the feel of it in his arms, her hips pressed firmly against him. The memory of that kiss seeped into every bit of his consciousness; his pulse began to rise steadily as he turned fully toward her, enchanted by the sight of her gliding as if on air, as if she and this landscape had stepped out of a master’s painting and into life.

  “Mind ye doona let the spittle drip onto that borowed shirt,” Thomas said as he walked past him on his way, presumably, to inspect the fence. Arthur sliced a quick and impatient gaze across the man’s back, dropped his cutting tool, and moved forward to greet Kerry.

  She graced him with a beatific smile. “I should have known,” she said as he reached to relieve her of the pail she carried. “Thomas would put the king himself to work.” She stopped, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she gazed up at him, eyes dancing with mirth.

  “I am quite convinced he may succeed in seeing me dead by day’s end.”

  Somewhere behind him, Thomas snorted at that. Kerry’s rich laughter drifted across the tall grass. “Aye, he’s a bit hard around the edges, but he’s a good heart.”

  Frankly, Arthur would require more evidence of that before he’d be convinced, but he wisely chose not to argue the point and glanced at the pail. “What have you got here?”

  “Cheese and eggs, some bread, and from May, a bit of shortbread.” She smiled, winked coyly. “It seems our May has taken quite a fancy to you.”

  “Has she? I rather suspected the woman had uncommonly good taste.”

  Kerry laughed again, lips stretching across even teeth. Through no conscious thought of his own, Arthur impulsively reached for her, slipping his hand around her wrist and squeezing fondly. “I love to hear you laugh,” he said softly. “It is music to me.”

  Her smile faded slightly; she opened her lips to speak, but whatever she might have said was forever lost to Thomas’s intrusion. “Well then, ye’d best eat,” he said sharply, and took the pail from Arthur. “We’ll take a moment, no longer. More than a wee bit of work to be done here,” he informed them both, and stalked away with the pail.

  “He doesna like it when I interfere with the work,” Kerry whispered with a wry smile, and then to Thomas, she called, “You’ll bring the pail, will you not, Thomas?”

  “Och, aye, aye,” he said through a mouthful of biscuit.

  She glanced at Arthur from the corner of her eye, still smiling. “I should go now.”

  Stay. Perhaps she read his mind; she didn’t move immediately. Her gaze seemed to lock with his and for a moment, Arthur believed she could see deep inside him, to the rather warm, lustful thoughts that were racing through him. But before he could look away, Kerry’s gaze dipped. Her cheeks pinkened; she giggled softly. Arthur followed her gaze, realized he still held her wrist and reluctantly let go, his fingers wistfully brushing her hand.

  Still smiling, she stole one last look at Thomas and stepped away. “You’d best hurry before he eats your share.” Arthur nodded; Kerry began to walk backward, her steps reluctant, her smile terribly alluring. He couldn’t take his eyes from her, kept watching her, feeling his smile broaden when she at last turned and stole one last look at him before she moved into the meadow.

  He stood there until she was halfway across, and only then did he turn around. Thomas had apparently finished his luncheon and was inspecting the work Arthur had done, slowly shaking his head. Devil take him. Famished, Arthur walked to where he had left the pail to have a look. One egg, a half-eaten biscuit, and a small block of goat cheese were all that remained. He jerked his gaze up to where Thomas was standing.

  He could have sworn the old dog was laughing.

  After a thorough critique of Arthur’s technique—naturally—Thomas left him again, returning for him as the sun was beginning its descent into the west. Arthur painfully gathered up his tools, quite certain his legs would never carry him across the meadow, much less up the rutted path, but just as certain that Thomas McKinnon would never know how he ached. Somehow, he managed to get the tools on his back. Somehow, he managed to flash Thomas a grin that suggested he could continue his work for several more hours, and somehow, he was able to start out with what he hoped was a jaunty pace.

  As they walked, Thomas eyed him suspiciously. Arthur supposed he was hoping he would collapse at any moment, and honestly, he was waiting for the very same event. In a very vain attempt to cover his discomfort, he sought to distract Thomas with conversation and cheerfully remarked, “Looks to be fertile land you’ve got here. You must support quite a lot of cattle on it.”

  Thomas astounded Arthur by actually laughing at that. “This land wouldna support a bean,” he said, and chuckled again. “The beeves are sickly and the barley crop good only one in five years. Aye, Fraser McKinnon was a fool to have bought more beeves, he was—the land canna support more than sheep.”

  Fraser … the name caused Arthur to misstep. It was the same name of the man from whom Phillip had bought land, then joined in buying livestock. No, it could not be … Fraser was the man’s surname—not McKinnon. Still … “Fraser McKinnon?” he asked.

  “Aye. Kerry’s late husband. Dead almost a year.”

