He dreamed of her. Night after night it seemed, her image slowly and steadily overtaking Phillip’s in the nocturnal visage of his mind. Kerry laughing, Kerry walking, Kerry just being there—and always, always out of his reach.
Just like Phillip.
After a few days of that, Arthur determined he must absolutely have a diversion while he waited or else he might literally lose his feeble mind to those dreams.
So he took up golf.
He had seen the strange game played a time or two in England, but in Dundee, he noticed entire troops of people marching out to the country, the hardwood sticks they used to knock the ball about stuffed securely under their arm. One day, he saw three young boys, each carrying three such sticks. Having nothing better to do, Arthur followed them.
They led him to the top of a grassy hill, where he could see some sort of course, which he learned the Scots called links, had been laid out among the sand barriers and hills overlooking the Firth of Tay One boy withdrew a small leather bag and placed it on the ground directly in front of him. Selecting one of three wooden clubs, he braced his skinny legs apart, put his head down, and swung the club at the ball. All three boys stood in silent, rapt attention as the leather bag arched high into the sun before landing in the middle of a water hole. That earned a cry of disgust from the boy who had swung the club and a round of laughter from the other two.
When a second boy took the place of the first, they noticed Arthur standing a few yards behind them.
By the time the sun had set that afternoon, Arthur had swung the club one hundred and fourteen times.
The next morning, he paced impatiently, waiting for the lads to appear, hoping that the black-headed one had remembered to bring along the stick with the hickory shaft and applewood head that Arthur had determined he preferred, along with the leather ball they called a featherie.
After another day of following the lads about, Arthur bought the sticks from one—at an extravagant price, naturally—but managed to talk him out of two of the featheries, and struck out on his own. He discovered a peaceful, pretty course a half-day’s ride away, near Affleck Castle. And it was that course for which he struck out early every morning, then spent the better part of the day whacking away at the featherie, waiting for Mr. Regis to show himself and trying not to think.
Unfortunately, not even striking the featherie tens of hundreds of times could put his mind to rest.
His dreams never fully left him when he awoke each morning and chased him through the course of the day, making him question everything he had ever known. There was Phillip, his nocturnal visitor, and the anger Arthur could not, after three years, quite seem to release. Particularly not the anger over this impossible venture—why had Phillip invested so carelessly? It was ridiculous, just one more thing Arthur could add to Phillip’s list of transgressions—a bad investment mangled by incompetence, the ultimate price being Kerry’s livelihood.
If Phillip hadn’t done what he did, he never would have met Kerry and would never have been so bloody tormented by her memory.
Yes, but how could he blame Phillip when he was guilty of having looked away when he might have helped? What sort of man was he, then, if he could turn away when Phillip needed him most? Phillip, the one person in his life who had ever wanted Arthur to lead him, the one person who believed he could lead him. Oh, he had lead him, hadn’t he—right into his grave.
Arthur hated who he was, what he had become.
Would that he had become someone like Kerry.
Heaven help him, because he could not stop thinking about her or the exquisite sensation of her skin beneath his lips, her body beneath his, the warmth of her womb. He could not stop envisioning her walking across that barley field, her hand trailing along the top of the grass. Nor could he purge even simple memories of her talking gaily with May, her laughter running over them all like sunbeams, dancing to Red Donner’s fiddle, smiling through her daily visit to the old crone Winifred, or stripping the grain from the barley stalk. He had never known a woman like her, never admired a woman so. Of all the women of the ton whom he had courted or had courted his favor, he had never seen one who possessed a fraction of the natural beauty Kerry possessed.
Ironic, wasn’t it, that she was so unattainable? Kerry hailed from the wrong country, the wrong social strata, the wrong breeding. He might as well set his sights on the fictional moon queen—Kerry was just as elusive.
And he hated the world for it, hated more the legacy of his birth. He envied the modest and uncomplicated life of Thomas, a hard-working man who had nothing to clutter his mind but the desire to travel and see the world. But Arthur was neither a Scot nor a farmer of any sort. He was the son and brother of one of the most powerful dukes in the realm, hailed from the highest reaches of society, had entry to the most sought-after homes in all the British Isles. He could not, under any circumstance, real or imagined, picture himself in Glenbaden.
