At least she had sense enough not to just open the door without checking. ‘Drew.’
‘Just a moment.’
A rustle of skirts, the door swung back, opened by a maid, but his gaze went straight to the figure kneeling by the hearth, wrapped in a cotton cover, and his mind ceased working. Her unpinned hair hung down her back, as sleek and as shiny a chestnut as would do a thoroughbred proud.
There was something extraordinarily intimate about seeing a woman with her hair down around her shoulders. And on her knees, too. His body responded as if she’d offered him the most personal of attentions. He almost groaned out loud at the blaze of heat scorching through his blood. At this rate, he wasn’t going to need the fire to get warm. Disgusted by his reaction, he dropped the saddlebags off to one side and set the whisky and the glasses on the table.
‘Out,’ he said to the maid.
Mrs MacDonald rose up on her knees and turned to look at him, surprise on her face.
Drew looked at the maid. ‘If you don’t mind?’ he said as politely as he could manage.
The little lass bustled past him.
Drew closed and locked the door, using the moment to repress the wicked images his mind had conjured up.
‘Mrs McRae will be along shortly wi’ our supper,’ he said, annoyed by the hoarseness in his voice.
She put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t my dear husband.’ Her eyes sparkled like water running over pebbles in a brook. Anger or amusement. Whichever it was, it made a breath catch in his throat; she looked so lovely with her hair hanging about her shoulders and her cheeks flushed by the warmth from the fire.
He strode for the window and opened it.
The wind gusted in, bringing with it a whirl of snowflakes and a chill to his overheated blood.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, her voice rising in pitch.
‘Admiring the view,’ he said over his shoulder. And checking for a way out should it be needed. The kitchen roof jutted out a few feet below. An easy climb down to the ground.
He took a deep breath, closed the window and turned back to face her. ‘I’m sorry I had to tell them we were wed. I couldna’ leave you up here alone with that lot staying below.’
Her lips thinned. ‘And I suppose you are sorry you had to kiss me, too.’
Heat travelled up his neck. ‘It was necessary, but, aye, I’m sorry.’
The apology didn’t seem to mollify her one little bit.
He jerked his chin at her saddlebag. ‘Is there something dry in there you can change into?’
She glanced down at the bag and then up at him. ‘Only my nightgown. I wasn’t expecting to put up at an inn without my luggage, which is now with the Pockles who, by the way, will be surprised to find us calling ourselves man and wife.’
The Pockles were another worry. They could not have been more than a half hour or so behind them, so they should have arrived by now. He didn’t see any reason to let her know his concern, though.
He shrugged. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’
A rap sounded at the door. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, one hand going to his pistol.
Rowena’s eyes widened and he cursed himself for a fool for putting fear in her eyes.
‘Mrs McRae, dearie,’ the landlady called out. ‘With your supper tray.’
‘Leave it outside the door. I’ll fetch it in when I’m dressed,’ Drew said. He moved to the door, listening first to the sound of the tray hitting the floor, then the woman’s footsteps moving away. He pulled his pistol and unlocked it with his left hand, ready to leap clear.
Slowly he opened the door. The sound of men’s laughter wafted up the stairs.
His instincts told him there was no one there, but still he glanced up and down the hallway before tucking away his pistol and bending to pick up the tray. He set it down on the nearby chest of drawers.
Thank goodness the common room was in the front of the house and this chamber was at the back or, with that racket, there’d be no chance of sleeping.
Rowena gave him a narrow-eyed look. She nodded at the pistol. ‘You really do think we are in danger, then?’
‘Aye.’ He kicked the door closed and turned the key.
The look on her face said it wasn’t enough to make her feel safe. He breathed out through his nose, summoning calm. ‘They are smugglers.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Not good.’
‘As a general rule, I would no’ be concerned. They go about their business and as long as no one interferes...’ He shook his head. ‘These men have a different look about them.’ Not to mention the one who thought he knew him.
‘Not your normal run-of-the-mill smugglers, then.’
He couldn’t help but smile at the no-nonsense tone of voice, as if she dealt with such criminals on a daily basis. And he had the feeling, if he was truthful, she wouldn’t flinch if they did turn up at the door. ‘No. Not run-of-the-mill at all. And when I explain why we are sharing a room to the Pockles, they will understand.’ He hoped, because if they didn’t he was going to find himself with a duke who might feel vengeful. An angry duke might be worse than an inn full of smugglers. And they were quite bad enough.
* * *
Another tête-à-tête meal with Mr Gilvry. Rowena felt a rush of warmth in her belly. This time, he rearranged the table so he sat beside her, instead of opposite, presenting his profile. Unlike last time, when she had dressed in her best, she was wrapped in a blanket and he was posing as her husband.
Why?
Was it possible he had deliberately separated her from their escort? After that kiss she might almost believe it, if it wasn’t for his mortifying apology.
She was not the sort of woman a man wanted to kiss of his own free will. He’d used it as a pretence to give her instructions. The logical side of the brain applauded his cleverness. Her foolish heart contracted painfully every time she recalled his harsh apology.
