“It is our custom to celebrate the start of a harvest with a common meal.”
Arthur turned toward the sound of Kerry’s voice behind him, wincing at the sharp stiffness in the muscles of his neck. “Indeed?”
Kerry nodded, walking easily to where he stood, apparently unaffected by the hard work of stripping the grain. “We’ve a Scotch broth, only we’ve not any mutton.”
He had no idea what that meant, but said lightly, “Sounds delightful,” and pressed his hands to the small of his back. “And when does this veritable feast begin?” he asked, glancing idly at his blistered hand.
She stopped, suddenly grabbed his hand. “Dear God!” she exclaimed, and Arthur was shaken from the cloud of her lavender scent as she peered closely at the blistered hand, pulling his arm out so that she might better see his wound. She stared at it for a moment, then glanced up, her eyes filled with empathy. “Arthur … your hand.”
He shrugged. “A bit of a blister, that’s all.”
“A bit?” she echoed incredulously, and probed it gently, looking up to him again when he flinched at the pain that caused. “It must be tended,” she said authoritatively. “Come.” She released his hand and walked purposefully ahead. He did not dare think to do anything else but follow her.
He followed her into the kitchen of the white house, where Kerry pulled a small wooden stool before a shelf lining the top border of the window. She stepped onto the stool and, reaching up on the tips of her toes, extracted a jar filled with the strange green-colored substance he had seen her use on Red Donner.
She leapt from the stool, impatiently motioned him onto the bench at the table. “You’ll not care for the scent, but it will draw the blood and water from beneath your skin.” Then she opened the jar, and he instinctively recoiled against the pungent odor that filled the room.
“The odor willna last long,” she pertly informed him, and stuck two fingers into the jar with a little more gusto than Arthur liked, digging out a thick dollop of the stuff.
“I do not fear it, madam, in small doses. Are you certain this requires so much of the stuff?”
Kerry ignored him. “Here now, give me your hand. This might sting a bit, but you’ll be dancing with May when I’m through, you have my vow.” When he did not move as quickly as she liked, she grabbed his hand and jerked his arm forward. Before he could even open his mouth, she had slapped the foul paste on his palm, and an immediate fire went racing up his arm and down his torso, causing him to yelp with surprise.
But Kerry was strong and held his hand firmly in hers as she rubbed the grainy paste across the blister. The fire was almost instantly followed by a tingling cool; Arthur could feel the blister begin to diminish as the pus was slowly drawn. After a moment, Kerry stopped rubbing the paste onto his hand and retrieved a strip of cloth from a basket near the stove. She sat next to him, his hand on her lap, and wrapped it tightly. “You must keep this wrapped for two days or it will not heal properly.”
Arthur looked at his hand, then at Kerry. She smiled sweetly, wrinkling her nose a bit. “It didna hurt terribly, did it now?” she asked.
How could he know? He was too focused on the cute little wrinkle on the bridge of her nose. He leaned forward, intent on kissing that wrinkle, but Kerry abruptly turned her head, and his lips fell to her shoulder instead. They sat that way for what seemed an eternity—his lips on the gray gown that covered her shoulder, her head turned slightly away—until Kerry turned toward him. Arthur caught the corner of her mouth as she turned, seeking the full of her lips.
One slender hand came up to cup his jaw as her lips parted beneath his.
Unthinkingly, he clasped her to him in a fierce embrace and kissed her fully, aware of every place they touched, of the smell of lavender, of the feel of her thick braid between them, the silken feel of her fair skin. He kissed all of that without leaving the soft valleys of her mouth or her tongue or her ripe lips. He kissed it all, touched it all, until the knowledge of his imminent departure began to pound away at his conscience.
He lifted his head and pressed her head against his chest with his bandaged hand and tried to catch his breath. Kerry’s hand fell limply from his cheek to his shoulder; he held her even more tightly to him then, feeling her disappointment and not wanting to ever let go. His heart felt jagged inside him—he was torn between his great desire and his sense of propriety, weak though it was. Somehow, propriety won, and he heard himself say the unthinkable: “You know I must go soon.”
She did not move, did not speak.
“I must be to Dundee.” I must stop your eviction! “You know this, don’t you?”
He felt the tremble in her body before she lifted her head and pushed away from his embrace, looking across the room, away from him. “Aye, of course I do,” she said, and rose to her feet, swiping up the jar of thick paste in one hand as she moved away from him, toward the shelf. “You will miss me when you are gone, you know,” she said hoarsely, and tried to laugh.
“I … I shall miss you greatly, Kerry,” he muttered helplessly.
She did not respond, but climbed up on the stool, put the jar away, then climbed down and picked up a potato, pretending to study it. “When?” she asked.
He sighed wearily, glanced at his bandaged hand and tried desperately to ignore the tug at his heartstrings. “On the morrow.” He looked up, saw her hand swipe at her cheek.
“Doona look at me so,” she said, turning the potato anxiously in her hand. “It’s naught but the onion.”
Except that it was a potato. He did not know what to do, did not know how to comfort her, or himself for that matter. But when Kerry turned toward him a moment later, she was smiling.
