Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Unwed and Unrepentant\Return of the Prodigal Gilvry\A Traitor's Touch (27 page)

Jones shook his head. ‘It is in Mere's hands now. I am merely his representative. You will have to take your case directly to him.'

Drew glared and the man shifted his gaze to the documents on the table. ‘MacDonald told me his wife would be cared for.' The dying man had said it with such bitterness, Drew had been shocked, but he had not doubted his words.

Jones frowned. ‘The duke takes his responsibilities seriously, I can assure you.' Again that tight little smile at Rowena. ‘As you will discover, Mrs MacDonald, if you will allow yourself to be guided by me.'

Rowena took an unsteady breath. ‘It would be enough if I am relieved of his debt.'

The defeat on her face made Drew's chest feel as if it was weighed down with a rock.

‘If there are assets, they should be passed on to MacDonald's widow,' he said firmly.

The lawyer was tapping his chin again. A sign he was thinking on his feet, perhaps. ‘I see you are not satisfied with the word of a duke,' Jones said in an exasperated tone. ‘Very well. If your claims are proved—' he inclined his head slightly ‘—as I am sure they will be, dear lady, there is a house set aside for you, at Mere, and an annuity.'

She perked up. ‘The house would be mine? Something I can sell?'

Jones shook his head. ‘It is on land that is part of the estate.'

‘So the duke will continue to own the house.'

He nodded. ‘Indeed. But once your husband's will has gone through probate, there may be more. You did mention debts?'

She looked down her autocratic nose and the lawyer visibly wilted. ‘Yes, but none of my making.' She let go a little breath. ‘But Mr MacDonald realised a large sum from the sale of my half of McFail's. I cannot believe there is nothing left.'

‘Let us hope you are right. In the meantime...'

‘In the meantime, it seems I have no choice but to accept the duke's generous offer. I will travel to Mere and learn the outcome of my husband's business affairs.'

Jones turned his gaze to Drew. ‘I do hope I can prevail upon you to finish what you set out to accomplish. The return of Mr MacDonald to the bosom of his family. You will, of course, be rewarded for your time.'

‘I would prefer to leave it to you,' Drew said. ‘I have another engagement.' Ian. His gut clenched painfully.

Jones gathered up his papers. ‘My first duty is to ascertain this lady's claim of marriage, which takes me in a different direction, after which I will then make post-haste to Mere. But you must allow it is vital that the poor dear departed be taken swiftly to his final resting place. Who knows what ravages may have occurred during shipment? If it is not possible to prove his identity...'

Rowena paled. Drew felt slightly nauseous, though the undertaker had assured him all would be well.

Rowena looked at him and, while her expression was one of serene indifference, he knew from the pleas deep in those soft grey eyes that she wanted him to say yes. ‘Verra well. I will accompany Mrs MacDonald to Mere.'

The lawyer looked far too relieved at his words, but Drew could hardly change his mind, because Rowena had looked equally relieved.

‘Excellent,' Jones said. ‘You will make your way to Penwood House. No doubt his Grace will be delighted to receive you at the castle once you are established there.'

Drew didn't like the glint of triumph in Jones's eyes. ‘And a conveyance?' Drew asked.

‘I will arrange for a cart for the transportation of the...luggage.'

Rowena's face shuttered. ‘I am to travel on this cart?'

‘You may. Unless you prefer to ride. The driver, a man by the name of Pockle, and his wife will serve your needs along the road, which regrettably is a difficult journey this time of year.'

Did the man hope she'd become lost on the way? Drew glared at him, knowing only too well the dangers of cross-country travel. ‘How long will it take?' Drew asked.

‘Two or three days. Longer if the weather is bad.'

‘And where is Mrs MacDonald to spend the nights?' Drew asked. He could not get away from his sense of danger. ‘You surely don't expect her to camp out in the hills.'

‘Certainly not. There are inns along the way. Please be ready to leave in the morning. I will take care of all the arrangements before I leave later today.' He gathered up his papers and packed them away. ‘I look forward to our next meeting at Mere, Mrs MacDonald.'

He bowed and left.

Rowena frowned. ‘He was so keen on a date at first. Why do you think he changed his mind so quickly?'

The lass had a very sharp mind.

He shook his head. ‘That's a tricky wee fellow, I'm thinking. You are right to seek out the duke.'