Perhaps he wished he could be downstairs, kissing pretty little Sin.
Anger and disappointment rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. Anger at her own stupid thoughts, surely.
But she knew she was lying to herself. She found him attractive.
No matter. There was no use in feeling wounded. It hadn’t done any good with Samuel, or her cousin. It would be no different with this man. She just wasn’t the sort of woman to engender strong feelings in a man. Instead of worrying about such nonsense, she would use the opportunity to find out more about her escort. Mr Gilvry could hardly walk away, given he had taken it upon himself to remain on guard in her room. And while she didn’t dare trust him completely, she trusted the smugglers a whole lot less.
Pulling the counterpane tight around her shoulders, she let him seat her at the table. ‘It does smell surprisingly good.’
‘Aye.’
‘Will you say grace?’ It was a habit to ask her pupils to do so, so it came naturally out of her mouth.
Surprise flickered across his face, then something that looked like embarrassment before he bowed his head. ‘Thank you, Lord, for this food and for bringing us safe to this place.’
She added a silent prayer that they might leave it in one piece. ‘Amen.’
He picked up a bread roll.
‘Do you think the duke is aware that one of his tenants entertains smugglers?’
He glanced up, his expression unreadable. ‘Probably.’
She huffed out a breath and picked up her own spoon.
‘What?’ he asked, still looking at her.
There was no point. When a man didn’t want to tell you something, asking questions only made him more determined to remain silent. ‘Nothing.’
He gave her an irritated look and broke the roll apart with long strong, finge
rs. ‘You asked and I answered.’
‘You said probably as if you meant of course.’ Dash it, why was she explaining? Giving him the opportunity to put her in her womanly place?
His sideways glance showed surprise, as if he hadn’t expected her to realise he was trying to protect her. ‘Smuggling is a matter of survival in the Highlands. A great lord might not admit to it, but he’d be a fool if he didn’t know. He probably buys his whisky from them, too.’
The truth. ‘But why, if it is such a normal thing, do you think they mean us harm?’
He sighed. ‘One of them thinks he knows me. And it is no’ a happy reunion.’
‘Does he know you?’
‘No.’
This time she believed him. She glanced at the door he had locked so carefully and recalled the pistol he had to hand in his waistband. ‘Do you have another gun?’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Can you use a pistol?’
‘No. Surely it can’t be so very difficult?’ Even the stupidest men seemed to manage it.
He gave a short laugh, but there was no humour in it. ‘I have no wish to be shot by mistake, thank you verra much.’
‘But you are worried about their intentions.’
‘Persistent wee thing, aren’t you?’
She should have been a bit more persistent in her refusal to accept Samuel’s suit. If she hadn’t been so unhappy in her cousin’s house... Not true. After her first refusal Samuel had made it his mission to gain her hand. She’d never had a chance. The lure of marriage and what she took for love had been far too tempting. But she had learned her lesson. Hadn’t she?
‘Do you think they will attack us?’
‘Honestly, I dinna ken.’
Her jaw dropped. What a surprise. A man admitting he was unsure about something?
He touched his cheek and shook his head. ‘I canna understand why this man thinks he knows me.’
‘What happened to your face? Were you attacked by some sort of animal?’
His face shuttered.
She winced. ‘I beg your pardon. It is none of my business. It is not so bad, when one becomes accustomed—’
‘I am in no need of soothing words, ma’am. I see how I look every time I shave.’
‘Then we are both accustomed,’ she flashed back.
He gave her a look that was neither irritated nor friendly and resumed eating. He ate quickly, something she had noticed before, as if it might be his last meal.
Taking a chance on his apparent lack of ire, she decided to plunge on with her questions, albeit in a different direction.
‘Mr Gilvry, you never really said what it was that you were doing in the mountains of North Carolina when you met my husband.’
His expression darkened as if the question was unwelcome, yet not unexpected. He glanced at her face and then her bowl of untouched stew. ‘Eat first and I will tell you.’
Or would he find yet another excuse to avoid her questions? ‘I find I am not all that hungry.’ Her stomach growled, giving her the lie.
He gave her an I-told-you-so look. He was very good at looks that spoke volumes. She tasted the stew. It was as good as it smelled. Thick rich gravy. Tender meat and plenty of vegetables. ‘The inn must be doing well to provide such an excellent meal.’
‘Likely it’s a regular stop for those in the trade. They pay well for silence.’
‘You know a great deal about the smuggling trade.’
She was surprised when he answered, ‘Aye. I used to be one. Before I went to America.’
She closed her mouth on a gasp. ‘I am surprised you admit to it so freely,’ she said as calmly as she could manage. ‘Were you... I mean, is that why you went to America?’
‘Was I transported there, you mean?’
So much for being tactful. ‘That is precisely what I mean.’
He leaned back. ‘I wasna’ transported for any crime by the government.’ His tone was bitter. ‘I had no choice but to go, however.’