And that angered him.
Angered him so that he struck with fury at the featherie, knocking the little leather ball farther and farther each day, while his aim seemed to stray farther and farther from the hole. He hardly cared.
He was just returning from his latest attempts on the course near Affleck Castle when the innkeeper of the Hawk and Thistle came outside to meet him. Arthur immediately assumed he wanted more money for stabling Thomas, which chafed him to no end—he could hardly abide to waste good coin on such a worthless horse. But the innkeeper surprised him with news that Mr. Jamie Regis, Esquire, had left his card.
It was about goddamn time.
Arthur climbed down from Thomas and tossed the reins to a freckle-faced lad and anxiously snatched the card from the innkeeper. “I don’t suppose he left word where he may be reached?” he snapped.
“Aye, ’e did, milord,” the innkeeper calmly responded, then turned and walked back inside without bothering to tell Arthur exactly where he might reach Regis. With a frown, Arthur flipped the card over. There, in very neat script, was the name Broughty Inn.
Oh fine. He was to call on Mr. Regis at the Broughty Inn, as if he were the solicitor and Regis the client. He whipped around, gestured impatiently for the reins to his mare, swung up on Thomas’s swayed back and rode out of the courtyard, happily reviewing exactly how he would strangle the stout solicitor.
It so happened that the stout solicitor was in no mood to suffer the dark mood of His High Almighty Self. Jamie had had a very rough journey from Fort Williams—he was tired, he was hungry, and so overworked that he was beginning to feel as if he were sinking beneath the weight of it all. When he saw Lord Christian striding across the courtyard—his jaw tightly clenched—Jamie groaned, rolled his eyes, and downed the last of his bitter ale. As Lord Christian burst into the tiny common room of the inn, Jamie pushed himself to his feet. But as the insufferable Sassenach stalked toward him, Jamie had to bite his tongue to keep a very derisive smile from his lips—the flawless leather boots he had so admired not three weeks past were scarred beyond redemption. Lord Christian had, apparently, met with his own trials on Scottish soil, and for that, Jamie could not be happier. His spirits much improved, he extended his hand. “Milord, how do you do.”
Christian barreled to a stop in front of him, looked at his hand, then frowned, unbelievably, even more darkly as he folded his arms tightly across his chest. He glared daggers at Jamie for a few moments, his jaw working frenetically before finally muttering tightly, “Regis.”
Jamie grinned and gestured to a chair across from him. “Will you not sit?” The Sassenach looked suspiciously at the chair, then at Jamie. Almost reluctantly, it seemed, he slowly lowered himself onto the chair as Jamie settled comfortably in his own. “I apologize for the delay, milord. I was unavoidably detained in Fort Williams.”
Christian shifted awkwardly in an apparent attempt to get his long legs under the table. “Not only are you delayed, Mr. Regis, but you did not follow my explicit instructions—”
“I beg your par
don, I did indeed!” Jamie quickly interrupted.
“I beg your pardon! Do you mean to imply that you carried out my instructions to evict Mr. Fraser?” Christian asked, his chest filling with superior air.
Pompous ass. “Perhaps not in the precise manner you dictated, but I certainly carried through with your instructions!”
Clearly baffled, Christian leaned slowly forward, peering intently at Jamie as if seeing some wee spot between his eyes. “Let us speak plainly, Regis. Did you or did you not call upon one Fraser McKinnon and inform him that—”
“I didna call personally, I sent proper correspondence,” Jamie interjected. “I assure you, sir, it is an acceptable and effective form of communication in my occupation, and I think, in matters such as this, perhaps a better way of—”
The sudden and sharp sound of Christian’s palm slapping the table made Jamie jump in mid-sentence. “You did what?” he breathed, his voice quivering with what Jamie instinctively knew was fury … white-hot fury.
