And of course there was the guilt. All-consuming guilt, a persistently nagging thought that she should turn back, throw herself on Moncrieffe’s mercy, and face what she had done.
Had it not been for Arthur, she might very well have thrown herself over the rail of the ship and let her misery sink her. As the first day turned into the second, he became her lifeline, keeping her carefully tethered to him and reality.
But he was obviously restless, too; he bustled in and out of the little cabin, putting things here and there then rearranging them again, and talking to fill the silence that seemed to engulf them. He told her about his closest friends, starting with the earl of Albright, whose home they would visit first, and how he had turned a small estate in severe disrepair into one of the most powerful agricultural centers in all of England. He laughed about the earl of Kettering, who had raised four younger sisters from the time he was a lad of sixteen. He was proud of his own family, clearly admired and loved his brother Alex. And he smiled fondly when he told her about his mother and even his Aunt Paddy and her friend, Mrs. Clark, who, Arthur said with a roll of his eyes, spent the better part of their lives looking for marriageable young women for him. He was obviously a man who held his family dear, and it was just one more of the many qualities that endeared him eternally to Kerry.
When night fell on the second day, the seas turned rough. Arthur returned from the deck to tell her that they were sailing into a late summer storm and that he would lend a hand to the crew. Kerry assured him she was quite all right, and he left her lying on the narrow little bed, unaware that she swallowed down nausea that rose with each swell of the sea.
As the ship rocked into the night, Kerry kept the nausea at bay by concentrating on Arthur, forcing herself to recount in detail everything about him from the moment she had shot him on the road to Perth.
It was an easy task. Everything Arthur had ever done in her presence lived on in her heart. She recalled waking next to him the morning they had set off for Glenbaden, inadvertently sprawled across his body, and the dangerous look on his face that made her heart flutter like a bird. And the moment he had removed the boots from her feet and had wrapped his neckcloth around her battered heels. And, oh God, she recalled the searing kiss he had given her when he had pulled her from the waters of the river.
Kerry pressed a palm to her damp forehead as she recalled his last night at Glenbaden and the hours she had spent in his arms and beneath him. The memory turned molten; her face flushed hot with the memory. It was that night she had understood how she truly loved him, completely and irrevocably, for the rest of her life. She had never felt for her husband what she felt for her beautiful stranger, and the intense longing filled her again, swelling inside her heart until it felt as if it would burst from her chest. She suddenly rolled onto her side, curling into a ball.
She should not long for him. She should not wish that he would kiss her like that again. She should not look at his hand and remember how tenderly he had caressed her naked breast. God help her, but she should not notice how magnificent he was, or let his smile melt her, or let his cheery laughter wash over her like rain. But every time Arthur touched her—a hand to her shoulder, a finger to her temple—she wished he would take her into his arms, kiss her, make love to her again like he had that night, and banish every ugly thing from her life. She loved him.
Oh God, what sort of cruel life was this that she should know such love and tenderness but never truly possess it?
In the blackness of the cabin, she lay there listening to the wind batter the ship like her sorrow battered her soul. She mourned her losses, but above all, she mourned the inevitable loss of Arthur. Nothing had changed. They came from two different worlds and in spite of his heroic act of rescuing her—not once, but twice now—he would, eventually, continue on with his life, as would she.
The dreaded vision of her life was the last thing she knew before she drifted off to sleep.
Sometime later, a noise awoke her, and as she opened her eyes, she noticed that the ship was no longer listing. A single lamp burned low. She blinked against the dim light, her eyes slowly adjusting to the sight of Arthur trying to fit his long body across two chairs.
With his legs stretched onto a chair, he held his arms folded across his stomach, and rested his chin on his chest with his eyes closed. After a moment, his head jerked up; he groaned softly before stabbing his elbow onto the table and his chin atop his fist.
A surge of tenderness swept through her; Kerry pushed herself up onto her elbows. “Arthur.”
His head instantly jerked up and around to the sound of her voice, his feet landing hard on the floor.