  It was a ridiculous assumption, an inconceivable notion that it could be the same man. Besides, his Fraser was alive and well and owing quite a lot of money. “If the land doesn’t support cattle, then why do you raise them?” he asked, forcing the ludicrous thought from his mind.

  Thomas glanced impatiently at Arthur as if he was being purposefully obtuse. “The wee bit of Clan McKinnon land in this glen belonged to my cousin Fraser. It was he who bought the beeves—beeves
so sickly we lost almost an entire herd to fever. What few were left have not produced ’til now. If the market holds, we’ll sell the beeves if they birth and take as many Blackface in trade as we can. We’ll have to make do ’til then.”

  The condition of the Scottish livestock market was not something Arthur knew a whit about, with the single exception of knowing that sheepherding had overtaken most other agricultural pursuits. This he knew because some of the Christian Brothers’ clients had invested heavily in the future sheep markets.

  They walked on in silence.

  Yet something Thomas had said nagged at the back of Arthur’s mind. If his Fraser McKinnon had lost a herd, it would explain why payments hadn’t been made on the note. And if one assumed it took two or three years to rebuild the stock, then one might assume that payments were not made for several years. But still, the coincidence was too much—how was it possible that he should stumble upon Phillip’s land in such a bizarre manner? No, it wasn’t possible.

  It simply couldn’t be possible.

  Thomas made sure Arthur put the stone-cutting instruments away in their proper place before showing him a pump where he could wash. Only then was he allowed into the white house, as he had begun to think of it, where the mouth-watering scent of freshly baked bread greeted him. His stomach was suddenly screaming with hunger; he wearily made his way to the kitchen, smiled when May beamed at him, and shrugged when a clearly irritated Big Angus growled.

  May motioned him onto the wooden bench at the table. “Thought ye’d never come in,” she said cheerfully. “Kerry went on to see about Filbert McKinnon and his toothache, but we’ve a wee bit of cullen skink if ye please.”

  He had not the vaguest idea of what “cullen skink” could possibly be, but responded enthusiastically, “I would like it very much,” and managed to refrain from snatching the steaming bowl clean from May’s hands.

  After he devoured—in an appallingly very few minutes—what turned out to be an excellent fish soup, he could scarcely keep his eyes open, but his pride demanded he accept the pipe Big Angus handed him. He drew the smoke into his lungs, very nearly turned green, and immediately presumed he had the distinct pleasure of inhaling peat. “Fine blend,” he said, coughing.

  Thomas and Angus exchanged a smile before continuing their conversation. Arthur quickly lost track; their speech was liberally sprinkled with Gaelic phrases and words that were foreign to him. As best he could tell, the two men were worried about the market value of the cattle they owned. He listened to Thomas’s droning voice, his eyelids growing heavier with each new Gaelic phrase that filtered into his consciousness, wondering when Kerry might return. The last thing he knew, Big Angus was speaking of some poor chap who had been pushed from his land by sheepherders.

  He was startled by the tapping of a finger on his shoulder. Bleary-eyed, Arthur jerked his head up. Of course it was Thomas, sporting what could only be termed a twisted grin. “Best to bed with ye then, laddie. We’ve more than our fair share of work on the morrow.”

  Arthur pushed himself into a sitting position, grimacing with the fire the movement caused through what seemed like all of his muscles. “I suppose we shall begin again at a suitably unreasonable hour.”

  Big Angus chuckled; Thomas leaned back with a grin. “Aye, we’ll have an early start of it.”

  “Splendid,” Arthur drawled, and by some miracle, his legs actually supported his weight enough that he could move away from the table. With each step, his jaw clenched tighter—more, he knew, from the pain caused by the chuckling behind him than any ache in his limbs.

  He shuffled into the narrow corridor, paused to rub his back, at which point he noticed a thin shaft of light spilling into the hallway from the room he had been given.

  Kerry.

  She was still in his thoughts, playing at the corners of his mind. He moved stiffly toward the open door, where he eased his shoulder against the frame. His full weight sagged against it; with the last ounce of strength he had, he folded his arms and concentrated on the delectable sight of Kerry’s bum.

  That was because she was down on all fours, her round bum in the air, her head under the bed in which he had slept the night before. As he watched, she wiggled out from underneath it, a small tin box in her hands. Sitting back on her heels, she opened the box and extracted what looked to be a stack of letters. As she unfolded the first one, she glanced furtively at the door.

  Her shriek was covered only by the sound of the tin box scudding across the floor. “God in heaven, you startled me,” she gasped, thumping a fist against her breast.

  “My sincerest apology. I did not realize you were …” he motioned lazily toward the bed, “here.”

