Return of the Prodigal Gilvry
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Ann Lethbridge
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HarlequinChapter One
Dundee, November 1822
How dare he? The anger inside Rowena MacDonald increased with each oar stroke of the longboat crossing the grey waves between the ship and the quay where she stood. She wrapped her threadbare cloak tighter against the November wind screaming in from the North Sea.
The dark afternoon suited her mood. After two years of absence and no word, how dare her husband demand she welcome him back to Scotland? The rage she had worked so hard at suppressing these past two years lashed her the same way the wind whipped the wave tops into foam.
The letter, forwarded on from her last address, had scarcely arrived at her place of employment in time for her to meet the ship. She’d toyed with the idea of refusing his summons. But he was her husband and had the power to further ruin her life. And now, after she had been sure she was free of him, how easily he’d found her and brought her to heel.
Or so he thought, no doubt. As to that, he was going to hear a few home truths. If nothing else, she would make sure he knew she would never ever forgive him for his lies. Or the heartbreak of realising how pathetic she’d been in thinking that he had actually married her for more than her fortune. That he had some tender feelings towards her.
Not love. She had known it wasn’t love, but she had thought he cared, at least a little.
She fought the stab of pain as she recalled his betrayal. She would not show how deeply she’d been hurt. Or how greatly she dreaded their reunion. Calm reason must be the order of the day. She took a deep breath of icy-cold air and steeled herself against any sign of weakness. The moisture trickling from the corner of her eyes was caused by the sting of the salt-laden sea. Nothing else.
The boat drew closer. Close enough to make out its occupants. Six sailors at the oars. Three passengers, all men, muffled in coats and hats and scarves against the wind, arriving on the last merchant ship from America before winter made the Atlantic crossing impossible. And oddly, upright in the stern, a barrel.
An uncomfortable feeling curled in her stomach. None of the passengers looked in the slightest like her husband. Admittedly, she had only been married two months before Samuel had fled like the proverbial thief in the night, but surely she would recognise him from this distance, despite the other people crowded around her at this end of the jetty making it difficult to see, tall though she was? On her side of the barrier, there were longshoremen waiting to unload the ship’s cargo. A small family consisting of a mother and two children stirred with excitement at the approach of the boat, no doubt meeting a loved one.
All those waiting were held back by the formalities of landing. The visit to the harbour master, the presenting of passports, paperwork for Customs. And still Rowena could not pick out Samuel amid those mounting the jetty steps to dry land.
Could he have lied to her again? Changed his mind?
Her stomach dipped all the way to the cold stones beneath her feet. Her hand tightened around the strings of her reticule containing his letter. His command to be waiting at Dundee dock.
How could she ever have trusted herself to such a feckless man? Sadly, she knew exactly why. Because she had wanted to believe in him, instead of trusting what she had always known. Handsome gentlemen did not fall in love with her type of female. They just didn’t. As he’d made quite clear after the wedding, it was a marriage of convenience, colluded in by a cousin, who ought to have had her interests at heart. But didn’t.
Two of the passengers left the quay, one disappearing into the arms of the little family squealing their glee and quickly led off. The second signalled to a waiting carriage and was whisked away.
Finally, the third, a tall man with the carriage of a man in his prime, all lean physique and long stride, prowled along the quay, his coat flying open. He walked as if the ground owed him homage, his by right. Images of the pirate who haunted her dreams with his strong clever fingers and wicked mouth danced across her mind.
Shocked, she squeezed her eyes shut against the flutter of desire low in her belly. Embarrassed, she ignored the salacious sensations. If anyone ever guessed the wicked thoughts that went on in her head in the long reaches of the night, they would never let her near their children.
She forced her attention back to reality. To a sailor pushing a handcart containing the barrel she had noticed on the longboat.
And the fact that there was still no sign of Samuel.
She wasn’t sure if the feeling in her chest was more anger or relief. Or was it false hope? She turned her gaze back to the ship standing off from the shore. Could there be a second boat? Had he been delayed on board for some reason?
The last passenger was level with her now, a scarf, so swathed about his head it covered all but his eyes beneath a hat pulled down low. He wore a fashionable greatcoat, a thing with many capes, much like the one Samuel had worn during their whirlwind courtship. It looked too tight. Too short. Perhaps that was why he left it undone. The boots on his feet were scuffed and worn. A man who, for all his appearance of pride, wore second-hand clothes.
‘Mrs MacDonald?’ The man’s voice had the lilt of the Highlands and a raspy disused quality. And he had spoken her name. Her heart followed her stomach to the floor. Samuel had fooled her again.
