Dreams that awakened a living, breathing beast within her that craved his touch, made her feel pleasingly faint when she recalled the feel of his hands and his lips on her skin, and made her imagine the many different ways and places those hands could touch her again.
Such thoughts were intensely distracting, and Kerry spent the morning weeding the floundering little kitchen garden so that she would not have to endure May’s questioning looks, tackling a thick tangle of vines that could hang a grown man and plants of such strange appearance that she was almost afraid to touch them. When had the garden become so overgrown?
The work did little to soothe her fever.
As she yanked and pulled at the stubborn weeds, her mind wandered from her increasing anxiety about the glen, to torrid thoughts of Arthur, images of him holding himself above her in the throes of lovemaking that made her flush hot. What sort of woman had she become that she could dream of such blatantly carnal activities, and worse, feel them as she worked in her garden? She had not thought of lovemaking since long before her husband had died, and quite honestly, she could scarcely remember what it was like to be held by a man. But Arthur … Arthur evoked something in her she had never really known existed, something that yearned for the feel of a man deep inside her.
Kerry suddenly sat back on her heels, shocked by the indecency of her thoughts, and pressed her dirty hands against her face to douse the burn in her cheeks. Was this what she had become, a wanton, thinking such indecent, lewd … delicious thoughts?
Aye, they were delicious thoughts; thoughts that warmed her all over and made her belly tingle in that queer way she had not known in so many long years. Moving thoughts that banished all else from her mind, refusing entry even to a wee bit of common sense. Fluid thoughts that melted her, made her feel strangely pretty, made her want to look at him again and again, touch him.
Everywhere.
Embarrassed, Kerry impulsively shoved her hands into the black dirt, digging for the root ball of one large, purple-stalked plant. She should be concentrating on the problems at hand, not commending herself to hell.
And Lord, her problems needed all of her undivided attention now.
Reluctantly, and with more than a little difficulty, she forced herself to review her predicament again as she had a thousand times or more, searching for answers. Not that anything had changed, oh no—she had read the letters again last night, hoping in vain that perhaps she had misinterpreted something in Mr. Regis’s letter. But she hadn’t misinterpreted a bloody thing—Mr. Regis was nothing if not precise—they were to be evicted, and every day that passed was one more day she had lost in finding a solution.
Yet she felt an overwhelming and increasing determination to survive this catastrophe. Her journey to Dundee and back had awakened a staggering and surprising belief in herself. For the first time in her life, she thought herself capable of existing without a husband, or a mother, or a father. She had always thought of herself as her mother’s unfortunate daughter, or her husband’s wife and caregiver. Even when Fraser’s ability to oversee their modest holdings had left him, and she oversaw the old McKinnon clan holdings, she still believed he was the one who provided for them all.
It had taken that extraordinary journey from Dundee to show her that she, Kerry McKinnon, was a survivor. She could survive without Fraser, without Lord Moncrieffe, without even Thomas. She was capable of shaping her destiny, capable of surviving the worst. And by God, she intended to survive this threat to her hearth, even though she hadn’t the slightest notion how to stop what was happening. She only knew that she would not lose everything and be sent to the certain hell that awaited her in Glasgow. She would die first!
Kerry’s shoulders sagged; her hands fell away from the purple plant.
Exactly who did she think she fooled with such bravado? What, did she think a pot of gold would suddenly appear and chase all her troubles away? This morning, after she had read the letters again, she had taken the old bonnet in which she kept the household funds, turned the lining inside out, and dumped the contents on the threadbare counterpane of her bed. And as she very carefully counted what she had, twice and three times to be very sure, she had realized that there wasn’t enough there to even get them through the summer, much less into the autumn months.
Tears blinding her, she had stuffed the money into the bonnet lining and returned it to its hiding place.
She had pondered selling all of the McKinnon possessions that weren’t nailed to a floor. Fraser had been fortunate enough to inherit many nice things from his father, but after carefully reviewing everything that she might sell—furniture, a bit of bone china, a few gold trinkets, an old plow—Kerry seriously doubted that all of it together was worth more than a few hundred pounds. Nowhere near the five thousand pounds she owed Baron Moncrieffe, not to mention the extraordinary sum owed the Bank of Scotland.