‘Are you sure you don't mind going, too? While he seemed to want your presence at Mere, I could probably manage with the driver and his wife, since it is not too far distant.'

It was madness to agree to it. To spend more time in her company. To feel the call of her milk-white skin and find himself falling into the depths of her clear grey eyes. Madness and torture for the sake of a promise no one had heard but himself. ‘Once I start on something, I have to see it through.'

No matter how long it took.

A soft breath came from her parted lips and he wanted to capture it in his mouth. ‘Thank you.'

He turned briskly for the door. ‘It seems I must find some sort of nag for the journey.'

His business with Ian could wait. A week. A month. A year. It made no difference; it had waited so long already.

Yet he could not help feeling he might be making the worst mistake of his life. And he'd made some bad ones in the past.

Chapter Three

W
hy on earth did Mere have to reside in such an inaccessible place in wintertime? Rowena thought, huddling deeper into her cloak. Why couldn't he live in Edinburgh like any civilised person? This was their second day since leaving Dundee and Rowena was already exhausted by the journey. The roads were so abysmal, the cart travelled at less than walking speed and, this afternoon, the sky had turned a lowering grey just skimming the hilltops.

The cold, damp air wormed its way through every fibre of her clothing. Worse was the way Mr Gilvry, riding ahead of the cavalcade, glanced up at the sky from time to time.

She urged her horse forward. ‘Is it going to rain?'

She was on his left side and the beauty of his features struck her anew, though she hoped she managed to hide the sudden hitch in her breath.

‘Snow,' he said with such assurance, she did not doubt him.

Lovely. She shivered. ‘How long before we reach the next inn?' She could just imagine a warm fire and a hot bath.

Mr Gilvry glanced back over his shoulder at the cart, where the driver and his wife sat pressed close together for warmth. ‘Our next stopping place is fifteen miles from where we stayed last night. Since we havena' made more than ten miles, I would say we have another five to go.'

‘Can we make it by nightfall?'

‘Aye.'

He sounded confident, but she wasn't fooled. These one-word answers were meant to disguise his concern. ‘You mean, if it doesn't snow and if the cart doesn't get stuck.'

He gave her a quick sideways glance and she could have sworn the corner of his mouth curled up in a smile. The effect was more than charming, it was wickedly seductive. Her inner muscles gave a little squeeze. Not the sort of reaction one should be having sitting on a horse. Or at all. But at least a new kind of warmth was now pulsing through her body.

‘Aye, that is just what I mean,' he said.

To hide her flush, she also looked over her shoulder at the cart and its occupants. Twice it had become stuck in a muddy rut on the previous day. On both occasions, she'd been impressed with Mr Gilvry's strength and his whipcord leanness when he had removed his coats and heaved with all his might.

‘I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't have just gone back to my place of employment and forgotten all about ever being married.'

His amusement faded. ‘Would you let that wee mannie Jones have the best of you? I don't know what game Mere is playing, but your husband was telling me the truth. He made some sort of settlement for you.'

‘It won't make any difference if I freeze to death out here.'

‘I'll be certain that doesna' happen.'

From anyone else she might have taken his words as bravado, but the determination in both his voice and his face gave her a modicum of comfort, even as her heart sank at the sight of the next hill rising before them. The track disappeared up into the clouds. Who knew what lay ahead.

It was the steepest hill they'd encountered so far. ‘We'd best walk the horses again,' Mr Gilvry said, dismounting in a swirl of coat. ‘They need to rest, but we canna stop if we are to make shelter by nightfall.'

He reached up and lifted her down as he did each time she needed to dismount. Again the heat of his touch warmed her through and through. It was all in her mind, of course, there were layers and layers of clothing between his skin and hers, but it was the only bright spot in a very dreary day.

She smiled her thanks when he set her on her feet and received a nod in reply. A very cool nod, indeed. He was clearly regretting his agreement to escort her to the duke. But he'd given his word and he would keep it. Knowing he at least was a man of his word gave her comfort. A sense of security she had not known in a long time.

And that was a mistake. She'd thought the same about Samuel and look how that had ended. And if this trip to Mere ended the same way, she was going to be in dire straits indeed since Mrs Preston, rather than extending her leave of absence, had terminated her employment.

All her reliance was now on the generosity of the Duke of Mere.

