She was a widow.
A destitute widow, she amended. She had very little hope that anything remained of the money Samuel had realised from the sale of her half of her father’s linen factory. Creditors had assailed her from all sides after his sudden departure for America, leaving her no choice but to find work and support herself. Her anger at her foolishness bubbled up all over again. How could she have been so taken in after fending off so many fortune hunters over the years?
But she knew why. After her father died when she was eighteen, she had lived with his partner and cousin. She’d hated it. Not that these family members had been particularly unkind, but whereas her father had respected her mind and listened to her advice, her cousin had insisted she leave all business matters to him. He had not valued her opinions at all.
As far as he was concerned, women were brainless. Only good to decorate a man’s arm and attend to his house.
And then she’d proved him right. She’d fallen for the blandishments of an out-and-out scoundrel who had fled almost as soon as he had his hands on her money, leaving her to face the creditors he’d apparently forgotten to pay. Her cousin, who had encouraged the marriage, had washed his hands of her, as well he might, once he owned everything.
She stripped off her thin leather gloves and sat down on the chair beside the hearth, holding her hands out to the flames, revelling in the heat on her frozen fingers. It was a long time since she’d had such a warm fire at her disposal. But creature comforts could not hold her thoughts for long.
Was it possible her cousin had insisted Samuel settle some money on her future when he acted on her behalf in the matter of the marriage?
If so, it was a relief to know that her only family hadn’t totally taken advantage of her lapse of good sense in accepting Samuel as a husband. When she’d learned her cousin had bought her half of the family business for a sum vastly below its true worth right after the wedding, she’d suspected her cousin of underhanded dealings.
It seemed she might have been wrong about her cousin. And about Samuel. Partly wrong at any rate, if arrangements had been made for her future.
Samuel was dead.
At least that was what Mr Gilvry had said. But how did she know for certain? She’d be a fool to take any man’s word at face value. And she hadn’t even seen Mr Gilvry’s face. He had raised his hat when he bowed, but not removed his muffler. Nor had he removed it when he entered the inn.
All she had to go on was what she had seen in a pair of piercing green eyes and heard in a deep voice with a lovely Highland lilt. And felt in the flutter deep in her stomach. Attraction. Something she should know better than to trust.
He really hadn’t told her what had happened to Samuel. Was there some reason behind his reticence she couldn’t fathom?
She got up and rang the bell. It wasn’t long before the maid the innkeeper’s wife had assigned arrived to do her bidding. ‘Be so good as to tell Mr Gilvry I wish to see him at once.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Please tell the kitchen I would like dinner for two delivered at half past seven.’
The maid bobbed a curtsy and left.
Now to see if he answered the summons. And if he did not? Then she would know that she definitely should not trust him.
And if he did? Did that mean she should? Likely not. But it would help put an end to the strange feelings she had in his presence. He was just a man, not an enigma she needed to solve. She simply wanted the facts about her husband’s death.
She opened her door to the passageway. He was a man who had done her a service, no matter how unpleasant. He should not have to scratch at the door like a servant. She shook her head at this odd sense of the man’s pride as she took the chair beside the hearth facing the door.
A few minutes later, he appeared before her, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. How odd that she hadn’t heard his footsteps, though she had listened for them. Nor had she realised quite how tall a man he was when they were out on the quay.
She frowned. He was still wearing his scarf, wrapped around his head and draped across his face in the manner of a Turk.
His dark coat, like the greatcoat he’d worn off the ship, fitted him ill, the fabric straining across his shoulders, yet loose at the waist, and the sleeves leaving more cuff visible than was desirable. His pantaloons were tight, too, outlining the musculature of his impressive calves, his long lean thighs and his— She forced her gaze back up to meet his eyes. ‘Please come in, Mr Gilvry. Leave the door open, if you please.’
She didn’t want the inn servants to gossip about her entertaining a man alone in her room. People were quick to judge and she didn’t need a scandal destroying her reputation with her employer.