Perhaps, then, the McKinnon clan could move on as so many had done before them. Perhaps that was not such a bad solution after all—perhaps God did not intend for her to remain in Glenbaden as she had always believed.
But where would they go? Others had gone to the shore to earn a living harvesting the sea, but it was rumored that there was not enough in all of the sea to support so many dispossessed of their homes and livelihood.
America? She had heard tell of the abundant opportunities there for everyone, regardless of class or nationality. While she hadn’t enough money for passage for all of them, the sale of the beeves might possibly bring enough. All right, then, but once in America, then what? They could hardly earn enough from the beeves to establish them all in a foreign land.
Kerry yanked hard at the purple-stalked plant again, flatly refusing to give in to its stubborn roots. She would not allow herself to think of what options were left to them all, but one thing was certain—she would not go to Glasgow.
She yanked again. And again, only harder.
There had to be another way. There had to be another way, and damn it, she would find it or die trying.
The plant finally came free of the earth, sending clumps of soil flying everywhere.
The next few days passed in a whirl of emotional distraction as Kerry frantically sought solutions to her dilemma.
The only bright spot in her miserable existence was the presence of Arthur.
He teased her mercilessly, stole intimate touches of her, would catch her alone and kiss her passionately before leaving her breathless and flushed and smiling like a lunatic. The stolen touches and the secret kisses helped to make her numb to the terrible dilemma she faced, if only for snatches of time. But even when she felt her looming disaster keenly, Arthur’s tenacity and cheerful demeanor buoyed her.
He was even beginning to make a dent in Thomas’s armor.
Not even Thomas could fault a man who could smile in the face of all he had put Arthur through. For reasons entirely unclear to Kerry, Thomas contrived every despicable, backbreaking chore he could throw at him, from maneuvering an ancient plow behind two old oxen, to duping him into climbing to the top of Din Fallon in search of a haggis nest. The nest, of course, was purely an invention of Thomas’s imagination. Haggis was a Scottish dish made of the entrails of a sheep, which everyone knew.
Everyone except Arthur Christian.
Kerry had not seen this particular jest coming—she had been too worried about the hens, which were not laying. But when she discovered what Thomas had done, she had angrily threatened to strangle him herself, a threat to which Thomas had merely shrugged. “A man’s got to know how to survive up here, lassie.”
That scurrilous remark had only served to anger her further, and Thomas had rather sheepishly taken himself off to the barn when she had reminded him that Scots were known for their hospitality, and that she certainly hoped he met with the same hospitality he offered Arthur when he finally set off for his grand journey to America.
The afternoon passed at a turtle’s pace; it seemed the arms on her father’s clock would not
move. When an hour stretched into several more, Kerry was frantically convinced that Arthur had met with some dire fate, if not his death. She could imagine his magnificent form sprawled, broken by a fall onto the rocky crags. So concerned was she that when dusk began to fall, she insisted Thomas form a search party, but it was interrupted by the sound of a horn from one of the other cottages in the glen.
Kerry rushed to the little yard of the white house, Thomas close on her heels.
Arthur had returned, whistling lightheartedly as he walked along—albeit with a limp he most decidedly had not left with—carrying a coarsely woven sack slung jauntily over one shoulder. Thomas and Kerry were quickly joined by Big Angus and May, and the four of them watched in awe as Arthur strolled crookedly but nonchalantly down the rutted path between the thatched cottages below, nodding and speaking to their neighbors.
As he approached the white house, Kerry noticed that his trousers were rent in at least two places, his beautiful boots scarred beyond repair, and the stain of his labor marked great circles on the back and the underarms of his shirt.
In spite of his down-at-the-heel appearance, he broke into a wide grin. “Thomas, my good friend,” he called cheerfully. “What a clever chap you are, sir, very clever indeed! You were quite right in your estimation—the haggis nest is indeed atop the highest crag of Din Fallon, and in a most unreachable spot. I rather fancied myself a haggis bird, flopping about as I was. But being the limber fellow that I am, I managed to gain the top crag and am quite pleased that I did. You cannot imagine what a veritable treasure I beheld on that frosty peak!”