All she could see of the man’s face was a pair of wary green eyes. They reminded her of dark ocean depths and fierce forest creatures. ‘I am Mrs MacDonald,’ she said, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
He bowed, hand to heart. ‘Andrew Gilvry, at your service.’
She’d been right. Samuel had brought her here for nothing. ‘And where, might I ask, is my husband?’
He recoiled slightly at her haughtily delivered question. ‘I am sorry...’
She drew herself up to her full height, the way she did with her students. It was the reason they called her the dragon, out of her hearing. Not the younger ones. Or the girls. They didn’t need such demonstrations of strength. The two older boys were a different matter. They, she’d learned quickly, would take advantage of any sign she did not have the upper hand.
‘So he is not on the ship after all.’ The anger she’d been so carefully keeping under control began to bubble hot in her breast.
The man hesitated. ‘I gather you didna’ get my letter, then?’
What, did he have some excuse to offer for Samuel’s absence? ‘The only letter I received was from my husband, requesting me to meet him at this ship. And he is not on board after all.’
‘He was on board, in a manner of speaking,’ the man said gently, the way people did when delivering bad news. He gestured to the sailor with the barrel. ‘He charged me with seeing his remains home to his family.’
The air rushed from her lungs. Her heart seemed to stop for a second as if all the blood had drained from her body. The ground beneath her feet felt as if it was spinning. ‘His remains?’ she whispered.
‘Aye.’ He reached out and took her by the elbow, clearly fearing she would faint. His coat streamed out behind him, flapping wildly. He wasn’t wearing any gloves, she noticed, and the warmth of his hand sent tingles running up beneath her flesh, all the way to her shoulder. Across her breasts. Female awareness. How could that be? Was the pirate now springing forth to plague her days?
She forced her thoughts into proper order. ‘Are you saying he is dead?’
He nodded tersely. ‘My condolences, ma’am. He was killed by Indians in the mountains of North Carolina. I was with him when he died.’
She stared at the barrel. ‘He’s in...?’ She couldn’t finish her question, but received another terse nod.
Staring at the barrel, she took a deep breath. And another. And then a third. ‘But why? Why bring him here?’
While she couldn’t see his face, she had the feeling he wished he was anywhere else but here. And that he disapproved of her question.
‘He wanted to be buried in Scotland.’ He released her elbow and stepped back. ‘I gave him my word to see him home.’ He gestured to the cart. ‘And so I have. Or at least I will have, when I have handed him over to an agent of the Duke of Mere.’
‘The Duke of Mere? Why on earth would you want to do that?’
The fair brows, just visible beneath his hat brim, lowered in a frown. ‘He is executor to your husband’s will.’
* * *
In the face of her distress, guilt squirmed in Drew’s gut like a live thing. But for him, Samuel MacDonald might have been standing on this quay greeting his wife, instead of him. Mrs MacDonald looked ready to faint, but touching her again was out of the question. She was nothing like the antidote he’d been led to expect. A veritable harridan of a female.
He could see why the doughy Samuel MacDonald might have found her physically daunting. She was imposingly tall for a woman, though the top of her head barely reached Drew’s eye level, and as lean as a racehorse to the point of boniness.
She was not a pretty woman. The features in her face were too strong and aesthetic for prettiness. Her jaw a little too square for womanly softness, the nose a little too Roman. Her best feature was her dove-grey eyes, clear and bright, and far too intelligent for a man to be comfortable. And yet for some odd reason he found her attractive. Perhaps even alluring.
He fought the stirring of attraction. The effect of too many weeks of male-only company on board ship when he’d been used to— Damn. Why think of that now? A shudder of disgust ran through him. Not only had the woman just discovered she was a widow, but there wasn’t a woman alive who would welcome his attentions. Not unless he was paying. Not when they took a look at his face.
The old anger rose in his chest. The desire to wreak vengeance for what had been done to him was always with him, deep inside and like a carefully banked fire. Once brought back to mind, it blazed like a beacon that would never be doused. Not until he had exacted justice from his brother.
Getting a grip on his anger, he glanced up at the sky. It was three in the afternoon, the sun was already looking to set and no sign of the lawyer who should take charge of the matter at hand. Damnation upon the head of all lawyers.
He glanced along the quay with a frown. ‘Where is your carriage, Mrs MacDonald?’
‘Carriage?’ she asked, looking nonplussed.