They walked in silence, one behind the other for a while. Rowena turned to look back down the hill. There was no sign of the cart in the mist that had closed in around them.

‘Shouldn't we wait for them?' she called out.

‘They'll catch us up at the crest,' he replied. ‘I'll make tea to warm us and have it ready when they arrive.'

That was the other thing she found strange about him. The way he carried an assortment of objects in his saddlebag, as if he was used to living in the wilds. A handful of oats. A tin kettle to make tea. And of course the leaves. No milk, though. Just a flask of whisky from which he added a splash to the brew. It certainly warmed her from the inside out and she found herself looking forward to their arrival at the top of the hill.

The Pockles also carried supplies in the cart—bread, cheese, some oatcakes—but Mr Gilvry's tea was the best of all of it.

* * *

They had plodded upwards for what felt like a good half an hour. At this rate they would be lucky to make the last five miles to the next inn before it was dark.

At the top, catching her breath, Rowena looked around her, but there was nothing to see. Just a rolling blanket of white and a barely visible track disappearing downwards. Disappointing, really. She'd been looking forward to seeing the Highlands in all their glory. But it really was the wrong time of year for travel. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her.

Mr Gilvry set about making a fire from a clump of peat he had picked up somewhere along the way, or perhaps taken from the inn where they stayed the previous night. The inn had only one bedchamber. Everyone else was expected to sleep in the commons. Mr Gilvry had preferred the stables. She didn't really blame him. The driver and his wife were a nice enough couple, if a little dour, but they were not as particular about their cleanliness as they might have been. She would not have wanted to spend a night with them in close quarters.

It didn't take him long to get the fire started and, while the small can heated over the flame, she bent to warm her numb fingers against the heat.

‘I wish I understood what game the duke is playing,' she said softly. He crouched beside her on his heels. He looked so comfortable she thought about trying it.

‘The only way to find out is to meet him face-to-face,' he said.

‘If he will meet with me.'

‘I canna see why he would not?'

No, she could not either, but there was something odd about the way Mr Jones had insisted they make this journey. And then there was the issue of the date of Samuel's death. Not just the lawyer's swift change of mind, but the way Mr Gilvry had stiffened at the mention of proof.

The water started to boil and she stepped back from the fire to give him room to brew his concoction. A few moments later, he held out a small pewter mug. She wrapped her gloved fingers around it and breathed in the steam. Bitter tea and whisky. While she sipped and felt the warmth slide down her throat, she stared into the mist. What sort of house would a duke have set aside for the wife of a distant relative? If she couldn't sell it, and Samuel had not after all left her some money, would she be stuck out here in the Highlands for the rest of her life?

It seemed likely. Unless she married again.

She glanced at Mr Gilvry. He was looking back the way they had come with a frown. And then the jingle of a bridle pierced the muffling mist and the next moment the cart and its occupants came into view.

Mr Gilvry collected the Pockles' mugs and filled them from the kettle. He kicked out the fire and stamped on the embers. ‘We'll keep going, aye?' he said to Pockle. ‘We don't want to be out here at nightfall.'

‘That we don't,' said Pockle, cradling his mug just as Rowena had done and blowing on it to cool it. ‘Old McRae willna' open the door to us if we arrive after sunset.'

Mr Gilvry glared at him. ‘Why did you say nothing of this before?'

Pockle shrugged. ‘We were making good time. Nae need to distress the lady for naught.'

Mrs Pockle took a deep swallow from her mug and made a little sound of satisfaction. Rowena had the feeling she cared more about the whisky than the tea. ‘Auld McRae is afraid of the piskies hereabouts,' she announced. ‘Locks up tight come the dark.'

Mr Gilvry made no comment, but she could see the irritation in his expression. Not a man to believe in piskies, then.

‘We'd best be moving on,' he said. He took her mug, tossed the dregs and wrapped it in a cloth, before throwing her back in the saddle. ‘We'll make the best use of the downhill slope to make up a little time.'

‘I'll catch ye up,' Pockle said. ‘I've a need to empty my bladder.' He handed his empty mug to his wife and jumped down.

‘Dinna be taking too long, man,' Mr Gilvry said. ‘We'll wait for you at McRae's place and I'll be sure of letting ye in, dark or no.'

Pockle touched a hand to his cap.

