Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Unwed and Unrepentant\Return of the Prodigal Gilvry\A Traitor's Touch (28 page)

Right now she didn't care about anything as long as she ended up close to the warmth of a fire. Later, though, when she wasn't too cold to think—cold on the outside, that was—she intended to discover just what sort of game he thought he was playing.

As she entered the inn, she realised he was right about the men in what must be the only barroom in the house. She had a brief impression of three burly males filling the low-beamed room, all looking at her. She kept her gaze firmly fixed on the landlady's back and mounted the stairs to a low rumble of male appreciation.

‘Dinna mind them, missus,' the landlady said in comfortable tones, opening the door to a chamber at the end of a short corridor at the top of the stairs. ‘McRae won't put up wi' any o' their nonsense.'

She hoped not.

Mrs McRae ushered her into a chamber that barely had room for a bed, a settle by the hearth and a table with two chairs in the corner.

The woman turned down the sheets and gave the bed a pat. ‘And that man of yours is more than a match for them, aye?' She chuckled.

Rowena narrowed her eyes at the woman. Now, what should she say to that? Deny that Mr Gilvry was her man, or wait for his explanation? Discretion was no doubt the better part of valour in this circumstance.

‘Take off your cloak, my dear,' the landlady urged. ‘I'll send up my Sin to help you out of those wet clothes in a minute or two.' And with that she whisked out, shutting the door behind her.

Sin. Well, there was an interesting name. She removed her bonnet and tossed it on the bed, then unfastened her cloak and hung it over the settle where it could dry. She held her hands out to the fire and watched the steam rise off her skirts.

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of Sin, who turned out to be a pretty, blue-eyed, auburn-haired girl of about eighteen. As pretty as sin indeed.

She bobbed a curtsy. ‘Mam says I'm to help you undress, mistress.'

‘I'm afraid my luggage is still somewhere behind us on the road. I have nothing dry to change into.'

The girl gave her a grin. ‘Your man said as how you was to take off your wet things and wrap yourself in the quilt.' She pointed at the bed.

‘My man,' Rowena said drily. What on earth were the Pockles going to think when they arrived with the landlady calling Mr Gilvry her man? And what if it came to the duke's ears? She pressed her lips together against the urge to deny that Mr Gilvry was her man. She would let him explain, before she took him to task.

The girl scurried around behind her and began attacking her laces. ‘Very positive he was about it, my lady, you being so damp and all. He feared you might take a chill. Said I was to get you out of these wet things, no matter what you said.'

‘How very forceful,' Rowena said, wryly imagining Mr Gilvry dishing out orders and feeling a little shiver pass down her spine.

‘Oh, yes,' the girl said, coming around to the front to help her unpin her bodice. ‘Very forceful he was.' She giggled.

A strong urge to bash the girl over the head with a poker arose in Rowena's breast. Though why that would be, she had no idea. She didn't care in the least if Mr Gilvry made an innkeeper's daughter giggle. She probably hadn't seen his face. Oh, now that was mean.

‘Was it a duel?' the girl asked. She sounded breathless. Too breathless for the effort to undo a few tapes on a gown.

‘Was what a duel?'

‘The scar. Was it a duel over a woman?' She sighed in the most nauseating way.

‘I have no idea,' Rowena said repressively and stepped out of the gown. ‘I have never asked him.'

‘He must have been a right bonnie lad before...' The maid's voice tailed off.

Furious, and not knowing why, Rowena turned her back to give the maid access her stays. ‘Do you think so?' She could not keep emotion from colouring her voice.

‘I beg your pardon, ma'am. Not that he isn't bonnie now, of course. Lovely wide shoulders and those green eyes of his. They almost make up for the scar. We don't get many handsome young gentlemen passing through these parts.' The girl sighed.

‘Are you done?'

The girl dropped the stays on top of the gown and picked up the counterpane. ‘If you will just wrap this around you,' she said, ‘I'll unpin your hair and gi' it a good brushing.'

Chapter Four

D
rew followed the stableman, his head reeling. What the hell had he been thinking, kissing her like that? He'd just wanted to impress on her the importance of his words, and then the way she'd looked up at him, so sinfully tempting and ready to argue, it was all he could think of.

No doubt she'd be having his hide for that piece of foolishness. And for saying he was her husband. But the moment he saw the men inside the inn, he'd known they were trouble. His suspicions were confirmed by what he saw around him. The stables were full to the brim with ponies and stacked with barrels.

The three men in the common room were smugglers, and a rougher-looking lot he hoped never to see. The storm must have brought them in, because if things remained as they had been before he left for America, they would usually avoid any place where the gaugers might visit. There would be no excisemen out on a night like tonight.

It was a damnable nuisance that Pockle had been unable to keep up. It would have evened the odds.