  Her face colored instantly. “Oh. Aye,” she muttered, and quickly moved to gather the letters she had scattered across the pine-plank floor.

  “I can return later if you’d like.”

  “Oh no!” she practically shouted, and quickly stuffed the letters into the tin box before scrambling to her feet. She held the box closely to her side as she made an attempt to brush the dirty smudges from her knees. “I, um … forgot that I had some things in this room,” she said sheepishly, now brushing her gown with a vengeance.

  “Of course. It is your house after all.”

  “Aye.” She glanced nervously about the room before switching the tin box to the crook of her other arm and smiling brightly at him. “Well then. Have you eaten? May made a batch of—”

  “Cullen skink. Yes, I had some.”

  “Oh.” Her gaze dipped to her feet for a moment. “Your clothes. We’ve laundered them,” she said, nodding toward a corner.

  Arthur shifted his gaze to see his clothes, laundered and pressed. Oddly enough, the sight of the waistcoat made him shudder. He actually preferred the freedom the borrowed linen shirt and trousers afforded him. “Thank you.”

  “Mmm,” she said, peering up at him through thick lashes. “Well. I suppose you’d like to sleep.”

  Sleep. He had wanted to yes, but gazing at her now, the thick black braid draped over one shoulder, sleep was the farthest thing from his mind. It was amazing to him that a woman could be so appealing in a bland shade of gray, her hair unadorned, her lovely face without cosmetic enhancement. Oh, but Kerry McKinnon was appealing, terribly so, and in more ways than he cared to admit.

  Regardless of the fact that she was a woman as far removed from his world as anyone could possibly be.

  It was, unfortunately, almost laughable that he had somehow managed to end up in this remote little glen in Scotland, charmed by this woman … a woman who now cocked her head to one side and regarded him curiously.

  Arthur managed to shove away from the door. “Yes, I should sleep while I can. McKinnon has a peculiar notion about what time a man should rise around here.”

  That brought a soft smile to Kerry’s lips and a glimmer of amusement to her eye. “He willna harm you, not really.”

  Seeing as how he could scarcely move a limb, Arthur considered that open to debate.

  “I’ll leave you, then. Sweet dreams,” she murmured, and started toward the door. As she moved to pass him, he caught a scent of lavender, and impetuously, instinctively, his arm shot out, catching her in the abdomen before she could pass and leaning into her before she could step away, breathing in her scent. “I would sleep better with the memory of your lips on mine.”

  Her fair cheeks flushed instantly; her smile deepened as she dropped her gaze to his arm around her midriff. “It is not wise.”

  “But I’d like it all the same, Kerry McKinnon, and I promise, so will you.”

  She laughed. “You are shameless.”

  Oh, he was shameless all right—she had no idea just how shameless. He pulled her into his side, his mouth on her hair. “Completely and irrevocably shameless,” he muttered, and gently pushed her backward, out of the open doorway, so that she was standing directly in front of him.

  Her arresting blue eyes were smiling up at him now, and Arthu
r lowered his head to hers, barely touching her lips with his, skimming the plump surface, purposefully tantalizing himself. With his hand, he gently touched her slender neck beside the thick rope of hair hanging over her shoulder, and moved his lips across hers. She sighed softly; he felt her breath in his mouth, her hand fall delicately to his waist.

  He slipped one arm around her back, pulled her closer to him so that he could feel the length of her supple body against his, the swell of her breast in his chest, the slight curve of her stomach against his groin. Kerry sighed again, tilted her head backward, and Arthur deepened the kiss, devouring her like a French delicacy, tasting the valleys of her mouth. Her body arched into him, moved against him, pushed him once more past the point of a gentleman’s reason.

  He struggled to stay on the surface of that kiss, fighting the drag of desire that threatened to pull him under in a vortex and very gently, very reluctantly, broke away. Kerry remained pressed against him, her eyes closed, her lips, slightly pursed, wet and lush with the remnant of his kiss, until she, too, slowly opened her eyes.

  They stood for a long moment, just looking at one another, his arm securely around her. He brushed a wisp of hair from her temple, touched the contour of her cheek with one finger. There was no need for words; the desire flowing between them was well understood. And Arthur believed they could have stood there all night like that, simply gazing at one another. But with nothing more than a softly seductive smile, Kerry silently slipped from his embrace and into the corridor, still clutching the tin box, one hand smoothing the side of her hair as she moved away from him, walking, Arthur noted, a little crooked.

  Exhaling a long breath, he turned into the room and looked at the bed.

  He wished for all the world that morning would go ahead and come, as there would be no sleep for him tonight.

  Not after that kiss.

  Chapter Ten

  THE MEN WERE already gone by the time Kerry roused herself the next morning from a sleep made fitful by dreams—rather erotic dreams—of Arthur Christian.