He meant it, every word. The life quickly drained from her; her knees began to buckle. Kerry closed her eyes and felt herself falling.
“Come now,” he said gruffly, shaking her, trying to make her stand. “It’s hardly as bad as all that. I’ll see to it that your mother has the means to see to your welfare—you won’t be made to toil in some factory—”
“No,” she sobbed. “Please, no! I canna go to her, Arthur! You doona understand—”
“I understand that there is no one who can protect you, Kerry,” he said, roughly forcing her chin up so that she would look at him. “You have no one, save your mum. Thomas cannot help you now. I’ve no choice but to take you—”
“Then leave me here to die!” she shrieked hysterically. “I’d rather die, I deserve to die for what I’ve done, so leave me to it then, out here among the wolves! But not Glasgow, Arthur! Anything but Glasgow!”
Clearly shocked by her hysteria, Arthur stared down at her, his hazel eyes searching her face in confusion. His grip on her arms began to hurt as a dozen waves of emotion scudded across his eyes, and for a moment, a single moment, Kerry hoped. But at last, he softly begged her to understand. “Kerry, sweetheart, what else can I do? Give me another choice, give me but one …”
There was one, all right. Death. Kerry preferred death over life with her mother and the zealots she lived among. She preferred death to thinking about the loss of Glenbaden or killing Charles Moncrieffe. But when Arthur put his arm around her shoulders and began to coax her back to the horse, her legs moved of their own will to live. Mute, she stumbled along beside him, numb to his softly urgent reassurances, her mind filled with the incredible catastrophe that had suddenly become her life. It was as if some Greek tragedy was being played out here, on the stage she knew as Scotland, with everything she had ever known slowly disintegrating beneath her. Perhaps, she thought morosely as Arthur helped her up to the saddle, she had gotten her wish. Perhaps this was death.
They rode until Sassenach could go no farther, plodding along for what seemed hours. Kerry did not speak—she seemed resigned to her fate, much like Arthur imagined a condemned man would face his certain death.
He was horribly, hopelessly confused.
It was clear that after all she had faced in the last year, the very thought of Glasgow was what would finally defeat her. God’s blood, it defeated him. Who could look at her now, her despair filling the space around them, and deliver her to Glasgow? It was beyond his capacity as a man to commend her to a person or a place she would, obviously, rather die than inhabit. But it also was beyond his capacity as a member of the British aristocracy to take her to London, to a world she didn’t yet know she would despise.
To a world that would despise her.
All that glittered in London was false—there was no natural light there, no sunlight to shine on her natural beauty, no Highland moon to illuminate her expressive face. Not only that, but the people of the ton could be so very false. They calculated every step, appraised every situation for what it could do for them. They possessed no true sense of camaraderie, no common bond—other than social status—that connected them with one another. Few had worked an honest day; even fewer knew the rewards of labor. They had no concept of what it would be to work together for the common good.
Oh yes, London was a very different world—Glenbaden was a dreamscape in comparison to the gritty reality he called home. How would a woman as vibrant and beautiful as Kerry McKinnon survive there?
They stopped midday to rest and water Sassenach. Arthur did not like the way the horse looked—he was beginning to show the signs of extreme fatigue. Kerry silently slumped into a heap of gray on the grassy knoll and watched with lifeless eyes as Arthur tried to make the horse as comfortable as he could. It was apparent that Sassenach would not last long at this rate. Five miles more? Maybe ten?
He troubled over it as he worked, but he was too exhausted to think clearly. When he had finished at last, he removed his coat, intending to rest for a time until they would travel again. He glanced at Kerry as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. Her expression had changed; she looked almost wistful as she gazed up at him, and it surprised him. “What?” he asked.
Her gaze fell to her lap. “I was thinking … remembering … how happy you made me.”