‘Don't you think it would be better if we all stayed together?' Rowena said. ‘What if we get lost? Pockle knows the way.'

‘I won't get lost.' Mr Gilvry growled. ‘I looked at the map before we left.'

He mounted up and grabbed for Rowena's reins. ‘But you might.' He glanced up at the sky. ‘The sooner we get going, the sooner we will arrive.'

Normally she would not have considered letting a man lead her along like a child, but the worry in his eyes made such pride a foolish luxury. ‘Just be careful, Mr Gilvry,' she said coolly. ‘I would not like to follow you off a cliff.'

His sharp stare said the prospect was not out of the realm of possibility and her stomach dipped. So much for trying to strike a lighter note. Something that actually never seemed possible with this particular man, any more than it had been with Samuel.

She sighed.
Say nothing, and then you can't possibly go wrong.

His horse moved ahead and hers followed at his tug on the bridle. After a few minutes of them heading downhill, big wet flakes drifted down to settle on her shoulders and her horse's neck. They melted almost at once.

Mr Gilvry muttered something under his breath. A curse, no doubt. She felt like cursing herself. Instead, she ducked deeper into her hood.

After a time, the numbness in her fingers and toes spread inwards. She blew on her fingers with little hope it would help and lifted her head to peer ahead, then she wished she hadn't. A gust of windblown snow stung her cheeks. But even that swift glimpse told her night was closing in fast.

Mr Gilvry stopped. Were they lost? Her heart began a sharp staccato in her chest.

She let her horse come up alongside his.

‘Lights,' he said, leaning close so she could hear him through the muffling scarf he'd pulled up around his face.

The breath left her body in such a rush, she felt light-headed. ‘McRae's?'

He nodded and urged his horse forward at a trot. Her mount followed suit.

He'd been right. He did know the way. She'd have to apologise for her doubts once they were warm and dry.

The inn stood alone, off to one side of the track they'd been following, a lantern lighting its sign. A golden glow spilled from the windows, making square patches of snow glitter as if dusted with stars.

Mr Gilvry helped her down from her horse. Not only light issued forth from the inn, there was sound, too. The sound of men talking and laughing. She glanced up at Mr Gilvry and, while she could not see his face, she could see his eyes narrow.

‘It seems we are not the only company tonight,' she said.

‘Aye. Wait here. I'll see the landlord about a room.' He thrust the reins into her hands and ducked as he opened the door.

‘Duin an dòras,'
someone shouted.

Gaelic. Someone not pleased about the draught from the door being opened. The door slammed shut. Rowena glanced around. The stables must be at the back of the inn, but no one had come to take their horses. Perhaps she should take them herself. She was so cold, the wind biting through her cloak, even the thought of a stable was a lure.

Before she could make a move, Mr Gilvry returned with a man and a woman with a shawl over her head in tow. The man, a spry fellow, regarded her with interest before relieving her of the reins. ‘While I help yon lad with the horses, Mrs McRae will see you upstairs.'

The woman gestured for her to follow. ‘This way, ma'am. There's a nice warm fire ready and waiting.'

Warmth. What more could she ask? She started to follow.

Mr Gilvry caught her arm, turned her around and brought her close, grasping her by her elbows and lifting her on her toes so she could see the glitter of the lamp over the door in his eyes. ‘The men in there are a dangerous lot,' he murmured close to her ear. ‘Do not look their way.'

Then he kissed her. Full on the lips. A warm dry pressure on her mouth. The heat of his breath on her frozen cheek, the thud of his heart beneath her fingertips where they rested on the side of his throat.

He broke away, gazing down at her, his expression dark, his mouth sensuously soft. She must have imagined it, because he set her away from him with a laugh as if it was she who had kissed him.

Stunned, she stared at him and her hand fell to her side.

He swung her around, pushing her forward with a tap on the rump. ‘Ye'll be saving that for later, lassie.' He turned away, dragging her horse behind him.

Lassie? Later. What on earth...?
She touched her lips still tingling from his unexpected kiss.

The landlady laughed. ‘That's one cheeky lad ye have there for a husband.'

Husband? And so the goodwife might think after such a display. Her heart knocking against her ribs, whether out of fear for what she would find inside that he needed to warn her in such an odd way or the effect of that kiss, she didn't quite know.