No carriage, then. A hackney? Or had she walked the mile from the town to the quay carrying the large bag sitting at her feet? The worn cloak, the practical shoes, the modest undecorated bonnet, things in the old days he would have taken in with one glance, now came into focus. Aye, she would have walked. For a man who bragged of his high connections and incipient wealth, MacDonald had not taken such good care of his wife.
So Drew would have to fill the breach. At least for a day or so.
He gestured for her to walk in the direction of the road at the end of the jetty. ‘Do you have a room booked for the night in town?’
She eyed him with a frown. ‘Of course not, Mr Gilvry. I must return to my place of employment. I spent last night here, but must leave today.’
Her strength of will in the face of adversity surprised him. A woman who would not submit easily to anyone’s command. A burst of heat low in his belly shocked him. He could not be attracted to this domineering woman, as her husband had described her in the most unflattering terms. But there was no denying the surge of lust in his blood. Had his last years among the Indians made him less of a man? His throat dried at the thought. But he knew it wasn’t possible.
Unnatural bastard. He’d heard the accusation more than once from the women he’d brought to his bed. But this would not be one of them.
The sooner he delivered her to her husband’s family and got on with the business of settling his score with Ian, the better. ‘I promised to see you safe in the hands of your husband’s family. No doubt the lawyer will be here in the morning. Or I will send him another message. Let us find a carriage to transport us and...’ He glanced back at the sailor with the cart, who was shifting from foot to foot with impatience.
She followed his gaze and a small shiver passed through her body. Clearly she was not as unaffected as she made out.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I will hear what this lawyer of yours has to say, if he arrives tomorrow. The stage let me down at the Crown. We will go there and I will change my ticket to tomorrow night. I cannot stay a day longer.’
Drew swallowed a sigh of relief at her practical manner. Despite MacDonald’s words, he’d expected to suffer through a bout of feminine hysterics. No doubt that would come later, when she got a good look at his face.
‘Ye’ll find a carriage for hire at the end of the jetty,’ the sailor said, who had clearly been listening in to their conversation. The man trundled off with his burden, leaving Drew to escort Mrs MacDonald and carry her bag.
Her spine was so straight, her face so calm, he resisted the temptation to offer his arm for support. She clearly didn’t need it or welcome it. So why did he have the feeling that, despite her outward appearance, she might collapse? She didn’t look fragile. Anything but. She could have outmarched a general with that straight back of hers. Yet he could not get past the idea that, beneath the outward reserve, she was terrified. The woman was a puzzle and no mistake. But not one he intended to solve.
As the sailor had said, they found a hire carriage at a stand at the end of the quay and reached an agreement on terms to take them into the town centre. Drew helped the widow into the carriage, saw to the disposal of the luggage, then climbed up beside the driver. It would give her time to come to terms with her new circumstance. And allow him to avoid her questions, he admitted grimly.
* * *
The Crown Hotel was located in the centre of Dundee, about a mile from the quayside, and when the carriage halted, Drew climbed down and saw to the unloading of the barrel. The driver put his battered valise beside it on the cobbles.
Mrs MacDonald stared at the leather bag for a long moment. She raised her gaze to meet his and his stomach dipped. She must recognise it as her husband’s. He had no choice but to answer her silent query.
‘You are right. It is your husband’s valise,’ he said. ‘I have made use of his clothes, since I had to leave mine behind.’
Not that he’d had much to leave, unless you counted a breechclout and a pair of moccasins.
She stiffened slightly. ‘And you travelled on his ticket?’
He had not been mistaken in the quick wits behind that high forehead. ‘Since he was making the journey in the hold, I saw no reason to purchase another.’ He winced at the cold sound of his words. ‘And I used what money he had for necessary expenses.’ Like the makeshift coffin. And a pair of boots. He could hardly travel barefoot and MacDonald’s boots had been far too small. He had bought the cheapest he could find, however.
‘How very convenient,’ she said.
She suspected him of doing away with her husband and stealing his property. And he had in a manner of speaking. He met her gaze without flinching. ‘I gave my word to your husband that he would board that ship, Mrs MacDonald. I kept my promise.’ Out of guilt. MacDonald had not really expected to die on the journey back to civilisation. He had been full of talk of a glorious future in his fevered ravings. And of riches beyond any man’s dreams. Riches that would no doubt remain untapped now he was dead.
Guilt stabbed Drew anew. But it would not change what had happened, nor his intentions to follow through with his self-imposed duty. He would see MacDonald’s remains and his wife delivered safely to the lawyer and that was all he would do.
He picked up the valise and strode into the inn.
