Julia London 4 Book Bundle (100 page)

He inquired with a clerk at the less than serviceable Kinrossie Inn where he had taken up residence. The lad had told him that the glens were just beyond Pitlochry, which was actually rather close by, and had sketched a map of the general area, suggesting that the distance was nothing more than a leisurely ride of a day or two. In
Dunkeid, he could inquire as to the exact location of the land … if he ever reached Dunkeld, that was.

“Confound it all, you stupid nag!”

The shout came from just inside the stables. Arthur lifted his gaze and watched the stable master emerge, fighting a mare into the paddock. Ah, just bloody grand—he had paid a premium for a
green
horse. With a weary sigh, he donned his leather gloves and strolled into the paddock. As he neared the man and horse, he could see that the bit was fastened too tightly, and immediately reached to loosen it. The mare jerked her head at his touch, but Arthur stroked her nose and cooed softly as he loosened the leather straps. The horse calmed considerably; the stable master’s eyes widened with surprise.

Idiot.

“Oh, she’s broke,” he hastily assured Arthur when he saw his dubious expression. “A wee bit ornery she is, that’s all.”

Yes, he could see she had been broken—not five minutes ago, he’d wager. “My bags,” he said, and nodded imperiously toward the edge of the paddock where he had left two large, soft leather bags. The swindler flushed; he awkwardly thrust the reins at Arthur and retrieved the bags, dropping one into the dirt rather carelessly when he returned so that he could jerk the leather straps tight around the other. When he picked up the bag at his feet and moved to the other side, the mare moved uneasily, snorting loudly as the man once again jerked the straps too tight. He stepped back, rubbed his palms together; Arthur politely handed him the reins, loosened the straps so the horse could breathe, and pausing to adjust his hat, gestured for the reins again.

The horse, however, was not of a mind to be mounted and began to dance impatiently, nickering at Arthur when he put his foot in the stirrup. A smug smile lifted the corner of the man’s mouth, but Arthur had faced tougher mounts than this and swung up, immediately
reining the horse hard right when she began to buck beneath him, squeezing her with his knees at the same time and signaling that he was in command. After several minutes of snorting and jerking her head about, dipping her shoulders to dislodge him, and kicking her back legs out as if she intended to buck him, the mare finally calmed. Relatively speaking. Arthur glanced down at the stable master. He no longer looked smug, but mildly awed.

“I rather think you misrepresented your stock, sir. You gave me a price I would expect for an experienced filly.”

“W-what’s that? She’s broke, I swear it!” the man blustered.

Arthur rolled his eyes and nodded toward the paddock gate. He had the mare under control for the moment, and the difference was not enough to haggle over. “If you would be so kind,” he drawled, and spurred the nervous mare forward, fighting for control with every step.

Once the gate opened, the mare bolted from the paddock, galloping down the rural lane. By the time they had reached the main road going north, Hellion, as Arthur quickly named her, was handling somewhat better but remained skittish. Traffic scared her; if another horse approached, it was all he could do to keep her in check. They struggled for what seemed hours to him, until she was finally trotting smoothly beneath him, resigned to her fate.

The road wound through an increasingly rural countryside, past deep vales and crystal clear streams. As the road grew narrower, the pines grew taller. The region seemed completely deserted, and had it not been for the old woman draped in plaid walking along the road with the aid of a dog just as old as she, Arthur would have believed it so.

By late afternoon, he was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t missed a turn. He reined the mare to a stop at a
small stream beside an old stone cross marking the location of God knew what, and let Hellion drink her fill as he studied the crude map the hotel clerk had drawn. An
X
supposedly marked Dunkeld, the village where the clerk had suggested he seek further direction. By Arthur’s calculations, the village should have been just about where he was standing. He glanced at the sun, gauging his direction. Head north, the clerk had said, to Kinelaven. Kinelaven was, judging by the map, immediately adjacent to Dunkeld, which looked to be no more than ten miles from Perth.