He nervously cleared his throat. “I, ah, directed a letter to McKinnon informing him that I would be calling in a fortnight to discuss the particulars of his eviction and that—”
“Do you realize, Mr. Regis, that Fraser McKinnon is quite dead?” Christian fairly shouted.
Now there was a new piece of information. McKinnon dead? A pity, that. The man had himself a bonny lass, indeed he did.
“Had you bothered to look after Lord Rothembow’s investment, you might have known as much,” Christian snapped.
That only put Jamie’s back up. “Now see here, milord, you’ve no right to insult me! I have seen my business triple in the last two years, and I canna possibly be expected to hike up into some remote Highland glen to see if everyone is quite alive!”
“You certainly might have done so when no payment was made, sir!”
Jamie did not appreciate the stab of guilt that brought him, and sat back, glowering. “That is neither here nor there. A letter has been delivered on your behalf to McKinnon’s survivors, and I daresay they are quite capable of understanding the gravity of the situation …” His voice trailed off; Jamie actually forgot what he was about to say because the transformation in Christian’s countenance was nothing short of remarkable. The color seemed to bleed from his face; he gaped at Jamie, his gaze sharp enough to bore a hole clean through him, but Jamie had the distinct impression that Christian wasn’t seeing him at all.
“Dear God,” he muttered. “DEAR GOD!” he bellowed and suddenly surged to his feet, disappearing through the door before Jamie could stand.
Jamie thought to go after him and tell him that he had prepared the necessary documents and had them delivered to the Bank of Scotland, but it was too late—Christian had already disappeared into the crowded street.
While Jamie Regis was trying to sort out the confusing behavior of the Englishman, Thomas McKinnon was seeing to it that the belongings of the last pair to leave Glenbaden were securely fastened onto the old wagon that would carry them to Loch Eigg.
Aye, but this was a colossal mess Fraser had left for them, the bloody fool.
As he tightened the rope around a piece of luggage, Thomas watched Kerry walking slowly through the shorn barley field. He would curse Fraser to his dying day for putting this on her, but he could not help marveling at how she had shouldered the burden of her husband’s deception for so long. Admired her, aye, but he was also angry with her for having kept it to herself. What had made the lass believe she could generate five thousand pounds to save them all? The whole of what was standing in Glenbaden wasn’t worth that much!
Evicted.
The word sounded harsh to his ears.
Harsh, but it had only been a matter of time before it was bound to have happened. Thomas turned his attention to the wagon again. It had happened in every glen and valley in these Highlands, and there was certainly naught about Glenbaden that would separate it from the rest of them. For a score of years, good, decent, hard-working Scots had been pushed out by landlords in favor of the Blackface and Cheviot sheep across the Highlands. The sheep needed a lot of room to graze, needed so much land that it was, by the very essence of it, a rich man’s venture. Truthfully, the sheep seemed to suit the Highlands far better than the beeves, and sheep-farming was, for the barons, the most efficient means for making a profit. Which meant that the Scots who had lived and farmed in the same glens and valleys for centuries were in the way.
No matter how he tried to tell her that Moncrieffe was doing the same to them, Kerry would not accept it. The lass believed she was responsible for this mess, but God above, it was Fraser and his dealings with Moncrieffe who had brought them to this end. The land, the white house, all of its furnishings, the stables, and barn—all of it would go to pay the debt to Moncrieffe and the Bank of Scotland. The only thing Kerry and Thomas were determined to keep were the twelve beeves Fraser had bought before he died—they were the only thing of value left to them.
After a conference with Big Angus and May, they decided they would drive the cattle to market, get what they could for them, and hope to high heaven it was enough to buy passage to America for all who wanted to leave. Big Angus and May had decided to stay behind with his family who had migrated to the lowlands, where factory work was said to be abundant. “Doona ken how we’ll manage, but I’ll feed her,” Big Angus had said to Thomas one night as they cleaned out the barn. “Ye will see America I think,” he had predicted.
