She ripped a blank page from the back and looked at the tip of her pencil. A bit blunt, but not completely useless. She sat at the dresser and began to write.
Your Grace,
While we have as yet to meet, I find myself compelled to introduce myself. I am, as you are aware, your cousin by marriage to Samuel MacDonald. It is most important that you grant me an interview at your earliest convenience, to discuss matters that I believe we will find of mutual benefit. I look forward to hearing from you as to when such a meeting will be convenient. If you have not come to see me before the week is out, I shall call on you at your residence.
Respectfully yours...
Once more she raked through the saddlebag and this time located a stub of sealing wax and Samuel’s ring.
She took her letter downstairs, heated the wax over the fire until she managed to get a few drops to fall on the fold then pressed the ring into it.
She spun around as Mr Weir entered the kitchen with an arm full of logs, followed by a glowering Drew.
‘That’s everything,’ he said.
‘Are there candles?’ she asked.
‘Aye. I put them in the dresser,’ Drew said.
‘Excellent.’ She turned to Weir. ‘I have a letter for you to take back to the duke, if you would be so good.’
The man glanced at Drew and shifted from foot to foot. ‘It would be my pleasure, ma’am.’
‘If I do not hear back from the duke within a week, do tell him to expect my call,’ she said sweetly. ‘I am sure Mr Gilvry would be happy to accompany me to the castle.’
A look of panic crossed Weir’s face.
She frowned. ‘Would that be a problem?’
But the man had already pulled himself together and his face was once more without expression. ‘I will give his Grace your message.’
He turned, then realised Drew was standing right behind him. He tried to dodge, but both men stepped in the same direction. Once, twice and a third time. Drew finally took pity on him and stepped aside to let him pass.
‘One week, mind,’ he said as the man scurried out of the kitchen door.
When she was sure he was out of the house and turning his cart around in the lane, she took a deep breath. ‘I don’t care what the duke answers. I will not stay here for more than one week.’ She paced across the floor to gaze out of the window. Weir and his cart had disappeared. She spun around. ‘He queried Sam’s date of death.’
‘What? Why?’
‘It was a passing mention. It is very strange. If only there was something to prove your recollection.’
A shadow passed across his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Her stomach dipped. His expression was wooden. He had thought of something, but it did not suit him to tell her.
He must have seen the doubt in her face because he grimaced, the movement pulling at the scar on his cheek and making his lip curl more than usual. ‘Perhaps the duke will take a man’s word without cavilling.’
‘I don’t think they mean to impugn your honour,’ she said. ‘It seems to be more a matter of legalities.’
‘It is some sort of bureaucratic nonsense, if you want my opinion.’ His fingers flexed, then he let out a short breath. ‘I know for certain he died on September fifteenth and so I will swear before God and the courts.’
‘Then we have to hope it will suffice.’
‘Aye.’
Such a wealth of meaning in that one word. Distrust. Regret. Anger. Drew Gilvry was a complex man who had secrets. And he wasn’t going to part with them for a mere duke. Or for her. Not unless it suited him. But if he did have some sort of proof of the date, what possible reason could he have for keeping such a thing a secret?
No, her suspicions were groundless. It was wishful thinking that something good could come from all this. She sighed. ‘In the meantime, I suppose we must kick our heels until we hear back from the duke.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Then it is a good thing I gave him an ultimatum.’
‘Aye. I suppose it is.’ He sounded amused.
She shot him a hard stare. ‘Then let us see if we can turn some of those supplies into a decent meal.’
‘Oh, I think that can be done, Mrs MacDonald.’
* * *
The next afternoon, the Pockles arrived.
Sans the barrel.
‘Where is it?’ Drew barked at Pockle, looking into the back of the cart.
‘That is what I would like to know,’ Rowena said, marching down the path. ‘I am glad to see you have not lost my luggage, but what have you done with my husband?’
Pockle touched a finger to his forelock. ‘We broke a wheel when we were setting out from McRae’s. We were only hours behind you, but had to stay until it was repaired.’
She looked down her haughty nose, like a queen observing the lowest of her subjects, and Pockle seemed to shrivel. Drew held his tongue. She didn’t need any help from him. Pockle was most definitely cowed.
Mrs Pockle gave her a look of dislike. ‘One of the duke’s men met us on the road. Mr Weir. He took charge of his Grace’s cousin. And glad of it I am.’ She shuddered.
Rowena’s eyes widened. She glanced at Drew, worry clouding her gaze.
‘Why did he do that?’ Drew asked.
‘He said the duke was anxious to see his cousin’s remains decently cared for.’
And if the duke saw fit not to identify them as his cousin? He could see the same thought flickering over Rowena’s face.
‘I think we should not wait for his Grace to agree to a meeting,’ Drew said.
Pockle stared at him. ‘What? No. You are to stay here until the duke sends for you. Weir said so.’
‘I don’t answer to Mr Weir,’ Rowena said. ‘Or the duke, actually.’
‘Och, now, listen here,’ Pockle said. ‘His Grace is to send his lawyer to visit you. In a day or so.’
Weir had said nothing about sending the lawyer. It was something Weir must have made up on his way to meet the Pockles. Now, why would he do that?