With a soft groan, Arthur rubbed the nape of his neck. He was fairly certain he was that distance and more from Perth. Then again, perhaps it only
felt
that far because of all the trouble with Hellion. He led the mare back onto the road to continue north, deciding that if he hadn’t reached a landmark in another hour, he would turn back.

After another hour, having passed nothing more than the stone foundation of what once had been a keep, he was irritably despising of the whole of Scotland, and in particular, Perthshire, when he reached a large
Y
in the road. There was no
Y
on his map, nothing but an
X
for Dunkeld and another for Kinelaven. Oh yes, and a very helpful arrow pointing north, as if he hadn’t already ridden across the bloody continent because of that goddamned arrow. He jerked his head to the right, glaring at the road leading north.

All right. There was no point denying it. He was plainly lost.

Hopelessly so it seemed, as there had been absolutely no evidence of civilization with the exception of the woman in plaid, and that had been two hours past. What, had he ridden into the wilds? Uncharted territory? Encroached upon the bloody moon, perhaps?

Hellion began to graze on a patch of long blade grass as Arthur pondered his predicament. He turned to view the route curving to the north, and—

What? Something lying on the edge of the road. A satchel?

Arthur leaned to one side and cocked his head to assess it. It was indeed a satchel, red and leather-trimmed, and seemingly stuffed full. The discovery elated him—where there was a satchel, there was surely a body, one that could speak and tell him where in God’s name he had gone wrong. Arthur quickly dismounted and began to tug Hellion forward, but the horse resisted, far more interested in the grass than the satchel. Sighing loudly for the horse’s benefit, Arthur carelessly tossed her reins over a low-hanging limb of the hedgerow, then stepped away to have a look around.

The road was bordered by a thick copse of trees on one side and on the other, sloped down into a grassy clearing on the edge of a forest. Slowly, he turned full circle, searching the landscape for any evidence of life, realizing as he did that the satchel likely had fallen from a passing coach.

“Bloody
marvelous
,” he muttered, and walked back to the satchel, nudging it with his boot. Perhaps there was something inside that could help him—although he had no earthly idea what. A map! A
real
map. He sank down on his haunches and opened the satchel.

A frilly white cotton garment sprang free.
Ah, bloody hell, then.
The satchel belonged to a woman, which meant he’d find nothing of use to him. But he removed his glove nonetheless and with a snort of displeasure, plunged his hand deep inside, past more frilly garments and other things he paid no attention to until his fingers scraped the bottom of the bag.

Nothing.

He was about to toss the damn thing aside in frustration when he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

Wasn’t that just
lovely
—now he could add being robbed to the wonderful events of his day! He heard the rustle of clothing as the bounder moved toward him—
apparently on tiptoe—he was certainly light on his feet. That struck Arthur as odd; he rather supposed any self-respecting highwayman would keep a fair distance from his prey in the event such prey was determined to surprise him, as he was about to do. What alternative did he have? He couldn’t reach his gun before the highwayman could shoot him. No, unfortunately, what he had here was one of those unenviable situations where he would just have to spring on the rotter and hope for the best, for he was
not
in a mood to be robbed of all his possessions.

He waited, listening closely to the soft rustle until he could practically feel the bandit at his back. With a grunt, he suddenly whirled, springing to his feet and swinging his arm out at the very same moment the gun discharged, scorching through his flesh like fire and knocking him flat on his back.

I
T WAS SEVERAL
moments before Arthur could pick himself up and grope about his person to assess the damage. Fortunately, it seemed that the bullet had only grazed his arm, doing nothing more than ruining his very expensive riding coat and giving him a nasty flesh wound that stung like hell.

Nonetheless, it was about all Arthur Christian could endure of Scotland for one day.

He jerked around to where his assailant would be standing—
should
be standing—and his mouth dropped open in astonishment. A
woman
of all things, flat on her bum and furiously rubbing her elbow with a grimace that suggested she had struck the ground hard. The kick of the pistol obviously had knocked her down. Lying in the road as it was, Arthur could see why—the thing was positively ancient and loud enough to scare an advancing—

Hellion.