Thomas glanced uneasily at Big Angus and artfully ignored the murderous glare May bestowed on him before squinting closely at Arthur. “Aye?” he said cautiously.
“Oh aye,” Arthur drawled. “I would that I had four bags, for I would easily have filled them all with the bountiful treasure of your haggis. I most eagerly anticipated what tasty pie our May might make of it all, and as I pondered that,” he continued, carelessly swinging the bag from his shoulder, “I was inexplicably reminded of a particularly dull evening at the Kenilworth in Edinburgh, when I had occasion to speak with a chap who was dining on haggis stew.”
With that, he tossed the bag at Thomas, who caught it, midair, in his fist.
“Yes sir, I did indeed recall that haggis stew, and now I pray that your haggis pie might be as … tastefully … prepared as that very delectable dish in Edinburgh. You will excuse me, won’t you? I should very much like to wash the, ah, haggis from my hands.” He nodded, walked on in his uneven gait toward the pump, whistling again.
Big Angus, May, and Kerry turned as one toward Thomas. He blinked at the sack; slowly, he lifted the thing and opened it, his nose immediately wrinkling at the foul odor that rushed up to greet him. Big Angus was instantly at Thomas’s side, craning his neck to see inside before bursting into a gale of deep laughter. He snatched the sack from Thomas’s hand and held it out for May to see. “Sheep shit,” he boomed gleefully, and roared at the unintelligible utterance Thomas made under his breath. May instantly burst into a string of Gaelic admonishing Thomas while Big Angus slapped him delightedly and repeatedly on the back.
Unnoticed by the others, Kerry turned to look at Arthur. Pumping water into a bucket, he seemed to sense her, and looked up, flashing a warm smile and a wink.
It was at that exact moment that Kerry realized she would never again know a man quite as wonderful as Arthur Christian. She loved him. With all her heart, she loved that beautiful stranger.
That sentiment was confirmed again the next day when Willie Keith brought the post and the news that one of Baron Moncrieffe’s fine, dappled roans had been hurt in a riding mishap. The horse was loose just below the glen, but no one could get close enough to the frightened creature to tend its leg. The prevailing thought was that he’d have to be put down, presumably with a gun.
Arthur, working to repair the chicken coop, overheard this and immediately came striding forward. “Where is this horse?”
“You canna miss him, milord. He be just below the glen, at the end of Loch Eigg.”
“How far?”
“A mile, no more,” Kerry said. “We’ve a wagon—”
“No time for it. But if you’ve any oats you can spare, I’d be very obliged. Here, lad, show me where this horse is,” he said, and put his arm around Willie Keith’s shoulders, gently pushing him into the barley field so that he might lead him to where the injured horse was holding Baron Moncrieffe’s shotgun at bay.
Following the rutted road from Glenbaden, Kerry and Thomas found the horse and a small gathering of people growing on the northern edge of Loch Eigg. Some were seated on wagons, others milled in small groups, all of them come for the blood sport of seeing someone shoot a young roan from a distance. In the middle of the crowd was the tall, imposing figure of Baron Moncrieffe, arms akimbo, his son Charles beside him, laughing as gaily as if this were a Sunday picnic.
Thomas had not even brought the wagon to a halt before Kerry was running toward them, a sack of oats clutched tightly in one hand. She came to a halt in their midst, her gaze sweeping ahead to where they looked and pointed.
Arthur stood alone in the heath, his hands stuffed in his pockets. The injured horse was pawing the ground a few yards away under the shelter of a lone oak tree. His terror was clearly evident from the whites of his eyes, which were visible even from where Kerry stood. Arthur removed one hand from his pocket and scratched the back of his neck. He took one small, tentative step forward, but the horse neighed and moved backward, tripping on his bad leg. Arthur immediately went down on his haunches, clasped his hands together, and appeared to be talking to the horse. The roan’s ears pricked forward; he lifted his head and swung it to one side to better see Arthur, as if he was terribly interested in what he had to say.
