He tried the door. As he expected, it swung open. Bare stone walls, a dirt floor, an open hearth, a flat lump of granite balanced on rocks for a low table. It was better than he had expected, worse than he’d hoped. He’d hoped for a cot or two. Some blankets to keep out the cold.
‘Oh, dear,’ she said as he ushered her into the small stone chamber.
At least they’d be out of the wind. And against the wall was a small pile of peat. They would have a fire after all. And hot tea. He fumbled around the walls until he found what he was seeking. Tallow candles. He lit one, dripped wax on the table and it stood there, a small warm glow.
‘I’ll see to the horses, then light the fire,’ he said.
She rubbed her hands together, the candlelight showing her face, calm and accepting. No anger. Not even worry as she looked around at the bareness of the place, which made him feel somehow worse. He’d been an idiot for not following up with the fellow who had stared at him so hard at the inn. A sensible word with the man might have prevented what had happened tonight.
Angry at his failure to protect the woman in his charge, he stomped out to see to the horses, who were standing patiently outside. He hobbled them, rubbed them down with one of the blankets and hoped for the best. They’d already been fed, so they should be fine outdoors for a few hours.
He removed the saddlebags and blankets and took them inside. It was little enough to offer comfort, but at least the blankets wouldn’t take long to dry.
He was surprised to find Rowena piling peat in the central open hearth. She looked up at his entry. ‘I thought I would help get it started, although I am not sure I have laid it correctly.’
‘Is there kindling?’
She shook her head.
Without kindling it would be difficult to make it catch. He tried not to let his concern show. No sense in worrying her about something until it was a real problem. He cast his gaze around the room for something to get the peat started. ‘I expect they use gorse or heather in the summer.’
Rowena held up a small book. ‘My journal,’ she said at his glance of enquiry. She ripped out the small sheets of paper and twisted them into spills. ‘They will light very nicely, I think.’
Smart as paint, this woman. He had a journal, too, buried deep in his saddlebag. Not his, though, and he was loath to dig it out, fearing she might recognise it. It had been one of the few personal things the Indians hadn’t taken or destroyed when they attacked MacDonald’s camp.
What he had read of its contents on his way down from the hills had revealed it to be a document he would never want another living soul to see, but since MacDonald had written his authority to use his money and property to get him to Scotland on one of the pages, he’d had no choice but to keep it, in case anyone asked. Not that MacDonald had expected he would be transported in a barrel. The man had had no idea of the extent of his injuries.
And as soon as Drew was free of this duty of his, he would burn the journal. But not to keep out the cold.
‘Will it be enough, do you think?’ Her hands were trembling with cold as she worked and her teeth chattered every now and then.
They had to have heat.
He arranged the blankets close to the hearth. ‘It will do very well,’ he said and let her hear his admiration.
She glanced up at him and their eyes met and lingered. There was warmth in her gaze.
It sparked a fire inside him. His throat dried. ‘I’ll see if I can find some brush, as well. To make it burn better.’
Cold air was what he needed right now. Or better yet, a dip in the nearest loch and the more ice, the better.
* * *
Rowena poked the few twists of paper deeper into the overlapping slabs of peat. They had never used peat in her father’s house in Edinburgh. Coal had been plentiful, but it seemed to her that fuel was fuel, and the maids had used paper spills to light the fires.
She stood up, rubbing her hands together trying to get some feeling back in her fingertips, then strode to the slab of rock that served as a table, cupping them around the candle flame for a moment before slipping her gloves back on.
Even frozen as she was, she could still feel the warmth of Drew’s intense gaze in her belly. It had been better than a shot of whisky. Not that he seemed to notice. To him she was just a responsibility. There had to be something wrong with her, being attracted to such a man. He was no different from Samuel, using her for his own gain. No doubt he expected the duke to reward him handsomely for delivering his relative’s remains. And her.
The duke might not feel so generous when he learned he was naught but a smuggler. She sighed. Not that she would tell him, but it would be hard to keep it a secret. The Pockles were bound to arrive at the inn and hear the whole story.
Drew brought in a rush of cold air. And she’d thought the air in the bothy was freezing before. She clenched her jaw to prevent her teeth from chattering while he, with his arms full of brush, stamped the snow off his feet in the doorway. Without a word he crouched before her peat pile, rearranging the earthy slabs, lifting them, inserting clumps of heather. She was pleased to see that he also took care with the placement of her little bits of paper in the heart of the pile.
She freed the candle from its wax blob and held it ready. He looked up and met her eyes. Her heart tumbled over. Her hand shook, splattering hot wax on her glove. She could feel the heat of it through the leather, but it was nowhere near as hot as the flare of heat blazing a path through her veins.
She had no business feeling such things. Even if he had kissed her, it had meant nothing. His shoulders tensed, as if he sensed her dismay. Then he took the candle and touched it to each twist of paper.
Pinpricks of flame. He dropped cross-legged to the floor and nurtured each little lick of bright light, breathing on each tiny flicker, protecting them from the draughts that eddied around them.