The man did not so much as walk into the room as he prowled across the space to take her outstretched hand. His steps were silent, light as air, but incredibly manly.
The same walk she’d first noticed on the quay. The walk of a hunter intent on stalking his prey. Or a marauding pirate, or a maiden-stealing sheikh. All man. All danger. A betraying little shiver ran down her spine.
Trying to hide her response to his presence, she gestured coldly to the seat on the other side of the hearth, the way she would direct a recalcitrant student. ‘Pray be seated.’
He sat down, folding his long body into the large wing chair with an easy grace. But why hide his face? She’d thought nothing of the muffler out on the quay. She’d tucked her chin into her own scarf in the bitter November wind.
‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’ She looked pointedly as his headgear.
The wide chest rose and fell on a deep indrawn breath. He straightened his shoulders. ‘It is an invitation you might regret.’ There was bitter humour in his voice, and something else she could not define. Defiance, perhaps? Bravado?
Turning partly away he unwound the muffler. At first all she could see was the left side of his face and hair of a dark reddish-blonde, thick and surprisingly long. His skin was a warm golden bronze. Side on he looked like an alabaster plaque of a Greek god in profile, only warm and living. Never had she seen a man so handsome.
He turned and faced her full on.
She recoiled with a gasp at the sight of the tributary of scars running down the right side of his face. A jagged, badly healed puckering of skin that sliced a diagonal from cheekbone to chin, pulling the corner of his mouth into a mocking smile. A dreadful mutilation of pure male beauty. She wanted to weep.
‘I warned that you’d prefer it covered.’ Clearly resigned, he reached for the scarf.
How many people must have turned away in horror at the sight? From a man who would have once drawn eyes because of his unusual beauty.
‘Of course not,’ she said firmly, deeply regretting her surprised response. ‘Would you like a dram of whisky?’ She made to rise.
Looking relieved, he rose to his feet. ‘I’ll help myself.’
He crossed to the table beside the window and poured whisky from the decanter, the good side of his face turned towards her. It made her heart ache to see him so careful. He lifted the glass and tossed off half in one go. He frowned at the remainder. ‘I didna’ expect to find you alone. Did they no’ give you the maid I requested?’
‘She has duties in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal.’
He lifted his head, his narrowed gaze meeting hers, the muscles in his jaw jumping, pulling at the scars, making them gleam bone white. Her stomach curled up tight. She could only imagine the pain such an injury must have caused, along with the anguish at the loss of such perfection.
Anger flared in his eyes as if he somehow read her thoughts and resented them.
He did not want her sympathy.
She looked down at her hands and gripped them together in her lap. She had asked him here to answer her questions. She might as well get straight to the point.
‘Mr Gilvry, I would like to know exactly what happened to my husband, if you wouldn’t mind?’ Did she sound too blunt? Too suspicious?
She glanced up to test his reaction to her words. He was gazing out into the darkness, his face partly hidden by his hair. ‘Aye. I’ll tell you what I can.’
She frowned at the strange choice of words. ‘Were you travelling with Samuel, when...when—?’
‘No. I found him some time after the Indians had attacked his party. He had managed to crawl away from the camp and hide, but he was badly injured.’
‘Why? Why were they attacked?’
He turned his head slightly, watching her from the corner of his eye. ‘I don’t know.’
Why did she have the sense he was not telling her the truth? What reason would he have to lie? ‘So you just happened upon him? Afterwards.’
‘I heard shots, but arrived too late to be of help.’ His head lowered slightly. ‘I’m sorry.’
He sounded sorry. More regretful than she would have expected under the circumstances he described. ‘He was alive when you found him?’
He took a deep breath. ‘He was. I hoped—’ He shook his head. ‘I carried him down from the mountains. For a while I thought he would live. The fever took him a few nights later.’
‘And he requested that you bring his remains back to me?’ She could not help the incredulity in her voice.