‘Oh.’ His tone did not encourage further questions. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to ask. Not at all.
He pushed his chair back from the table. His roll had disappeared and so had his stew, whereas she had eaten only a few mouthfuls.
‘Well?’
‘Eat your meal, Mrs MacDonald.’ He got up and went to the hearth, crouching down and poking at the fire as if it had gone out, instead of being the merry blaze it was.
He was no doubt regretting saying as much as he had. And it really was none of her business. She ate the rest of her stew and finally sat back, completely sated.
‘That was good.’
He glanced at her plate. ‘Will you no’ eat your bread?’
‘I couldn’t eat another bite. You can have it if you wish.’
He picked up the bread, but did not eat it. He tucked it into his saddlebag. ‘Would you care for a dram?’
A splash of usquebaugh in tea to keep out the cold was one thing, but it was a long time since she’d enjoyed a glass for its own sake. Her father had never drunk anything else and had often invited Rowena to join him in a wee glass after dinner. As a governess, she never drank.
‘I would love a dram.’ She got up, drew the counterpane carefully around her and went to join him at the fire, taking up residence on the settle. She couldn’t help thinking of those evenings with her father. He had been such a kindly man and had never belittled her abilities. While he was ill, he had come to trust her with his business. All that had changed when he died. She’d become nothing but a spinster relative to be accommodated under her cousin’s roof.
If she had known what Samuel would do with her half of the factory, she would have run a mile. She should have listened to her head instead of her heart. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
He poured them both a drink and lifted his glass in a toast. ‘Sláinte.’
‘Good health.’
They sipped their drinks in silence.
Steam was rising from his trousers below his knees, just as it had risen from her skirts. ‘You are still wet,’ she said.
He glanced down and shrugged. ‘Looks like I’ll be dry soon enough. My change of clothes is also in the wagon.’
Now mist was curling up from his coat. It would take for ever to dry. ‘Perhaps the landlord could loan you his shirt.’
He shook his head.
‘What if you take a chill? You can’t sit there soaking wet.’
‘Surely you aren’t suggesting I strip down to my skin?’ There was a mocking note in his voice, but the very thought of it made her insides melt. How infuriating that he would plant such a picture in her mind.
‘At least take your coat off and get nearer to the fire,’ she said crossly.
He huffed out a breath, stripped out of his coat and went to fetch one of the dining chairs, which he set on the other side of the hearth. He hung the coat over the back. ‘Will this do?’
‘And the waistcoat.’
He took that off, too, hung it up and came back to sit beside her.
‘Satisfied?’
She eyed his trousers. ‘You really should...’
He put up a hand. ‘No, I really should not.’
‘Stubborn man.’
‘Aye, that may be so.’ He breathed deeply through his nose. ‘I thought you wanted to hear my story?’
She stilled. ‘I do.’
‘Then cease your fashing and I’ll tell you. Though there is little to tell, Mrs MacDonald.’
‘Would you very much mind calling me Rowena? It is dreadfully hard hearing Samuel’s name every time someone speaks.’
He looked...guilty. What reason did he have for guilt?
He turned his face away, staring into the f
ire, his sculpted jaw softened by its glow, and flames flickering in the depths of his eye as if he was peering into hell.
‘Verra well. Rowena,’ he murmured.
It sounded beautiful the way he said it. Softly. As if he was tasting the syllables on his tongue. Her insides clenched, sending a wave of desire rippling through her body. And now he was looking at her with something akin to horror. Self-disgust washed through her and she looked down at her hands. What on earth was wrong with her? She’d never had trouble containing her desires before now.
She clasped her fingers to keep her hands steady.
In the ensuing silence she glanced up at him and saw that his gaze was very far away. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. His expression said they were painful. It was hard to imagine such a hard man feeling emotional pain.
She held her breath and waited for him to speak.
‘I had been living in the mountains for some time. I made up my mind it was time to leave. To take control of my life.’ His voice sounded a little strained. As if the memories were painful.
At her look of puzzlement, he shrugged. ‘When an opportunity presented itself, I headed for the coast. Then I heard sounds of the Indians attacking your husband’s camp. By the time I got there only your husband was alive. He told me he was on his way back to Scotland when he’d heard that this group of Indians had gold and knew where to find it.’
He looked her straight in the eye. ‘As I understand it, he thought to trade brandy for information.’
At her blank look, he shook his head. ‘Even a dolt knows that Indians have no head for strong liquor. They become wild and aggressive.’
‘So they attacked him?’
‘Not at first. They were too drunk to do more than pass out. But the next day, when they saw he had left, taking the rest of the drink with him, they were no’ verra pleased.’
An understatement if ever she heard one. ‘They followed him?’
‘Aye. I arrived too late to be of any assistance. I’m verra sorry.’
‘His foolish actions were hardly your fault.’
Her words, intended to absolve, seemed only to add to the pain in his eyes.
‘If I had arrived sooner—’
Return of the Prodigal Gilvry Page 6