‘You mean Mr Jones, I assume,’ Rowena said sweetly.
Pockle scratched at his shoulder. ‘That’s it. That’s the name he gave.’
‘I already met Mr Jones. The person I have not yet met is his Grace.’
‘We will set out first thing in the morning,’ Drew said.
Mrs Pockle gave a sort of a wail. ‘But we only just got here.’
‘You don’t have to come with us,’ Rowena said.
Pockle glowered. Drew tried to hide a smile as she lifted her chin and the man seemed to crumble.
‘There is one thing I wanted to ask you,’ Drew said. ‘Did you run into a gang of smugglers at McRae’s?’
‘No,’ Pockle said. ‘But I heard they attacked the inn. You were lucky you escaped with your lives.’
‘Attacked the inn, did they?’ Drew said his voice dry. He could imagine McRae covering his own arse in case he or Rowena went to the duke, demanding justice.
‘And the one I shot?’ Drew asked.
‘Dead.’
Drew swallowed a curse, not wanting to worry Rowena, but he had the feeling that he wouldn’t have heard the last of the smugglers if he’d killed one of their number. Something else to lay at his brother’s door.
‘Did McRae say anything else?’ he asked. Such as he’d slept in Rowena’s chamber?
‘He said he was sorry it happened under his roof,’ Pockle said, his eyes innocent of any slyness. ‘He asked me to apologise. To say he would not have had the lady so inconvenienced for the world and so he would tell the duke if need be.’
And if Rowena didn’t blame him for what happened, no doubt he would say nothing about their pretence to be a married couple.
He noticed Rowena eyeing her bag with eagerness. He could imagine why. The poor lass hadn’t had a change of clothes in days. He lifted it down and carried it into the house.
‘Don’t bother carrying it upstairs,’ she said, following him in, ‘since we will be carrying it out again tomorrow.’
‘It is no trouble, madam,’ he said, and marched upstairs.
‘And where do I sleep?’ he could hear Mrs Pockle asking Rowena.
‘There is another bedroom at the back,’ she replied. ‘Pockle will join Mr Gilvry in the stables until we can make a better arrangement. It is something I mean to take up with the duke.’
He grinned at the sound of Pockle’s groan of displeasure. But it made a point: that he had not been sleeping in the same house as a woman on her own. Whether the Pockles would believe it was another matter, but since he had made his bed out there last night and the evidence was quite plain to be seen, there was no reason for them not to believe it.
And having Pockle for company, much as he despised the man, would keep him from succumbing to the temptation he’d barely resisted the previous night. Not that he expected Rowena would welcome his company.
He dropped the bag on the floor and could not help from glancing at the bed, the covers neatly straightened as if no one had slept there.
All last night he had kept envisaging the way she had surrendered to his uncouth demands. How she had submitted to his rampant lust. His blood ran hot. And then he remembered the shame on her face. The embarrassment. His blood chilled as if he had stepped neck deep into the stream in the garden.
Thank goodness they were leaving tomorrow. Once under the duke’s roof there would be no further opportunities for temptation.
If he felt disappointment at the thought, it was because his inner beast had no conscience. But he did. And the weight of it was a heavy burden. He made his way downstairs.
Rowena, with a grumpy-looking Mrs Pockle, met him at the bottom. He gave the servant a hard look. ‘Mrs MacDonald will be needing hot water to bathe and a change of clothes.’
He bowed to Rowena. ‘If it is all right with you, I will go and see if my traps have resulted in fresh meat. Hopefully, Mrs Pockle can make stew for dinner. Or perhaps a nice rabbit pie.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ Rowena said.
Mrs Pockle looked as if she wanted to hit Drew over the head. He made good his escape before she found a rolling pin.
* * *
Pockle drained his tankard of small beer and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his belly. ‘Very nice, Mrs Pockle,’ he said.
Drew’s traps had yielded up some game and, with the supplies Weir had dropped off and the surprisingly excellent cooking skills of Mrs Pockle, he had to admit dinner was excellent.
Rowena was dining in solitary state in the parlour, while he and the Pockles ate in the warm, if somewhat overcrowded, kitchen.
‘Yes,’ Drew said. ‘Excellent meal. My compliments, Mrs Pockle.’ He drained his own tankard and pushed his chair back.
‘A moment afore you go, Mr Gilvry,’ Pockle said.
‘Yes?’
‘You and Mrs MacDonald seem to have a pretty good understanding.’
Drew stiffened. ‘What do you imply?’
Pockle blinked. ‘Why, naught but to say that she seems to take your advice. Can I suggest that you advise her to wait here at the duke’s pleasure? It is not a good thing to go upsetting a duke, ye ken.’
It was definitely a warning. Likely something cooked up between the Pockles while he was out in the woods, no doubt. ‘You think he will turn her away from his door?’
Pockle leaned forward. ‘He’s a duke. Who knows what he will do? But Mr Weir’s instructions were very clear. It won’t do her any good to set his Grace against her, now will it?’
‘Do you know why he would not want to receive a visit from Mrs MacDonald?’