Her utterance immediately unbalanced him, tossed him headlong into a pool of sharp regret. But he merely stared at her, his mind filled with all the things he could not say. She had been the only spot of brightness in his life, the only glimmer of pure joy he had known in so very long, in what seemed so many lifetimes. He loved her, adored her, yet he could hardly stand to look at her pale face now, uncertain as he was.
He said nothing, simply moved to lie on his side, his back to her, and closed his eyes, hoping her words would go away, leave him be. Fortunately, his body immediately gave way to exhaustion—the sleep came rapidly, carrying him into the depths of heavy slumber.
It seemed only moments before Phillip appeared, crouched down on his haunches, grinning at something on the ground in front of him that Arthur could not see. For once, Phillip was close enough that if he could have moved his arms, he might have finally seized the haunting figure. But he could merely gaze at Phillip’s body, his ragged clothing stark against skin as pale as the Scottish mist. Something amused him, something in the grass. Arthur struggled to sit up, but he was weighed down by the heavy sleep, pressed against the earth so that he could not move.
Phillip leaned forward, his low chuckling turning to shrill laughter. Suddenly, he turned fully toward Arthur, paralyzing him with the horrific sight of a gaping hole where his chest should have been. As he watched, Phillip slowly rose to his feet, exceeding the six-foot height he had known in life, towering above the earth. He laughed again and bowed gallantly, sweeping his arm to one side.
“Glasgow,” he said.
Arthur looked to where Phillip indicated and felt the horror rip like a scythe through his body—there in the heath lay Kerry, as pale as Phillip, a gaping hole in her breast as black and as wet as Phillip’s. Arthur struggled in the terror of the moment, kicking with every ounce of strength he possessed to the surface of his sleep, shuddering awake with the force of ten men as he broke the surface of his dream.
He bolted upright and jerked around to where Phillip should have been standing.
Phillip was gone.
He quickly looked the other way and breathed a sigh of relief. Kerry had fallen asleep. There was no gaping hole in her chest. But her lips were moving in silent conversation, and her face bore an expression of perfect, sweet misery.
Glasgow.
Phillip’s dreamy whisper continued to haunt Arthur well after he had bundled Kerry in front of him and pushed on with the early evening. What had he meant? Was it an omen? Did it mean anything at all, or was the stress of the last thirty hours making him sentimental? He was, after all, hardly accustomed to being a fugitive. He was hardly accustomed to anything anymore—the world was listing more sharply with each day.
The meaning of the dream escaped him, but it nonetheless propelled him to a full-fledged panic when the seldom-traveled path he had chosen suddenly ended on the banks of a small river south of Perth. Arthur’s limited knowledge of the region’s geography told him that the river emptied into the Firth of Tay, which meant heavy traffic and passage to the sea and England. If he crossed the river, continued on, they would reach Glasgow in two days, perhaps three. There, he would use his considerable resources to find Kerry’s mother, leave her there, and obtain passage to England.
Glasgow.
The haunting memory came to him again as he restlessly paced the banks of the river. In these three long years since Phillip’s death, Arthur had believed that the dreams of his fallen friend were Phillip’s way of reaching out from the grave to crucify him for having let him fall. But as he paced along the banks of the tributary in the last hours of sunlight, he couldn’t help wondering if perhaps Phillip was trying to relay another me
ssage altogether. Glasgow.
“What shall we do?”
Startled from his ruminations, Arthur turned toward the sound of Kerry’s voice. Standing with her hands clasped demurely in front of her, she gazed at him with wide blue eyes, devoid of the sparkle he cherished.
God, he was losing her, he was losing his very heart.
Her black hair was in wild disarray, her face colorless, all the life bled from it. And he realized in that moment he loved her far too much to deliver her to an uncertain fate in Glasgow. The instinctive need to protect her from that fate, to put the life back into her eyes suddenly surged through him.
Consequence be damned, he was taking her to England.