Thomas reckoned he would. After thirty-five years, the time had finally come for him to seek his way in the world. Since Kerry had told him of the eviction and shown him the letter, the thought of venturing into the unknown had both excited and frightened him. He had moved about in a sort of daze ever since, his thoughts miles from Glenbaden.
As for Kerry, well, she had not said what she would do. She had loved the Englishman, that he knew. But he had also known that Christian would never stay; he was too refined for this part of the world and the McKinnon clan. Ah, but her long face was enough to dishearten the sturdiest of souls, and he hoped, for her sake, that she would join him and the others in a journey to America.
Thomas had heard enough of a bountiful America to picture a sort of Eden, a land proving rich and prosperous for every man, regardless of his station. He had visions of stepping off a ship onto land green and fertile and brimming with flowers and sunshine.
Oh aye, he hoped she would join them and put the Sassenach out of her mind.
The last wagon, piled precariously high with luggage and belongings, bounced along the rutted road that snaked around the eastern shore of Loch Eigg toward Perth. Standing in the room Arthur had used, Kerry watched the wagon disappear over the crest with the last pair of Glenbaden residents clinging to the bench. There was no one left but Thomas and herself now, and even Thomas would leave before the sun rose the next morning, driving the cattle to Perth.
The plan was to give Thomas a good head start before she let Moncrieffe know Glenbaden was now his, in case Moncrieffe had the idea of going after the beeves. Kerry rather imagined he would not, as the beeves were rather sickly and would not bring him much profit. She would wait two days and collect the last post from Willie Keith before calling on Moncrieffe, then go immediately to Perth to meet Thomas. Together, they would travel on to Dundee, where the others would be waiting. And then she would … she would … what?
Of the fourteen residents of the glen, all but four had opted to go to America. What choice did they have? But Kerry doubted that the cattle would bring enough for half that number, and she could not, in good conscience, take someone’s place on the ship to America.
Then what?
Not Glasgow. Not Glasgow!
What would become of her? She could hardly wander around the countryside hoping for the best. She had no marketable skill—she had heard of the textile factories that employed women like herself, but she hadn’t a notion of how to spin wool. Worse, she had no concept of how one went about obtaining employment. It
was rather ironic, she thought, that after all the years of superior education her father had given her, she had come away with little more than a forgotten appreciation of art and literature. Nothing very useful at all.
But she had, in the course of that education, met Regina Kilmore, a small, quiet girl from Edinburgh. Although Kerry had not spoken to or heard from Regina in twelve years, they had once shared a room and girls’ secrets and a mad infatuation with the school’s headmaster. Perhaps Regina could help her. She seemed to recall that her father was a prominent man—surely he could help her find employment in one of the factories. But how difficult would it be to find Regina in Edinburgh after all these years? And how would Regina receive her now, in her patched widow weeds?
What did it matter? Regina, bless her, was her last hope.
Arthur.
The thought of him never left her, pricked at her constantly. It felt as if she had misplaced a part of herself, as if she was sort of hobbling about. There seemed so many dreams of him, so many things left unsaid, so many things she longed to tell him. But it was as if he had died, for she would never have the opportunity to say what was in her heart. Or to see his smile, his eyes. Feel his lips on her skin …
The hot, burning tears of her grief filled her eyes, spilled onto her cheeks, and Kerry swiped at them, angered by them. How she longed for Arthur now, his quiet strength, the comfort of his arms.
The next morning, Kerry stood shivering in the mist, watching Thomas as he adjusted a bag onto his shoulder containing the last of the biscuits, some cheese and dried fish. Finally satisfied that he wore it securely, Thomas glanced up at Kerry and smiled thinly. “Well then. I’ll be going now.”
Kerry nodded.
“I’ll be meeting ye on the far edge of Perthshire no later than Thursday, lass. If ye’re not come by then, I’ll come for ye.”
“Doona worry, Thomas,” she tried to assure him. “I will be quite all right. I went all the way to Dundee and back, remember?”
“Aye, I remember,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve got the gun?”
Julia London 4 Book Bundle Page 90