Pockle rolled his eyes. ‘Dukes don’t confide in the likes of me.’ He picked up his tankard and looked into the bottom of it, clearly hoping it wasn’t empty. He put it down again with a sigh when he was wrong. ‘All I’m sayin’ is that Mr Weir made his orders very clear.’
‘And you want me to speak to Mrs MacDonald about it.’
Mrs Pockle nodded her head vigorously. ‘She won’t listen to us, but she might listen to you.’
‘Not if her mind is made up.’ Still, it would be an opportunity to talk over their strategy for the morrow in private. ‘Verra well. I’ll talk to her.’
‘You do that, lad,’ Pockle said.
Ignoring the urge to shove the word lad down the other man’s throat, Drew got up from the table. He closed the kitchen door behind him and strode into the parlour.
Rowena had made little of the meal he saw and was now seated beside the hearth.
‘You should eat more,’ he said.
When she looked up, her gaze was bleak. ‘I’m worried about tomorrow.’
And there wasn’t much he could say to ease her concern. ‘Do you think we should wait? You did give the duke a week to respond.’
‘Is that your advice?’
He shook his head. ‘There is something havey-cavey going on.’ He raised a hand. ‘I know. I am not being completely helpful. Still, it seems odd to me that Weir did not inform you that Jones was to pay you a visit. It was almost as if he thought it up on the way to find Pockle.’
Some of the worry left her face. ‘You thought that, too?’
‘I did.’ He went to the door and looked down the hallway. The kitchen door remained closed. ‘I think attack is the best form of defence. And surprise will give you an advantage.’
‘Then it’s settled.’ She rose to her feet. She was wearing the same gown she’d been wearing the first time he saw her. She’d looked so calm that evening. So controlled. So much in command. It was hard to put that side of her together with the woman who had subjugated herself to his dark desires.
He wanted to apologise. Beg forgiveness. To do so would be a lie. Because if he had the chance, he would do it all over again.
Chapter Ten
Castle was a complete misnomer, Rowena thought as the cart rocked its way up the long drive. Yes, off to the right there were some ruins that might have been a castle once, long ago. The ducal residence was in fact a grand mansion built some time in the late seventeenth century that had somehow survived the wars between England and Scotland.
Its walls were grim and grey, as was the statuary decorating the corners and niches across its face. It had a slightly shabby look about it. Imposing, yes, but here and there brickwork showed through the stuccoed facade. And some of the statues were missing an arm or a bit of their drapery.
A place like this would be enormously expensive to keep up.
‘Have you been here before?’ she asked Mrs Pockle seated beside her on the cart. Drew and Pockle rode either side of them, like an honour guard.
The woman nodded. ‘My family lived on the estate. So did Pockle’s, but ne’er did I expect to go inside the house.’
She might not enter upon this occasion either, if the duke turned them away at the door. Rowena glanced down at her clothing. She’d worn her second-best gown and spencer. Fortunately, a governess wore subdued practical colours and dark grey was very nearly appropriate for mourning. They halted outside the front door. Drew helped her down from the cart. She eyed the imposing entrance askance. No sense in hesitating. She squared her shoulders and walked towards the front door.
Drew kept pace. As usual he wore Samuel’s coats and linen as well as snug-fitting doeskin breeches, and his boots were polished to a high shine that did not hide that they were neither new nor in the first stare of fashion.
But for all that the greatcoat was too tight across his shoulders and chest, he looked remarkably handsome. And t
o his surprise, she had told him so before they left.
He’d touched his cheek and she’d shaken her head. ‘I hardly notice it, you know,’ she had said. An odd look had softened his usually harsh expression, but he had turned away before she could interpret it.
Now he strode at her side, looking grimly purposeful, as if preparing to fight a dragon on her behalf. How could she not feel safe with such a strong, commanding man at her side? Yet it would not do to rely on him too much. He had made it quite clear he intended to hand off his responsibility for her at the earliest opportunity.
He rapped on the monstrous wooden door.
It creaked open, loudly proclaiming it needed oil. Something a good housekeeper would never allow.
An elderly footman looked at them with enquiry.
‘Mrs MacDonald to see the duke,’ Drew proclaimed and handed him her calling card. Or rather the card she had created from a flyleaf at the back of her woebegone journal.
With a muttered, ‘Wait here,’ the man shut the door in their faces.
Rowena raised a brow and looked at Drew.
He shrugged. ‘He didna’ say go away.’
So they waited. After five minutes, Rowena wondered if she should ask Drew to knock again.
She opened her mouth to do so, but the door once more protested on its hinges and swung inwards. This time, a butler stood at attention, wearing a black frock coat and a severe expression.
‘You are to come in,’ he said, and gestured for her to enter.
Relief slid down her spine in a whisper. It seemed the duke was not as unreasonable as his minions seemed to indicate. She stepped over the threshold and Drew followed her in. The butler, a man well into his sixties, with a few grey hairs pasted to his bald pate, took their coats. He looked at Drew and then at her. ‘Who else shall I say is calling, madam?’
‘This is Mr Gilvry, my man of business. Mr Jones is acquainted with him.’
‘Will you send someone to see to the horses?’ Drew requested. ‘And Mrs MacDonald’s driver and maid.’
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