After a moment, Arthur rose very slowly and took another unhurried step toward the horse, then another. The horse whinnied at him, bared his teeth, but Arthur kept moving, kept talking. Kerry could almost hear his calm, soothing voice, and whatever he might have said was having the desired effect. Slowly and evenly, he moved closer, until he was an arm’s length from the horse.
The crowd around Kerry grew quiet as they watched, gasping collectively when Arthur reached out and touched the horse’s nose. Everyone held their breath as he moved forward, reached for the horse’s neck. The horse did not move, and in fact, he seemed to sag a little, as if relief and a sense of comfort had touched him.
Arthur stroked the horse’s neck for a long while before he went down again on his haunches to examine the injured leg. After a moment, he stood again, stroked the horse’s neck and shoulders once more before turning and striding purposefully across the heath. His gait was long and sure, so sure, that Kerry could not help but smile with pride as she watched him.
Unthinkingly, she glanced around her, starting inwardly at Baron Moncrieffe’s piercing look. “Who is he?” he asked curtly.
Her smile faded; Kerry couldn’t think. “An Englishman, my lord. I, ah, he—”
“Och, he’s naught but a wanderer.”
Surprised, Kerry turned to look at Thomas, but he was looking at Moncrieffe, his expression inscrutable.
“A wanderer?” Moncrieffe’s voice was full of disbelief.
“Aye, an English wanderer he is, in search of poetry, naught more.”
Moncrieffe eyed Thomas suspiciously before turning around to greet Arthur as he strode into their midst. “Well sir,” he said, exaggerating a low bow, “it appears I owe you a debt of gratitude.” He extended his hand and smiled thinly. “You must allow me to thank you properly at Moncrieffe House.”
Arthur glanced at his proffered hand, hesitated briefly—enough for Moncrieffe to notice—before accepting it. “You owe me nothing, sir—I’m rather fond of horses all in all.”
“You are an Englishman,” Moncrieffe noted as Arthur let go his hand. “We’ve not many visitors to our little corner of the world … particula
rly Englishmen. You really must come for a wee dram buidheach. My man will take the horse now.”
“Thank you, but I shouldn’t want to impose on your hospitality.”
“It’s no imposition,” Moncrieffe continued smoothly. “Especially for the late McKinnon’s English acquaintance.” He glanced over his shoulder at a weathered old man and nodded curtly.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but you are mistaken. I never met the late Mr. McKinnon,” Arthur responded.
Moncrieffe shrugged indifferently. “No, then? I was quite certain McKinnon mentioned an English acquaintance. Ah, well then,” Moncrieffe sighed, “if you willna accept my hospitality, then you will surely let me pay you, my lord … ?”
“As I said, you owe me nothing, but you do owe the roan—his leg was injured long before today. He’s a gash on his fetlock that is festering and requires immediate attention,” Arthur coolly informed him.
That pronouncement clearly surprised Moncrieffe; his gaze instantly flew to Charles, who scruffed his toe in the dirt, smiling sheepishly at Kerry.
“Mrs. McKinnon, might I find oats in that sack?” Arthur asked impatiently, and took the sack from her hand. He did not wait for Moncrieffe to gain his composure; he was already striding across the heath before Moncrieffe could say more.
The baron was not amused; he turned to Kerry, his eyes blazing. “I willna be fooled, Mrs. McKinnon!” he snapped. “Fraser McKinnon looked to England and it served him naught!”
Fraser had looked to England? What did that mean? Kerry glanced at Thomas, but he looked just as baffled.
“Will the horse be all right?” Charles asked.
“Aye, Charles!” Moncrieffe responded hotly, and leveled another heated gaze on Kerry as he clamped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Doona be coy, Mrs. McKinnon. You may think your Englishman will help, but it changes nothing! Come then, Charles,” he said, and pushed his son in the direction of a waiting carriage. He cast one last scathing glance across her as he followed Charles, and Kerry felt it rake her to the bone. Her stomach twisted; she looked away from the sight of Charles. Never. Never would she go to him, not for her clan, not for anyone. She needed to breathe, sucked in the air, but Thomas was in front of her, his expression dark.
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