Kerry held out her hand to him.
It seemed to take him aback. He pivoted in his chair, facing her, his hands braced on his knees as he stared at her outstretched hand. He swallowed. “Don’t,” he said roughly. “Don’t offer me your hand because I can’t be satisfied with only that. If I have any part of you, I must have all of you. And if you take me, Kerry, you must take all of me.”
“Then come to me,” she murmured.
He lifted a gaze from her hand that was both smoldering and bewildered. A scorching heat instantly filled her; she spread her hand over the coarse linen cover. “Come.”
Arthur stood, quickly removed his waistcoat as he crossed the cabin to her, pulling his lawn shirt from the waist of his trousers as he reached the edge of the bed. “Kerry,” he said, falling onto one knee on the bed beside her, lifting his hands to cup her face. “Kerry,” he whispered earnestly, “have you any idea what you’ve done to me? Have you any idea how I have longed for you, how I have dreamed of you? Do you know that you entered my daydreams, rode alongside me, slept in my arms at night? My regard for you has not changed nor abated with time, it has only grown stronger.”
His earnest admission shocked her—she had heard his declarations of adoration the night they had made love, but she had believed they were voiced for the moment. How many times had she replayed the words in her head, wishing—no, praying—that they were true? And how many more times had she berated herself for her foolish dreaming, her childish hopes? Yet here he knelt before her, uttering words she had ached to hear.
“Arthur,” she said, pressing her palm to his rough cheek, “how I love you …”
A warmth filled his eyes, and he pulled her face to his, drinking the words from her lips as he gently pushed her onto her back and came over her. He kissed her tenderly, straying from her mouth to her eyes and her cheeks. His moist lips slowly touched every part of her face and neck, deliberately teasing her while his hands caressed her, his palms skimming lightly over her arms and bosom, his fingers flittering across her neck.
His gentle, near reverent exploration of her was stoking a blaze that begged to be doused. Her hands swept the hard lines of his body. She slipped her hands inside his shirt, fingered his hardened nipples. Arthur’s low moan reverberated against the skin of her neck, and he reached for the buttons of her gown, deftly freeing each one as his hands moved quickly down her spine.
“I have often thought of our night together,” he murmured as he slipped the gray wool from her shoulders to her waist and gazed down to where her breasts spilled from the top of her corset. “More times than I might count,” he added softly, and sat back on his feet, pulling her to a sitting position. He kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose as he unfastened her corset. With a smile, he threw it aside. But the smile slowly faded as he carefully cupped her breasts, rubbing the peaks with the pad of his thumb through the thin cotton chemise she wore. “I thought of you constantly.”
“And I of you,” she said, carefully brushing a thick curl of hair from his forehead. “I dared not dream that you would come back.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “Many was the time I would look at you in Glenbaden and wonder at such natural beauty, wish that such beauty could be mine, that I could hold it in my arms.” He nipped her bottom lip before drawing it fully between his. He p
ushed her back onto the narrow bed, breaking the kiss only to remove her skirt and his shirt. But then he came over her again with an urgency and heat that Kerry felt burning inside her.
With his hands, he began a more anxious exploration of her body, pushing the chemise aside so that he could feel her skin. Kerry’s body was jolted alive by his touch; his fingers seemed to scorch every place he touched her, detonating something inside her—she was suddenly raking her hands through his hair, kissing him fiercely, her body straining to meet his.
Arthur seemed to share her desperate abandon; his hands worked with a fever of their own, stroking her everywhere, inflaming her flesh, striving to caress every inch of her and know every contour, every flaw. Her hands trailed down his chest, to the soft down that disappeared into his trousers.
He caught a drag of air in his throat when she flicked her tongue across his nipple. The sound of his ardor turned her into a churning, molten mass, and she realized it was her hands that fumbled with his trousers, her hands that sought to free his rigid arousal straining against the fabric. When the last button sprang free, she reached for him, felt him swell hot in the palm of her hand.