Yet she avoided his gaze, looked everywhere around the kitchen but at him. “Well then, you are properly patched for your journey. Shall we join the celebration, then?” she asked, and moved toward the door as if she intended to go on, regardless of his answer.
His was a peculiar feeling at that moment, an odd mixture of true regret and a sense of relief, as if he had almost strayed too deep into the ocean, had almost lost his footing in it. He rose, smiled insouciantly “Let’s,” he said simply, and followed Kerry out of the house and into the waning light of the sun as it cast gold shadows on the uneven path. He walked along that golden path into a circle of gay laughter as the little community Kerry nourished drank from a common jug of whiskey.
Chapter Twelve
DUSK HAD DESCENDED in Glenbaden, and Kerry could only hope that the shadows masked her devastation.
It was ridiculous, she thought as she took the whiskey jug May offered her, to be so affected by his announcement. She had known it would come, probably could have predicted the moment he would choose to go. Not for a single moment had she believed it would end any differently. So why then, did it feel as if her heart was being torn in two?
Because she had come to adore him, unlike any other man she had ever known.
She took a swig of bitter Scotch whiskey and passed the jug along.
He had proven himself a rock, a man with a strength of character and disposition that made him quite literally irresistible. He seemed so very capable, so able to take everything in stride that she had, on more than one occasion, longed to tell him of her troubles, to lay her head on his chest and let him solve them for her. She had even allowed herself the fantasy of what it would be like to grow old with him. She loved him. She loved him.
Therein lied the spring of the violent conflict of her emotions. She loved him, but she could never have him. A man like Arthur Christian belonged in the fancy drawing rooms of England where such troubles as hers did not exist. She could not and would not entangle him in hers.
Of course he would go … but how would she ever bear to watch him walk away?
Kerry shook her head, forced herself to focus on Red Donner playing a lively jig on his fiddle, his sliced finger obviously much improved. Molly McKinnon and Belinda Donner danced to his tune, their skirts hiked high over the
ir legs, their arms linked as they spun round and round the small fire as if they had not a single care in the world.
The poor women had cares they were not even aware of, she thought morosely, at least not until the morrow. She had already decided to tell them the truth, that they had less than a fortnight to decide what to do with their lives, as she was incapable of devising a way to save Glenbaden.
She would tell them all, admit her failure.
Just as soon as she was certain Arthur was gone—she would not add humiliation to her hurt.
The jug was passed to her again, and Kerry took another healthy swig before passing it along to someone on her right. Just beyond the circle in which they danced, Arthur sat on the ground with his shoulder propped against an old oak keg, watching her. Watching her in just the way he had from almost the moment they met, with a piercing hazel gaze that made her skin heat beneath her woolen gown. She kept her gaze averted from his, trying desperately to overcome the overwhelming sentiments warring in her body, her heart, and soul. God help her, but her longing was greater than she could possibly fathom, and the fear of his leaving agonizingly real. She desperately craved that heat and the odd tingling in the pit of her belly when he looked at her. She craved her mind’s image of him, holding himself above her, thrusting deeper still …
The thought jarred her, and all at once, Kerry was on her feet, in the midst of the other dancers. Holding her skirts tight, she kicked her feet in time to the music, her heels lifting higher than anyone else. Snatches of Arthur’s face rushed by her as she leapt and twirled, leapt and twirled, laughing almost hysterically when Big Angus caught her arm and linked it through his, spinning her faster. Red Donner quickened the tempo, pushing the dancers into a frenzy of movement; someone collided with her and she stumbled backward, but Thomas caught her and heaved her into the crowd again.
She danced on, ignoring the perspiration beading on her back, too intent on using the time-worn tune to purge her of this insane longing, or at least tamp it down to the black hole in which it belonged. But as hard as she danced, it did nothing to ease her anguish—if anything, it only seemed to increase it. Myriad thoughts tumbled through her head; her mind and heart warred with blatant physical desire, the impropriety of her thoughts, and the overwhelmingly prurient longing to have a night of lovemaking that she would never have again. The very idea drained her of reason; she was caught in a web of physical desire, entrapped by unfathomable passion that rose up like a beast within her, stirring the rabid hunger for his touch, for the solace only he could give her.
When Red Donner ended the jig, Kerry collapsed on the grass, catching her breath as others around her laughed. She could not stop herself from seeking Arthur’s gaze; he was still leaning against the keg, still watching her. His gaze was more intent, harder than she had ever seen it—she could feel it piercing her consciousness, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Her stomach leapt; she faltered then, breaking the gaze between them and looking around at the others. But it was no use—she could feel his gaze boring through her still.
————
When the last of the whiskey was drunk, the little group began to stagger off toward their cottages in twos and threes, their laughter drifting up in the silence of the cold night. Arthur noted that Thomas had left early on having imbibed more than his fair share of the whiskey, stumbling up the rutted path to his loft above the barn. Big Angus hoisted the community pot onto his shoulder and he and May made their way to the cottage they shared below the white house, talking softly with one another.
