The hardest thing she had ever done in her life was to leave without seeing him. But she could hardly blame him for not wanting to see her, not after she had refused to marry him in the manner that she had. She had been angry, confused … and even in the best of circumstances, it was impossible to explain to him how terribly ill suited she was for London. Arthur had moved in those circles all his life; he could not possibly fathom how foreign it was to someone like her, how out of place she seemed. How everyone, including his own lady aunt, had felt it, too.
Only Arthur had believed she would be accepted.
She missed him, cried herself to sleep almost every night thinking of him, and woke every morning longing for his smile and soft caress. But then the matron would come with a bowl of what passed for oats, the cold seeping in through the thick walls of the tower would penetrate her bones, and she would begin her prayers all over again, until her thoughts bled into memories of Arthur.
How she had loved him. And she would, apparently, go to her grave loving him.
On a particularly cold morning, her gaoler—Mrs. Muir, Kerry was finally able to coax out of her—brought a basin of cold water and a rag. “Yer to clean yerself up, lassie. The baron would speak with ye.”
Kerry moaned. Mrs. Muir lifted her thick brows and thrust a dirty rag forward. With inhuman strength, Kerry willed herself from the lumpy mattress that passed for a bed and walked to the basin.
She washed, managed to knot her hair at her nape by the time Moncrieffe sailed into her cell, seeming to fill what little space there was. He looked remarkably fresh; his gray hair was perfectly arranged; a diamond pin winked from his throat where it held his neckcloth in place. With his hands clasped behind his back, he slowly circled Kerry, thoroughly examining her.
He came to a halt in front of her. “A fortnight within these walls hasna done you any favors, Mrs. McKinnon. Yet I think you are salvageable.”
Kerry shrugged indifferently. “How kind of you to remark so. But why should you bother? You intend, do you not, to see me hang before winter comes?”
Moncrieffe smiled. “Rather an acerbic tongue for one in as much trouble as we find you, Mrs. McKinnon.”
Her patience had long since drained from her and Kerry was in no mood to play games with the baron. She folded her arms across her middle, drummed her fingers on one arm. “I am well aware of the sort of trouble we find ourselves in, my lord. If there is something you would say, I’d ask that you get on with it and spare me the childish games.”
The man actually laughed. He strolled casually to the window and gazed out at the gallows construction. “Not a terribly good view, is it?” he asked idly, and turned around. “I suppose I could change this view for you, if I were of a mind.”
“Aye, and how would you do that?”
“Simply move you to a more suitable location, my dear.”
A silent warning flagged in her chest; her eyes narrowed. “And where might this ‘more suitable’ location be, then?”
Moncrieffe moved to where she stood, standing so close that she could smell the cloying scent of his cologne. He lifted his hand; with one finger, he stroked her cheekbone. “Moncrieffe House,” he murmured. “The view from the master suite is superb.”
Kerry instinctively recoiled in horror. Moncrieffe, however, was not abashed by her revulsion. He chuckled, caught her by the mess of her hair.
“Think, Mrs. McKinnon—your life for my bed. I shouldna think it such a horrid suggestion then,” he said, and leaned closer, his mouth brushing her hair. “You would delight in my skill as a lover.”
Her stomach roiled; Kerry stumbled away from him and covered her mouth with her hand. “Never,” she managed to choke out. “I would rather die—”
“Are you insane? I offer you freedom—”
“That is not freedom!”
“It is as close to freedom as you will ever be, madam! Do you think yourself such a prize as to hold yourself away from me?”
The image nauseated her; Kerry swallowed it down, shook her head.
“Then why in God’s name do you refuse me? I would give you your life for it!” he snapped angrily.
“Why should you make this offer now?” she choked. “What of your son? What of avenging his death as you so publicly proclaimed you would do?”
Moncrieffe shrugged. “It was destined that one of us would have you. As Charles couldna seem to manage it without getting himself killed, it seems appropriate that I should. I’ve admired you for long, Kerry McKinnon, and I doona intend to force my affections on you like a beast. But it seems that you have solved a dilemma for us both.”
Her stomach roiled again, only stronger, and she pressed her hands flat against her abdomen. “Do you mean to say you knew what Charles intended to do?”
Moncrieffe laughed, a sharp, mocking laugh. “Of course I knew! I sent him there, did I not? How else was I to make sure you would honor your husband’s commitment?”
She would be sick. Looking at the man standing before her as if it were perfectly natural to send his son off to rape a woman, she felt the oats she had eaten move in her belly. She whirled away, rushed toward the chamber pot in the corner of the room, and fell to her knees, unable to contain the purge of her revulsion.
Behind her, Moncrieffe chuckled nastily. “There now, lassie. Charles wasna a genius, but he wasna a cruel boy. In time, with my help, he would have learned to be gentle with you.”
She closed her eyes, tried to block the sound of his voice, but he was suddenly crouching behind her, his hand on her neck. “Now I, on the other hand, will be as gentle or as wild as you want me to be. You will not regret it,” he murmured, and licked her ear.
“I would die before I would submit to you,” she whispered.