He shifted, half turning towards her. ‘To Scotland. To his family. That is you, is it not?’
‘I doubt he thought of me as family.’ She spoke the words without thinking and winced at how bitter she sounded.
‘He had regrets, your husband, I think. At the last.’ His voice was low and deep and full of sympathy.
An odd lump rose in her throat. The thought that Samuel had cared. Even if it was out of guilt. It had been a long time since anyone had truly cared. She fought the softening emotion. It was too late for her to feel pain. How would it help her now? ‘And his executor is to meet us here? In Dundee.’
‘Aye. Or at least his lawyer. A Mr Jones. I wrote to him from Wilmington. But if you didna’ get my letter...’
‘The address you used, it came from Samuel? Naturally it did,’ she amended quickly at his frown.
‘Aye.’
‘I moved. I had no way of letting Samuel know.’ She’d also changed her name. She could scarcely have Samuel’s creditors coming to her place of employment. ‘An old friend forwarded Samuel’s note, because I asked him to do so.’ Her cousin’s butler, once her father’s man, would not have forwarded a letter unless he knew the name of the sender. There had been too many odd requests for money and not all of them from tradesmen. ‘I doubt your other letter was similarly impeded. Let us hope Mr Jones will arrive tomorrow.’
The sound of footsteps carried along the passageway outside. He turned to look, his fair brows raised in question.
‘Our dinner,’ she said with a little jolt of her heart, as if she was afraid he would leave.
‘Ours?’ He looked surprised.
‘I thought we could talk while we ate. That is, if you have not already dined?’
‘No, I havena’,’ he said warily. He turned his back on the room, once more looking out into the night as two maids entered, followed by the innkeeper’s wife who directed the setting up of the table and the serving of dinner. The plump woman curtsied deeply. ‘Will there be anything else, madam?’
‘No, thank you,’ Rowena said. ‘I think we can manage to serve ourselves.’
The woman’s gaze rested on Mr Gilvry’s back for a moment, her eyes hard. ‘Would you like our Emmie to serve you, madam?’
Rowena could see the woman’s thoughts about single ladies entertaining a gentleman in her rooms.
She stared at the woman down the nose that had been her plague as a girl, but now had its uses. An arrogant nose, it put people in their place. Her father had used his own bigger version to great effect in his business. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Robertson. That will be all.’
The woman huffed out a breath, but stomped out of the room, defeated.
Mr Gilvry turned around as the door closed behind their hostess, his expression dark. ‘The woman is right. You should ask the maid to attend you. Or dine alone. You must think of your reputation.’ He took an urgent step towards the door.
The vehemence in his voice surprised her. Was he was afraid for her reputation or his? Did he fear she might put him in a compromising position? It hardly seemed likely. ‘You honour me with your concern, Mr Gilvry, however, I am not accountable to the wife of an innkeeper.’ She lifted her chin as another thought occurred to her. ‘Or are you seeing it as an excuse to avoid my questions?’
He glared. ‘I have answered all of your questions.’
Had he? Then why did she have the sense he was keeping something back? ‘You have,’ she said. It would do no good to insult the man. ‘But I have more. You must excuse my curiosity. I know little of my husband’s activities in America.’
His mouth tightened. His gaze shuttered, hiding his thoughts. ‘There is little I can tell you on that score, I am afraid. Perhaps this Mr Jones can tell you more.’
Avoidance. It was as plain as the nose on her face. Her exceedingly plain nose on her exceedingly plain face, as Samuel had made no bones to tell her, once he had control of her money. But it wasn’t because she cared whether this man found her attractive or otherwise that she wanted him to stay; she simply wanted to know if she dared trust him. That was all.
For one thing, she had never before heard of this Mr Jones. And she was hoping Mr Gilvry could shed some light on how he fitted into the scheme of things before she faced the man.