Arthur whirled around to where he had tethered the horse and released a very colorful oath. The sorry horse had bolted, taking all his belongings with her. He was running before he realized it, racing down the road in the vain hope that she was only hiding in the woods, but it
was obvious that the damn nag had fled for the comfort of her stable in Perth. He stopped, gasping for breath, and pressed a hand to the stitch in his side. “Damn it.
Damn it!
” he bellowed, and pivoting sharply, stalked back to the scene of the crime, growing angrier with each step. He stopped just short of marching over the wench with the ancient gun and stood, legs apart, hands on hips, glaring at her sprawled on the road with her boots sticking out from beneath her skirts. She stared back at him with a deceptively wide-eyed look of innocence that made his pulse pound with fury. He took several deep breaths in a struggle to calm his rage, but it was impossible. “What in the
hell
did you think you were
doing
?” he shouted.

Something sparked in the woman’s eyes—they narrowed menacingly. “Protecting my belongings, that’s what!” she responded hotly. “And what did you think
you
were doing, then?”

“Did it occur to you that you might simply
announce
that the bag was yours before firing on an unarmed man?” he countered angrily, and leaned over, growling at her startled gasp when he caught her elbow and jerked her to her feet. She immediately wrenched her arm free of his hold and stumbled backward, glaring daggers at him as she carelessly adjusted her bonnet.

That was precisely the moment Arthur noticed she was wearing black.
Black.
Marvelous. He had been brought down by a widow! He groaned loudly and looked away.

“You really shouldna paw through things that doona belong to you!”

That unexpected admonishment was delivered with a bit too much superiority to suit Arthur, in spite of his assailant’s pleasingly soft burr. He turned slowly and raked a smoldering gaze across her as she shook the dirt from her skirts with such force that he half-expected them to tear clean of the gown’s bodice. “I was not
robbing
you, madam! Trust me, if I was of a mind to
rob
, it should be something a bit more enticing than a filthy, old red satchel!”

She paused in the dusting of her skirt, met his angry glare, and raised it with a look of such fury that he felt a bit of a chill flit down his spine. “If you didna intend to rob me, just what
did
you intend to do, then?”

“Pardon me, but it isn’t often one encounters a satchel in the middle of a deserted road! I thought it might contain some sort of clue as to its owner or destination!”

Her glower receded into a look of confusion; he could almost see the light of understanding dawn like a halo above her head. “Oh,” she muttered.

Oh, indeed. Releasing a sigh of great exasperation, Arthur watched her dust the dirt from her derriere and asked reluctantly, “You’ve not harmed yourself, have you? Nothing broken?”

“Not anything that shows,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously with orbs that Arthur suddenly realized were the palest, crystalline blue he had ever seen. They were beautiful, the irises rimmed with a dark circle of gray and long, dark lashes—

“You are from Edinburra, then?” she asked.

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Edinburra. You must be from Edinburra,” she said, nodding.

As if it wasn’t perfectly obvious from whence he hailed. “I am from
England
,” he corrected her, and the little gasp and sudden flash of her brilliant smile caught him completely off guard.

“I was once acquainted with a lass from England!” she exclaimed as if they were being introduced over tea, and then just as suddenly—before he could even respond—her smile faded. “Holy Mother, I
shot
you!”

And the light above her bonnet grew even brighter. “Why yes, I believe I mentioned that earlier,” he drawled, following her gaze to his arm. Not a pretty
sight, that—frankly, he had forgotten it in his anger—but seeing the blood that covered what was left of his coat sleeve, the pain of the torn flesh was suddenly quite vivid.

“It must be bandaged.” She moved so suddenly that Arthur took an involuntary step backward. Fetching her satchel in one fell swoop, she instantly rooted around inside and extracted a white cottony thing that Arthur could not quite identify. “You’ll remove your coat, will you?” she said, and dropped the satchel to tear the white thing apart.

Oh no. He might have been shot by a widowed lunatic, but he really did not care to be doctored by her, too. Shaking his head, he stepped back, just beyond her reach as she advanced on him, her pale blue eyes now brimming with determination as she eyed his arm. “Thank you, madam, but you have done quite enough as it is.”