‘Ah,’ he said softly as little curls of smoke rose up.
The peat caught. At first just a glow of tiny embers, like hair caught in a candle, then real flames. She breathed a sigh of relief. They were not going to freeze to death after all.
He pulled his little pot from his saddlebag and the tea and the whisky and she bit back a laugh. ‘Too bad you don’t have a loaf of bread tucked in there, too.’
‘I have your roll left from dinner and something better,’ he said. He pulled out the small muslin pouch of oats and dangled it in the air. ‘Porridge, ye ken. We’ll no’ set out on an empty belly in the morning.’
‘Porridge. The Scotsman’s answer to everything.’ She could not help but smile.
His face tightened as if with a painful memory. ‘A Highlander never leaves home without one night’s food in his sporran. Something my grandfather taught me.’
‘Well, my thanks to your grandfather, where e’er he may be.’
‘Aye.’ He glanced up at the roof where the smoke was curling around in the low rafters. ‘I’ll open the chimney or we’ll be kippered by morning.’
Smoked like fish. She couldn’t help a smile at the vision.
He climbed up a series of larger stones set like steps in one of the walls and then up to balance on one of the beams supporting the thatched roof. He found what looked like a long piece of metal, hooked at one end, and used it to push at a trapdoor let into the thatch. It opened an inch or two. The smoke disappeared through the gap and into the night.
While he climbed down, she sank onto the nearest blanket, glad of the warmth of the fire. ‘What do you think we should do about the Pockles?’
He dropped to sit beside her. ‘Nothing we can do. We’ll either meet them on the road or at our destination.’
‘You think they will look for us?’
‘They might.’ His mouth tightened, one corner curling up as if to mock his words. ‘I’d sooner they didn’t.’
‘You are thinking of those men.’
‘Aye.’
‘Did you know them, as they said?’
‘No, but I have no doubt they know my youngest brother, Logan. As wild a wee scamp as there ever was. He was a fair way to looking like me when I left.’
Two like him. It seemed hard to imagine. ‘They don’t seem to like him very much.’
‘I can’t imagine why,’ he said drily, as if he knew very well.
Under that sullen demeanour she sometimes suspected he had a wry sense of humour. ‘Business, I suppose.’
He raised his gaze to hers and she was right, there was amusement glinting there, hidden unless you cared to look. Not that she thought he’d be pleased that she’d noticed. He’d likely deny any kind of warm feelings.
But right now there was one rather urgent problem she needed to deal with. ‘I don’t suppose there is a privy out there?’
He winced. ‘No.’
‘But there are bushes.’ She nodded at the few bits of brush he’d kept back from the fire.
‘Aye, but you canna go out there alone. It’s too dark. Too easy to lose your way. I’m afraid you will have to suffer my escort.’
So much for modesty. But there was no sense to being missish. She rose to her feet and he stood with her. ‘I am sure you will not mind turning your back.’
Outside, she couldn’t see an inch in front of her face, once he shut the door. She looked up at the sky. The moon had either set or disappeared behind clouds. She would have been afraid to take one step farther if it had not been for his strong hand beneath her elbow.
They went around the side of the house where the wind was less fierce. ‘This will have to do, I’m afraid.’
He stood with one hand against the wall, his back towards her. She followed the length of the wall to the furthest corner, putting the width of the house between them, and took care of her needs. It was at times like these that she found differences in rank more than ridiculous. People were people, no matter what they were called, and if they were above the animals in the fields, it was not by much. She stood, straightened her skirts and followed the wall back to Mr Gilvry.
‘Thank you.’
He grunted, then put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re not like any lady I ever met.’
She couldn’t see his face in the dark, but she heard something odd in his tone. Criticism? The kind she’d endured from her husband.
‘I’m sorry if you find me a disappointment, Mr Gilvry.’ Head high, she stalked back to the front door and inside.
* * *
It seemed he’d unintentionally touched a nerve when he’d intended his words as a compliment. Apparently, he was out of practice in the charming of women. Not that he’d had to practise when he was last in Scotland. Or in London, for that matter. All he’d ever needed was a smile. A smile wouldn’t do him a bit of good anymore, since it made him look like a gargoyle, the kind that terrified small children in the night. More than one had run away in terror after seeing his face.
As he’d do well to remember. So did he say he was sorry, or let it go?
Given their circumstances, their close quarters and his visceral responses to her presence, it was probably best if she was annoyed. It would keep them both at a distance.
While she seated herself cross-legged on her blanket beside the fire, he proceeded to heat the snow he had collected while waiting for her outside. A bothy usually came equipped with a couple of cooking pots and a trivet. Either someone had stolen them or the landlord was discouraging the bothy’s use by itinerants. Lots of people had been cleared off their ancestral lands these past years, many roaming the hills looking for somewhere to settle. No landlord worth his salt wanted squatters on his land.
He balanced his tin pot on the peat and turned his attention to his pistol. He did not want to be caught unawares and unready if the men at McRae’s had followed them. Her gaze followed his every movement as he primed the pan and loaded the ball.