Arthur anxiously freed her breast from the confines of her chemise, smothered it with warm kisses. When he took it in his mouth, Kerry felt the draw of desire from the bottom of her belly, the ethereal weight of it rising rapidly to the surface, boiling there as he laved her with deliberate laziness, sucking her into his mouth and tongue.
The ache for him was more than she could bear; her hand surrounded his rigid erection, squeezing gently, stroking him with the same deliberate laziness that he showed her, until Arthur could endure no more. His head suddenly came up; planting his hands on either side of her head, he moved over her.
“You seduce me as no other woman has,” he said brusquely. “You compel me to an insane desire, Kerry McKinnon.” With that, he lowered himself to her, kissing her passionately as one hand moved lithely between her thighs. Kerry gasped against his mouth; the molten heat she had been feeling was spilling from her, she could feel it. Arthur’s fingers moved expertly against her, swirling over and around, in and out, driving her to the brink of a well of desire, battering her senses for release. And just when she thought she would surely drown in it, he moved his hand, positioned himself between her legs, and slid inside her as smoothly as the tide washes ashore. She felt her body as she had never felt it before—every sense was inflamed, every fiber ablaze, the air around her filled with the scent and flesh of Arthur.
With every stroke of his staff, every kiss of his lips, he was pushing her closer and closer to him. It was so fluid, so without beginning or end that she could scarcely tell where his body ended and hers began. He flowed into her like water, then rushed out again like the tide, only to come again, deeper still. Kerry’s body rose to meet every stroke, but she felt herself fast losing control, spiraling headlong into a physical release so pure that the anticipation of it had already taken her breath away.
Above her, Arthur pressed his cheek against hers and buried his hand in the wild tangle of her hair. With his other hand, he continued to stroke her in rhythm with his body’s thrusting until Kerry could endure the immaculate torture no more. It happened suddenly—a sensation of sinking fast then floating on the swell as the tide rushed out again. The wondrous sensation caused her to cry out with the joy of it; her arms fell away, landing limply to either side of her.
Arthur’s strokes suddenly intensified; he shoved his hands beneath her hips, lifting her to him, thrusting fiercely and quickly until he shuddered against her with a strangled sob of his own. Kerry felt the powerful surge of his seed deep inside her and was immediately overcome with a sense of completion.
They lay with their arms around one another, both of them panting lightly. After a few moments, Arthur somberly gathered Kerry to him and rolled to his side so that they lay facing each other. She felt him slip out of her and the warmth of his lifeblood spilling onto her thighs. Sighing, he brushed a damp strand of hair from her face. “You have captured my poor heart, madam.”
Oh, but he had captured her heart weeks ago, plucked it like a ripe fruit. Suddenly overwhelmed, she buried her face in his neck—it seemed to her that in this moment, out here on the open sea as they were, they were just man and woman, sharing the most extraordinary intimacy two people could share, and she loved him for sharing it so completely.
They lay entwined in each other’s arms for what seemed hours, hardly speaking, simply enjoying the feel and scent and look of one another in the flickering light of the lantern. When they drifted to sleep Kerry would never know, but she would carry with her for the rest of her days the memory of their lovemaking that night, when they had become one upon the sea.
The next morning, she was coaxed awake from the first deep sleep she had known in days by Arthur’s hands and mouth. He made slow, deliberate love to her, taking his time to bring her to climax, taking even more to reach his own with a joyous smile on his face. He did not leave the cabin again until they docked in Hoek-van-Holland, except occasionally to find food and to give Kerry some privacy. Except for those rare occasions, they lay together on the tiny shelf of a bed, carefully but thoroughly exploring one another’s bodies, laughing softly at private little jests, and speaking low of their lives, their hopes, their dreams.
Whispering tenderly of the love growing between them.