Arthur remained, watching the last of the McKinnon clan without really seeing them—his mind’s eye was still full of the vision of Kerry dancing. She had sprung into their midst like a wood nymph, graceful and light on her feet but demonic in her intensity. It was a provocative image, one he could not scrape from the back of his eyes. One that inflamed him.
When there was no one left but Arthur and Kerry, he watched her again as she moved to douse the little fire, remembering her skirts held high, the turn of her ankle as she leapt into the air. She glanced up at him and smiled shyly as she fingered the tail of her long thick braid. “I’d wager you’ve naught seen a harvest celebration such as this.”
He had never seen a harvest celebration. “Can’t say that I have. Found it right entertaining.”
Kerry’s smile faded a bit; she clasped her hands behind her back. “You might miss our customs in London.”
That was an understatement—she had no idea how much he’d miss everything about this little place—the work, the scenery, the camaraderie … you, Kerry, I will miss you.
“We’ve a fresh batch of biscuits. I’ll see to it that you’ve enough for a few days.”
“That would be very kind.”
She glanced away for a moment, seemed to want to speak. But when she looked at him again, she shrugged her slender shoulders as if they carried some enormous weight. “Well then, I suppose there is naught left but a good night’s sleep.”
Oh Kerry, there is so much left, so much left behind, so much …
“I wonder if my hope of sleeping until the sun has at least touched the sky are improved given Thomas’s inordinate admiration of Scotch whiskey,” he drawled, falling in beside Kerry as she began to move toward the white house.
She laughed lightly at that, the sound of it dripped like honey over him. “I wouldna be too hopeful were I you. The man has an uncanny way of recovering from his excesses.”
Arthur did not respond—he was too aware of her, every fiber in him shimmering with the nearness of her and the knowledge that he would soon be gone. He would never see her again.
They walked in silence.
When they stepped into the kitchen, the two of them paused—a bit awkwardly, Arthur thought, seeing as how he wasn’t quite sure where to put his hands.
“You’ll be gone early, I suppose—”
“Yes.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.
Kerry brushed an imaginary piece of lint from the lap of her gray gown. “Might you send word? I mean … so we would know that you arrived safely.”
“Of course.” He withdrew his hands, clasped them behind his back.
She nodded, kept brushing the lap of her gown. “Well then—”
“Kerry, thank you,” he blurted, shoving his hands in his pockets again. “This has been …” What could he say? There were no words to describe this experience, no way to convey to her how much this extraordinary journey into Scotland had meant to him.
“Yes, it has,” she said quietly. “You’ve a long journey ahead—I’ll wish you a good night,” she added, and solved any dilemma of a response by walking out of the kitchen. Arthur stood alone next to the scarred table, staring after her, wishing he could say all the things he longed to say to her.
But it was better this way. Yes, definitely better this way.
And he silently repeated that in his mind, over and over again as he walked to the room he had slept in for two weeks now, moving past her door without hesitation. Once in his small room, he moved sluggishly; peeling the linen shirt from his back as if it was a bandage, grimacing to himself when he looked at his own clothes hanging neatly in the wardrobe. He washed idly, his mind wandering, then moved to one of two small windows adorning the room and gazed up at a Scottish moon that shone brightly on the land, unspoiled and pure.
He had no idea how long he stood there before a faint knock on the door startled him.
Arthur glanced over his shoulder as the door opened and his heart plummeted to his feet. Kerry stood in the doorway, her hair unbound, her bare feet peeking out from a white nightdress. He turned slowly toward her, uncertain how he should receive her in this circumstance, even more uncertain when she closed the door softly behind her.
He dropped the towel he was holding.
She folded her arms across her midriff and looked at the floor. Arthur stood rigidly, waiting for her to speak. But she pressed her lips firmly togeth
er, then opened her mouth as if she would speak, then closed it again.
Arthur swallowed. Hard.
She looked up, her gaze skimming quickly over the bed before landing on him. She looked so sad that Arthur felt a pull in his chest. “I doona ever want to forget the touch of your lips to mine,” she whispered, unconsciously touching her fingers to her lips, “or the feel of your hand on my skin. You make me long to be held as I havna in years, Arthur. I … I canna bear for you to go without knowing you—”
Arthur’s feet were moving before his brain, crossing the room in three strides so that he could gather her roughly in his arms. He understood completely, as if he had spoken those words himself, but his voice was lost. He wanted to tell her how he admired her. He wanted to say that he would that their lives were different, that he was anyone other than who he was—and he opened his mouth, drew his breath to speak, but she put a finger to his lips.
“Doona speak,” she murmured, and moved her hand to untie her nightdress. Her gaze unwavering from his, she slowly pulled it open, pushed it so that it slid over her shoulders, then fell down her body, pooling at her feet.
Arthur could not breathe. He could not catch his breath as he gazed at her naked body. Her breasts were perfectly shaped to fill the palm of his hand; her slender waist flared gently into a woman’s hips, from which two legs, as firm and strong as a stallion’s stretched beneath. She was more beautiful than he imagined, more alluring—he suddenly fell to his knees, buried his face in the soft concave of her abdomen. He felt her hands on his head, her fingers in his hair, and then heard her soft sigh.
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