‘It is warming up in here already,’ she said with determined cheerfulness.
An olive branch. A courageous attempt to be brave. Damp chill clung to the stone walls, making the room as cold as the grave. Still, he wasn’t going to negate her courage, not when he could not help but admire it. But nor did he want to meet that clear steady gaze of hers. Every time he did, he found himself drowning in their cool depths, wanting more that he should, saying far more than he intended.
He’d already revealed more than he should about his past. Perhaps because it was the first time in a long time that anyone had shown the slightest interest.
He kept his gaze fixed on what he was doing. ‘If we can keep the fire going, we shouldn’t freeze to death. There’s enough peat for a night or two.’
‘A night or two?’ She sounded horrified.
‘Aye. If it snows again and we canna get out.’
‘Oh, dear.’
He set the pistol aside, close to hand, pulled his knife from his boot and stirred the melting snow. ‘It might not come to that.’
‘I hope not.’
And so did he. Given the growing attraction he felt towards this woman, and not just to her physical being, but to her as a person, the next several hours would not be easy, no matter whether they stayed here or continued their journey.
The water in the pot began to steam. He tossed in some tea leaves. It would warm them through and perhaps she’d sleep for a while. And he could pretend he felt nothing.
He watched the water, waiting for it to come to a full boil, but could not help but feel her gaze upon him, or stop recalling to mind the shape of her body beneath her nightgown. There was no doubt about it. The sooner he was rid of her the better he would like it. She was too much of a temptation. No matter what his body thought, she was not the kind of woman he needed.
His mind went back to their discussions with the lawyer. ‘I have the sense yon Jones didna’ like the date of your husband’s death. Do you think he had a date he preferred? A date later in the month?’ he asked as a distraction from his carnal thoughts. ‘I could make it whatever date he wanted if you thought it would help with the duke. I canna see that a few days here or there would make any great difference.’
She stripped off her gloves and held her hands out to the fire. They were capable-looking hands, he noticed. Hands that looked as if they knew their way around a man’s body.
A wave of heat rolled through his blood. Hell and damnation, had his time in captivity made him naught but a beast? Even there, he’d had more control over his thoughts than he seemed to have now.
‘I thought he said he didn’t care about the date,’ she mused, seemingly unaware of his inner struggle.
‘His tongue said he didn’t care. His face said otherwise.’
Her eyes sharpened. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s hard to be sure of anything. But he definitely winced at the mention of the date, then went to a deal of trouble to deny its importance.’ He shook his head. ‘It makes no sense to care about such a thing. Unless there’s money in it.’
‘A loan? Something in Samuel’s will?’ She blew on the tips of those long slender fingers. ‘I can’t make any scenario work that would tie to the date of his death.’
Nor could he. ‘But there is something.’
‘Perhaps the duke will be more forthcoming when I see him.’
A sound outside the door brought him to his feet and the pistol into his hand. He pulled Rowena to her feet and pushed her behind him.
‘What is it?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘I heard something.’
‘It’s them. They’ve found us.’
Inside, he went still, cold, listening with his body as well as his ears, becoming at one with the air to feel any small disturbance. He lifted a finger
to his lips and to his relief she nodded and remained utterly silent. There were only two smugglers left, if he was right about the one he’d shot, and the night was dark. He blew out the candle. He didn’t want the light behind him, making him a perfect target. Too bad he didn’t have the moon to help him see whoever was outside.
He moved slowly towards the door. Reached for the latch.
A bang. The door rattled in its frame.
Rowena gasped and clutched at his coat. She’d crept along right behind him, using him for a shield. He was glad of it.
But...
Another bang. Metal on wood. Low on the door. Heavy breathing on the other side. And another metallic sound like...
What the hell? He whipped the door open, pistol cocked.
Her horse huffed out a breath and made to come in.
Air rushed from his lungs. ‘Yon beastie wants in.’ He crouched and felt for her hobble. Still there. He gave her a push. ‘Sorry, lassie. People only in here.’ He shut the door in the animal’s face.
Rowena, behind him, was making odd little noises. Crying? She must have been terrified. He found the candle and lit it from the ashes and held it aloft.
She was leaning against the wall, doubled over, her face covered by her hands and her shoulders shaking. Sobbing.
His stomach dipped. His heart lurched. He crossed the room and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s all right,’ he soothed, horribly aware of her body against his and the loud beating of his heart.
‘It’s all right. It was only your horse.’
Her shoulders shook harder.
Heavens, after all she’d gone through tonight so bravely, and now she was falling apart. He turned her in his arms, pressed her face to his shoulder, held her close, felt her soft curves and sweet hollows down the length of his body, felt her warm breath on his neck and wanted to groan with frustration.
‘Please, mo cridhe, don’t cry.’
‘Oh,’ she gasped, looking up. ‘I’m not...crying.’
He looked down into her face. Her eyes had tears and her face was bright pink, but her mouth was...laughing. She was laughing?
Return of the Prodigal Gilvry Page 9