‘Off the ship, are ye, then?’ the innkeeper asked, meeting him just inside the door.
‘Yes. The lady needs a room with a private parlour,’ Gilvry said. ‘I’ll bed down in the stables.’
The innkeeper looked him up and down as if trying to decide if he was trying to gull him.
‘A chamber is all I require,’ Mrs MacDonald said from behind Drew, her reticule clutched at her breast as if she feared its contents would not be enough to pay for her night’s lodgings.
He pulled out MacDonald’s purse and jingled the few remaining coins. ‘The lady’s husband charged me with her travel arrangements. A room with a private parlour, if you please, and the use of a maid. Mrs MacDonald will take dinner in her room.’
The innkeeper bowed. ‘This way, please, madam.’
‘Don’t worry about the rest of the luggage, Mrs MacDonald,’ Drew said as, stiff-backed with indignation, she followed the host up the stairs. ‘I will keep it safe.’
She cast him a look of dislike over her shoulder. ‘Then I hope you have a good night’s rest, Mr Gilvry.’
Ah, irony. He’d missed its edge all these many years. No doubt she was hoping her husband would haunt him. Which he would, because, in a manner of speaking, he had been, ever since he died.
Drew turned and stomped out to the yard.
* * *
It was only when Rowena had removed her coat and hat inside her room that she fully absorbed the news. Samuel MacDonald was dead.
She squeezed her eyes closed against the sudden pain at her temples as her thoughts spiralled out of control. She had to think about this logically.
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 planned. 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?’
Misplaced pity filled his gaze. ‘There is no doubt in my mind the man was your husband, Mrs MacDonald. We talked. Of you. Of other things. How else would I know about the lawyer?’ He frowned and looked grim. ‘But you are right. Someone should identify his remains. To make things legal. I didna’ think you...’
Her stomach lurched. She pushed her plate away, stood and moved from the table to the hearth. ‘No. You are right. This Mr Jones should do it.’
‘If he knew him personally.’
She whirled around. ‘You think he did not?’
‘Your husband was not always lucid, Mrs MacDonald. He suffered greatly. But he was most insistent on my contacting those in charge of Mere’s estate.’
The Duke of Mere. Why did that name sound so familiar? She had heard it spoken of recently, surely? She didn’t care for gossip, but now she remembered her employer’s remark. She turned to face him. ‘The Duke of Mere is dead.’
His jaw dropped. ‘But...’ He shook his head, got up and took a step towards her. ‘One duke dies. Another follows right behind. Like the king.’
He was right. She swallowed. ‘Of course.’
He drew closer. Very close, until she could feel the warmth from his body, the sense of male strength held in check, though why that should be she could not imagine. ‘Mrs MacDonald,’ he said softly, ‘dinna fash yourself. Jones will come tomorrow and your husband’s family will do their duty by you.’
What family? According to Samuel he was as alone in the world as she was. It was one of the things that had drawn her to him. His need for family. Not that he had needed her, once he had her money. It would be nice to be needed. To be able to lean on a man and have him take care of her in return. She felt herself leaning towards Mr Gilvry, as if his strength could sustain her.
Shocked, she straightened. She moved away, turning to face him with a hard-won smile against the melting sensation in her limbs. ‘You are right. It seems that Mr Jones holds the key to everything.’ She put a hand to her temple. It was throbbing again. Too much thinking. Too much worrying. Too much hope that she had not been entirely abandoned after all.
‘Mr Gilvry, my husband asked much of you.’ She looked at his poor ruined face and saw nothing but sympathy in his gaze. She hesitated, her mouth dry, the words stuck fast in her throat. She took a breath. ‘Could I trouble you some more? May I request your presence at the interview with Mr Jones?’
If he was surprised, he hid it well. ‘If that is your wish,’ he said, his voice a little gruff.
Instinctively, she swayed towards all that beautiful male strength, her eyes closing in relief. ‘Thank you.’
She felt his hand on her arm, warm and strong and infinitely gentle. Once more, strange tingles ran up her arm at the strength of his touch. Did he feel them, too? Was that why he released her so quickly?
‘Sit down, Mrs MacDonald,’ he said in a rasping voice. ‘By the hearth. I’ll ask our hostess to send up tea. And the maid. It is a good night’s sleep you need. Things will be clearer in the morning.’
When she looked up, he was gone. So silently for such a tall man. A man whose absence left a very empty hole in the room. But he had said he would stand by her on the morrow. She clung to that thought as if her life depended on it and wondered at her sudden sensation of weakness.