He suddenly and decisively moved forward, closing the ground between them in two long strides. Kerry’s eyes widened as he reached for her and pulled her into his determined embrace. She opened her mouth to say something, but Arthur silenced her with a fierce kiss, his mouth moving hungrily over hers, devouring her lips, drawing her very breath into his lungs. That sweet breath sustained him, infused him with a will stronger than he had ever known to keep her in his arms for eternity and beyond, to endure whatever it might take.
Breathless, he lifted his head. “England,” he managed. “Will you? Come with me to England, that is. I’ve no idea what awaits us there, but it is all I can offer you now—it’s all I have at the moment.”
Kerry blinked; the confusion scudded across her features like a summer cloud. Then suddenly she made a strange sound in her throat, closed her eyes as tears sprang from the corners.
“What then, I’ve upset you? I am sorry, Kerry, but there is nothing more I can do—”
A cry of laughter escaped her, and she threw her arms around his neck. “Oh God. Oh God, thank you!”
His arms quickly tightened around her, crushing her safely to him as he buried his face in the curve of her neck. They stood that way, holding one another tightly, until the need to be practical made Arthur let her go and pull her arms from his neck. “There is the small matter of transportation,” he said, and walked to where the horse stood grazing. He relieved the poor beast of their baggage, then the saddle, which he placed behind a small stand of shrubbery.
Standing there, looking at the exhausted beast, he felt a peculiar burning in the back of his eyes. “Godspeed,” he mumbled, and hit the horse on the rump, sent him trotting off toward greener blades of grass. He then picked up the two bags and, gripping them in one hand, motioned to a path leading east. “Mrs. McKinnon, if you will allow me to escort you to God knows where, I shall endeavor to find a boat to ease your travel.”
Kerry smiled. The sight of it sent a rush of warmth all through him, invigorated him.
“Escort me to the ends of the earth, on foot, on horseback, by boat. I doona care as long as you are with me,” she said, and just as she had so many weeks ago, walked bravely on before him on the narrow, overgrown path.
They walked for an hour or more, following the path of the tributary as it curved around and widened, indicating that they were nearing the Firth of Tay As they climbed up a small hill, Arthur spied a flatboat anchored alongside a dock on the opposite bank; a handful of men worked to load small crates onto one end of the boat. At last, a hope of transportation out of the Highlands.
Kerry had seen the flatboat, too; she was squinting into the dusk trying to make it out.
“I shall speak with them,” he said, setting the bags aside and strode briskly to a point that put him directly across from the flatboat.
“Ho there, lad!” he called, bracing his hands against his hips. One man straightened, said something to the other. There was something familiar about him, something—
“Aye?” the man asked, folding his beefy arms across his barrel chest, and Arthur groaned at the sight of the familiar, uncompromising stance of the Richey brothers.
As if this little journey could not possibly get any worse.
Fortunately, as Arthur had become quite the expert in dealing with the Richey brothers, he succeeded in gaining passage to Newbergh and a promise to at least attempt to deliver a message to Thomas, all for the bargain price of roughly half his personal fortune. In exchange, the Richey brothers agreed that the fact the Sassenach and Mrs. McKinnon had sought passage on their boat a third time would remain their little secret. Arthur was rather confident they would keep that promise—Mr. Richey One relayed to him, in a mere four words, that he could gain passage to Dundee at Newbergh, and from there, passage to England. Assuming, of course, there was anything left in the coffers of the Duchy of Sutherland at that point.
So loaded once more on the flatboat, they drifted silently into the night. Kerry’s exhaustion gave way to a fitful sleep. Arthur’s nerves were too raw; he dozed off once or twice, no more—the slightest noise or movement jarred him awake. He was beset with a vicious cycle of doubt as to the wisdom of what he was doing, to the absurd hope that he might have Kerry with him forever, only to doubt again. The confusion made him feel as if he was treading water as his strength slowly bled from him. More than once, a silent and deep fear welled in him that he might actually be pulled under by the enormity of what was happening to him. His life was sedate in comparison to this, the quality of his life safe and uneventful. Nothing the Rogues had ever done compared with the extraordinary experiences he had had in the last weeks, or the extraordinary, foolish, dangerous escape he found himself in the middle of now. His life was suddenly frightening.