It was as if the world did not exist for that space of time. By the time the ship sailed for England, the intimate surroundings and prolonged togetherness had brought them impossibly close. On the sea, there were no differences between them, no ugly realities to disturb them. It seemed to Kerry that she had known Arthur much longer than a handful of weeks—they had so much more in common than she would ever have thought possible. She actually felt him—as inexplicable as it was, at times she had the intimate sensation that she was looking at herself.
Even her debilitating guilt was beginning to melt away in the comfort and safety of Arthur’s arms. What had happened seemed a lifetime ago, and in some moments, she dreamed that perhaps it hadn’t happened at all. There was no Scotland, no Moncrieffe, nothing of Fraser’s legacy in that cabin. Nothing but her and Arthur and the love between them.
But on the afternoon the ship docked at Kingston-upon-Hull, the first rays of ugly reality filtered into the little cabin. The sights and sounds of the busy little harbor brought the cold truth crashing into the world they had created and the stark reality of who she was and what she had done.
Arthur left the cabin for a time, and Kerry moved woodenly about, donning the plain skirt and blouse from her satchel, fastening her hair into an austere knot at her neck. When the tears began to slip from her eyes, they were quick and silent, taking the magic of the last few days with them. What they had shared in this cabin was over, forever gone, and Kerry was certain she would never know such peace again.
When Arthur returned, she managed to keep her back to him so that he would not see the redness in her eyes. But in that uncanny way he had, Arthur seemed to sense her distress. He walked up behind her as she packed her few things and slipped a strong arm around her waist, drawing her into his chest.
He brushed his lips against her bare neck, pressed his cheek against hers as he tightened his hold. “It will be quite all right,” he said softly. “I will not allow any harm to come to you, on my life I won’t.”
His solemn pledge warmed her, but she twisted in his embrace and kissed him hungrily, silencing any more vows he might make, because she couldn’t bear to hear them.
She couldn’t bear to face the truth—it wasn’t her crime she feared, it was him.
Oh, there was no doubt in her mind that he meant every word he said. He had shown her glorious love, completely and unselfishly, and readily vowed with his life to keep her safe. But it was his very life she feared. It was his name, his position in the British aristocracy, and everything else that separated him from her.
A different world, sh
e thought later as Arthur took her hand in his to walk among the fishmongers and sailors and various tradesman in the crowded streets of Kingston, not the realm of make-believe they had created in the last few days. And as she watched him haggle over a carriage—a covered carriage, he insisted loudly to the man, as he would not expose the lady to the elements—she pretended she was watching a man who would love her forever, would cherish her for all of eternity.
And then swallowed down the bitter taste of reality that crept into her throat.
Chapter Seventeen
IF HE HADN’T known better, Arthur would have sworn they were still in Scotland, for hiring a suitable traveling chaise in Kingston was just barely more tolerable than purchasing a horse in the Highlands. He sincerely hoped his brother Alex hadn’t made some major investment of funds in the last several weeks, for he had certainly spent a bloody fortune since he had wandered off to see after Phillip’s holdings.
And as if he hadn’t had enough bloody vexations for one day, the driver was not terribly keen on the idea of driving to Longbridge. “Roads are rather thick with mud, milord,” he said, clutching his cap anxiously in his hands. “We’ve had an awful lot of rain of late. Would you not rather go south?”
Had the whole of England gone mad in his absence? Since when did a journeyman argue with him? “I am quite certain,” he said through clenched teeth. “In fact, I am rather unyieldingly certain. Now, sir, if you will do me the great favor of getting on with it, I should be eternally grateful!”
The man frowned, shoved his hat on his head. “Mud, I say,” he muttered under his breath as he swung up onto the driver’s seat, and followed that up with something Arthur did not quite catch, but which sounded terribly snide. “I can hear you very clearly, sir!” he snapped, and shoved through the opening of the chaise, slammed the little door behind him, and landed irritably on the bench across from Kerry.
But with only one look at her, Arthur quickly forgot his annoyance. He smiled. “It would seem our driver has a particular aversion to mud. Rather causes one to wonder why he should aspire to be a driver a’tall.”
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