She offered a smile. ‘I am sorry if I sound over forward, but I find I do not wish to eat alone tonight. My thoughts about the news give me no rest.’ And nor did her suspicions.
His shoulders relaxed. ‘Aye, I understand it has come as a shock.’
And a welcome relief. Guilt assailed her at the uncharitable thought. He would think her dreadful if he guessed at the direction of her thoughts.
She gestured to the table. ‘The food is here. It would be a shame for it to go to waste.’
He swept a red-gold lock back from his forehead. ‘To tell the truth, the smell of the food is hard to resist and I doubt they’ll feed me in the kitchen, if yon mistress has aught to say in it.’
He glanced at the table with longing and it was only then that she realised how very gaunt was his face. His cheekbones stood out beneath his skin as if he had not eaten well in months. At first one only noticed the scars. And the terrible dichotomy they made of his face.
‘Then you will keep me company?’ she asked. She wasn’t the sort of woman men fell over themselves to be with, but he was not a man who would have much choice in women. Not now. She stilled at the thought. Was that hope she felt? Surely not. Hope where men were concerned had been stamped out beneath Samuel’s careless boots. What man would want her? Especially now, when she was poor.
He shook his head with a rueful expression. ‘Aye. It seems I will.’
The gladness she felt at his acceptance was out of all proportion with the circumstances and her reasons for inviting him. A gladness she must not let him see. With a cool nod, she let him seat her at the dining table.
He took the chair opposite. ‘May I pour you some wine and carve you a portion of what looks to be an excellent fowl?’
‘You may, indeed.’
While she had little appetite herself after the day’s events, it was a pleasure to see him eat with obvious enjoyment. And his manners were impeccable. He was a gentleman, no matter his poor clothing.
She cut her slice of chicken into small pieces and tasted a morsel. It was moist and the white sauce was excellent. And she could not help watching him from beneath her lowered lashes as she tasted her food. He might not be handsome any longer, but his youth, his physical strength and powerful male presence were undeniable. Big hands. Wide shoulders. White, even teeth. A formidable man with an energy she could feel from across the table.
She wanted to ask him what it was that drove him. What he cared about. What he p
lanned. It was none of her business. She would do well to remember that.
She held her questions while he satisfied his appetite. It was her experience, both at home and in the two positions she’d held as a governess, that men became more amenable with a full stomach. She waited until he had cut himself a piece of apple pie before opening a conversation that did not include passing gravy or salt, or the last of the roast pork.
‘The locals say that it is likely to be a hard winter,’ she said, lifting her wine glass.
‘I heard the same,’ he replied.
She waited for him to say more, but was not surprised when he did not. He said little unless it was to the point. Idle conversation had a tendency to lead to the baring of souls. He was not that sort of man.
She took a sip of wine and considered her next words. Shock him, perhaps? Get beneath his guard, as her father would have said? Her heart raced a little. ‘The coat you are wearing is Samuel’s, is it not?’
Eyes wary, he put down his forkful of pie. ‘He had no more use for it. My own clothes were ruined on the journey to the coast.’
Defensive. But why? What he said made perfect sense. Perhaps he feared she’d be overcome by her emotions at the thought of him wearing Samuel’s clothes? Another woman might be, she supposed.
She kept her voice light and even. ‘It must have been a terrible journey?’
‘I’ve had worse.’
She stared, surprised by the edge in his voice. He looked up and caught her gaze. His skin coloured, just a little, as if he realised he’d been brusque.
‘But, yes,’ he said, his voice a little more gentle, ‘it was no’ so easy.’ His voice dropped. ‘Your husband bore it verra well at the end, if it is of comfort to you.’
It did not sound like the Samuel she had known. He’d been a man who liked an easy life. The reason he had married her money. Could there be some sort of mistake? Her stomach clenched at the idea, but she asked the question anyway. ‘You are sure that he is...I mean, he was Samuel MacDonald? My husband?’
The Regency Season Page 26