Moncrieffe suddenly shoved her aside; she fell hard, hitting her head against the stone wall. “Think long and hard before you speak to me thus again,” he said low. His boots rang sharply on the stone floor as he stalked away from her. “I will return, Kerry McKinnon.” The boots stopped. “Perhaps I will give you a sample of what you might expect in my bed, hmmm?” He laughed again; his boots clicked across the floor. She heard the door open and close, the grind of the lock in the ancient keyhole. Only then did she push herself up. With trembling fingers, she felt her forehead. Blood trickled from where her head had struck the wall. She slowly pushed herself to her knees, and then to her feet, and stumbled to the small window for some air.
Arthur.
Where was her beautiful stranger?
She passed two days in a nervous state of anticipation waiting for Moncrieffe to come again. Mrs. Muir finally brought food more than a day after Moncrieffe had come. Another full day passed before the woman appeared again, this time with a bowl of what Kerry could only call gruel. Moncrieffe was, apparently, trying to starve her into submission.
Mrs. Muir left the bowl on a small table and walked to the door. She paused, turned halfway around and said, “Yer barrister’s come.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “My barrister?”
But that was all she was going to offer, and left her cell, locking the door behind her. Kerry was at once on her feet. Her barrister? What did that mean? Had the justice of the peace come? She ran to the door, pressed her hands against it. Was her trial to begin, then? Was her life to end? The thought frightened her, and Kerry banged on the door, yelled for Mrs. Muir at the top of her lungs until she was hoarse. When she could yell no more, she turned and pressed her back to the thick, oak-planked door and slid down, like a rag doll, to her haunches.
This was the end of her life.
Sobs suddenly racked her body; she buried her face on her knees. She was only eight and twenty! She did not want to die—there were so many things she wanted to do yet, so many things she had not finished! She had never had a child.…
The weight of her regrets threatened to bury her. With supreme effort, she forced herself to stop crying and lifted her head. “There is naught to be done for it, Kerry McKi
nnon,” she muttered and sniffed loudly. “Pray that justice will prevail, but you took the man’s very life! And if they determine your life will be had for his, then you will meet your maker with dignity, you will.”
She pushed herself to her feet, felt the swim in her head, knew that the lack of food was beginning to affect her. She wandered to the little table to look at the foul stuff in the bowl, pondering why she should eat anything if she were to die so soon.
When the door swung open behind her, she turned indifferently, expecting to see the old woman again, but her heart dropped and swelled all at once with great passion.
Arthur.
No, it was an illusion! An apparition! She glanced at the gruel again—she would force herself to eat it, for she was beginning to hallucinate, and she’d need all her wits about her in the next few hours or days …
“Kerry …”
The sound of his voice, so unexpected, so dear, drove her to her knees. She landed awkwardly, breaking her fall by catching the table with both hands. It was no apparition; it was him, her beautiful stranger. “Arthur,” she sobbed, and felt herself being pulled up, wrapped securely in his strong embrace. She buried her face in his shoulder, inhaled his scent.
“Kerry—Lord God how I have missed you!”
A fresh torrent of tears erupted within her, and Kerry sobbed with relief and longing, soaking his coat.
“Don’t cry, darling, don’t cry now. We’ll get you out of this … place.”
“How did you find me?” she choked.
“It was not easy. I found Thomas—he told me you were somewhere nearby—”
“Thomas, is he all right?”
“He’s fine, considering the circumstance,” he said soothingly.
“Arthur … oh, Arthur, I canna believe you have come!”
He pressed his cheek to the side of her head. “Of course I came! I don’t seem to be capable of existing without you, Kerry.”
The words curled around her heart, buoyed it. She lifted her head, gazed into his hazel eyes, saw the glistening of tears and the ravages of fatigue, and her heart went out to him. “Please forgive me. Forgive me! I am so sorry for what I did. I thought—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, and kissed her cheek.
“I would that I could go back and change it all—”
“No, don’t wish for that, my love, I wouldn’t have you change a thing. I intend to stay here, with you.”
That confused her; she blinked up at him. He couldn’t mean … “You mean until the trial?”
“I mean forever, Kerry. I intend to stay here, with you, in Glenbaden.”
Glenbaden. She had once dreamed of them there, living with one another, children … “But … but Glenbaden is gone!”
“For the moment, perhaps, but you leave that to me. When I get you out of here, I am taking you to Glenbaden. And then I shall find a parson to marry us.”
“Marry?” Her hands slowly slipped from his neck; roughly, he caught them.
“Oh no, Kerry, you will not deny me again.”
“No,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You doona understand—”
“I understand that whatever our differences they seem only to exist in London, not here. I love you, Kerry McKinnon. I love you so much that London means nothing to me without you—I am nothing without you. I would have your answer now, Kerry, do you love me?”
“More than my heart. More than my life! But …” she lowered her gaze, fixated on the perfect knot of his neckcloth. “Arthur, I will hang for what I did.”
“Ha!” he scoffed, and tightened his embrace. “Over my dead body will you hang! And if I—”
“Or I will warm Moncrieffe’s bed,” she muttered.
That stopped him. Arthur put a finger under her chin and roughly forced her gaze to his. “What did you say?”