But then he would look down at Kerry’s dark head in his lap, touch the curl at her temple, feel his blood come alive and believe. When the morning finally dawned, Arthur had come to the single conclusion that he had plunged headfirst into deep water when he stumbled across that red satchel weeks ago, and now, he must fight to the death to keep from sinking and taking Kerry with him.
Chapter Sixteen
ALTHOUGH THEY REACHED Dundee without further incident, they were forced to wait two full days until Arthur could secure passage to England aboard a shipping vessel. The price of passage however, left Arthur precious little; the seemingly substantial amount he had brought to Scotland had dwindled to almost nothing. Afraid that Moncrieffe would search for her even as far as Dundee, Arthur found a cheap, nondescript inn near the docks where they waited.
It was an interminable, intolerable wait; the small room smelled of fish and bodies. Arthur left her each day to seek passage on any ship he could find and, at Kerry’s insistence, to look for Big Angus and May. He came back each evening to find Kerry sitting cross-legged on the sagging bed, fighting her imagination.
And when Arthur told her he could not find Big Angus or May, or anyone from Glenbaden, her imagination went wild, filling her mind with ominous theories of what had happened to her clan, and visions of men coming to drag her off to the gallows. Every sound, every creak of wood beneath a boot beyond the door sent her heart racing. When she closed her eyes, she saw the hangman’s noose swinging in front of her. When sheer fatigue finally forced her to sleep, she would inevitably dream of standing on the gallows, watching a hooded executioner put the noose over her head and pull it tight around her neck. If by some miracle she could sleep without seeing herself hanged for her crime, she dreamed of Charles Moncrieffe lying lifeless before her, the blood pooling black beneath him.
But in those bleak moments when she was jolted awake by the horror of her dreams, Arthur was always there, cocooning her in the comfort of his arms and whispering soothing little nothings into her ear until the tremors had ceased. It was as if he had actually seen her dreams, had actually felt the terror himself.
On the morning they at last set sail for England, Kerry stood on the deck of the schooner and watched the land slowly fade to a dark strip on the horizon. Myriad emotions assailed her at once—relief, profound sadness, and fear. She gripped the railing hard, felt a pull in her chest, as if Scotland actually called to her, tried to keep her home.
But she had no home. What Fraser had not destroyed, she had. She had no on
e, nothing to hold her to Scotland now; all that she had was the charity of an extraordinary man, a beautiful stranger who had felt the anguish in her heart and had come back for her. Kerry believed that with all her heart.
It was that belief that enabled her to turn her back for God knew how long on the last glimpse of her homeland. Carefully, she made her way to the small cabin where Arthur waited.
The ship he had found was carrying a hull full of jute and tobacco. Arthur had explained to her that they would first cross to Hoek-van-Holland to unload then take on new cargo before sailing to England, where they would dock at Kingston-upon-Hull. From there, they would travel to a place called Longbridge. It was the home of a friend, he said, and a place they might stay for a time until he determined what they should do.
What he should do with her, he surely meant, but was far too kind to say so. Nonetheless, Kerry knew exactly what sort of burden she presented—she had little more than the gray gown on her back that signified her status as widow. The contents of her satchel amounted to two pairs of drawers, a chemise, and the blouse and black bombazine skirt she wore to work in the garden. She had no real skills to speak of—she supposed she could hire on as a governess somewhere, but without credentials, the likelihood of securing a suitable situation were slim. It was more likely that she should end up in the kitchen service of some English household—assuming, of course, Arthur could help her find such employment.
As the ship sailed farther into calm seas, Kerry remained in the cabin, heartsick and confused. She thought often of Thomas—what must he be thinking now? It broke her heart to imagine his confusion, but it made her positively ill to think that he must have gone back to Glenbaden to find her, only to find what she had done. And the others, Big Angus and May. What had become of them?
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