She quietly told him everything with ragged breath, of how she had come to free Thomas, had confessed to what had happened, and how Moncrieffe had accused them of Charles’s death. She told him of Moncrieffe’s visit, how food had disappeared since then. And she told him, based on what she knew of Moncrieffe’s influence in the shire, that she would undoubtedly hang … or be his whore. By the time she had finished, Arthur had turned a deadly shade of white; she could see the hatred burning in his hazel eyes.
“You will not hang, nor will you step foot in Moncrieffe’s house,” he said through clenched teeth. “I will get you out. You must trust me on this, Kerry—I did not come here to lose you! Keep faith with me.” When she did not immediately respond, he grabbed her by the arms and shook her once. “Give me your word you will keep faith with me!”
“You have my word!” she cried, but she could not put down the fear that the force of Moncrieffe was more than Arthur could combat.
Before she could tell him so, the door opened behind them; Arthur quickly let her go and stepped back. He mouthed the words, I love you, and turned around.
“Ye been long enough,” Mrs. Muir said.
“You will get Mrs. McKinnon some decent food, madam, or the justice will hear of it!” he snapped, and strode from the room. The door swung shut behind him, the key turned in the lock. Kerry sank, unconsciously, to her knees, straining to hear his voice. When she could no longer hear him, she fell in a heap onto the mattress and sobbed herself to sleep.
————
Arthur walked into the courtyard of the ancient keep and looked up at the small window of the tower, his jaw working frenetically. He swung up onto the stallion he had brought from York—he had no desire to attempt to find a horse again in this country—and snapped the reins, sending the horse on a trot out of the old castle grounds, pointedly refusing to look at the half-constructed gallows.
It was a foreboding place; he had learned from a sheepherder that what was left of the old castle was still used for a variety of purposes, including a gaol in the rare circumstance one was required. But it was well fortified and virtually impenetrable. He had promised Kerry he would see her freed, and he meant it with every ounce of his being. There was only one small problem—he had absolutely no idea how.
One thing was certain—he could not steal her away and escape to England again. No, this battle would have to be waged on Scottish ground. The first thing he had to do was find a barrister, and he spurred the stallion he had so prophetically named Freedom.
Freedom thundered through the countryside, chewing up the earth. They passed the old Celtic cross erected in the middle of nowhere for God knew what reason, past the crumbling remains of crofter cottages now overtaken by sheep, through the pines that towered so high as to almost block the sun. These landmarks now seemed vaguely familiar to him, as if they were somehow a part of him. They were a part of him—everything he had become in the last few months had started here, in this ruggedly beautiful countryside.
When he had made the extraordinary decision to give up all that he had in England to come here, to be with Kerry, his friends and family had been shocked. Only Alex had smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Julian had tried to talk him out of it, but in the end, he had clapped him on the shoulder, reminded him that it was his brilliant idea that he should go to Scotland in the first place, then pointed out to everyone gathered in his Mount Street home that the world had never known a greater sentimental fool than Arthur Christian. He had, at last, wished him Godspeed.
The decision had been the right one, his conviction strengthening every day as he moved north. It occurred to him, when the ship had set sail from Kingston, that he had spent his entire life treading water, working hard to stay in one place, never allowing himself the luxury of simply living. He thought of Phillip, how he had seemed to delight in skirting the edge of danger, pushing the limits of propriety, and ultimately living life to its fullest. In her own way, so did Kerry. She let nothing stand in the way of her beliefs; she risked all for the sake of those she loved.
Arthur had never pursued a conviction that he could recall, had never believed so fi
rmly in anything that he would risk all for it.
Until now.
Kerry had pushed him into the deep of life, had made him swim for the first time. This was the quality of life the vicar was speaking of at Phillip’s funeral; these last few months, complete with the unpredictable highs and lows, had enriched him beyond measure.
Kerry had enriched his soul.
And he would do anything it took—he would part the heavens, rearrange the stars, turn mountains upside down if that was what it required. But he would have Kerry to love and cherish the rest of his natural life, and he would figure a way out of his mess.
As he and Freedom hurtled into the dusk, he prayed for a bit of divine guidance.
And then he prayed that the divine guidance might come in the next half-hour, if at all possible.
Chapter Twenty-Five
ARTHUR WANDERED THE narrow streets of Pitlochry like a vagabond, poking his head in various establishments and inquiring as to where he might find a barrister, not caring that he appeared half-crazed. But the Scots were nothing if not unflappable—he received nothing but blank looks for his efforts, an occasional sneer from those who were not exactly accepting of the English, and one or two suggestions as to where he might look.
He refused to allow himself to think it was hopeless, but the anxiety was mushrooming in him. There was no time to go to Edinburgh where the best of the legal profession in Scotland was to be had. Every hour that passed was adding to his blossoming panic—he was running out of time.
He was debating whether or not he should ride on to Dunkeld and search there when he happened upon an inn he had not previously seen. From the street, he could hear the loud commotion in the common room. It appeared to be a popular gathering place, and Arthur thought that he might try one last time.
At the very least, he could use a dram of good Scottish whiskey.
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