Drew jerked his chin in the direction of the inn. ‘Where are the men from?'

The little man's face closed up tighter than a Scotsman's purse. ‘You'll find no loose tongues here, sir, but since you are a true Highland gentleman, I can tell you they work for McKenzie out of Edinburgh. A rough lot, I can tell you that. You would do as well to keep an eye on that wife of yours.'

Drew nodded and made a show of pulling his pistol from his saddle holster and tucking it in his belt along with powder and shot.

He glanced up to find the man watching him. ‘Aye, well, I'm a man who kens how to look after his own.'

The little man grinned. ‘As well to be safe as sorry, they do say.'

The cold feeling in Drew's chest expanded. Pockle should never have suggested they stay at a known smugglers' haunt. They should have stopped earlier in the day.

‘You can leave the horses to me,' the groom said. ‘I'll look in on them later. You'd best keep an eye on that woman of yours and get yourself warm.' He gave Drew a nudge in the ribs.

Drew gritted his teeth at the thought of the impending chilly reception. He should not have let himself be tempted.

‘Is there a back door into the inn?' he asked the groom.

‘Aye, straight across. You'll go through the kitchen.' He winked. ‘There's but one set of stairs.'

Drew didn't much like the sound of that. It was always good to have more than one way out. He picked up their saddlebags and heaved them over one shoulder, leaving one hand free to use his pistol. He just hoped he wouldn't need it.

He crossed from the stables to the back door of the inn. The goodwife was busy at the hearth, a pot bubbling with stew. It didn't smell too bad and right now he really didn't think he cared what was in it as long as it was hot and filling. She waved her ladle at him. ‘I'll be up wi' your dinner in a minute or two.'

He entered the taproom. Only one man seemed to be taking any real interest. His eyes narrowed when they caught sight of Drew's pistol. A grim sense of satisfaction filled him. At least they knew he was not easy pickings. Still, he didn't trust them an inch.

He had nothing against smugglers. He'd dealt with enough of them in the old days. He'd been one. But these men were different. Harder eyed and not Highlanders by their speech.

He sauntered between them to the bar along one wall. ‘I'll take a bottle of whisky and two glasses,' he said to the landlord.

‘Yes, sir,' the portly, red-faced fellow said, reaching under his counter.

One of the men behind him sniggered. ‘Wi' that face you likely have to get her drunk before she'll have ought to do wi' ye.'

Drew turned and faced the room, fists loose but ready. ‘If you have something to say, you can say it to my ugly face.'

The oldest man in the room eyed him for a moment, then nodded an acknowledgement. He shoved at a scrawny-looking fellow with a straggling beard. ‘Yon Roger's had a wee bitty too much to drink,' he said. ‘Haven't you, Roger?'

Roger looked sullen, but at another shove nodded and disappeared into his tankard.

‘You'll have your men keep a civil tongue in their heads, man,' the landlord said from behind Drew. ‘Or I'll be sending you back out in the snow.'

Drew grinned. ‘I wouldn't be asking a dog to go out in that, lads.' He turned back to the innkeeper. ‘Give them all a dram on me.'

The mood in the room lightened considerably. Drew picked up the bottle and glasses and raised it in salute, strolling out of the bar as three men rushed forward. Sugar was better than vinegar any day of the week. Not that he'd trust any of them.

He didn't take his eyes off them as he climbed the bottom steps, just to be sure he didn't get a knife in the back. Roger turned and met his gaze. He had the look of a man who was trying to solve a puzzle.

Drew halted. ‘Is something else wrong?'

The man shook his head. ‘I just had the feeling I've seen you before.'

Drew raised a brow. ‘People don't usually forget my face.'

The man grimaced with distaste. ‘You never had the scar last time I saw you.'

The hairs on Drew's nape rose. Was it possible he had met this man in his smuggling days? ‘You are mistaken, my friend. Sorry.' He continued up the stairs, but from the feeling between his shoulder blades, the man watched him until he was out of sight.

He'd known a lot of people in the trade in the old days. Him and Ian. But he could not think of a reason why any of them would hold a grudge.

He knocked on the door of the chamber assigned to him and Mrs MacDonald.

‘Who is it?'

At least she had sense enough not to just open the door without checking. ‘Drew.'

‘Just a moment.'

A rustle of skirts, the door swung back, opened by a maid, but his gaze went straight to the figure kneeling by the hearth, wrapped in a cotton cover, and his mind ceased working. Her unpinned hair hung down her back, as sleek and as shiny a chestnut as would do a thoroughbred proud.

There was something extraordinarily intimate about seeing a woman with her hair down around her shoulders. And on her knees, too. His body responded as if she'd offered him the most personal of attentions. He almost groaned out loud at the blaze of heat scorching through his blood. At this rate, he wasn't going to need the fire to get warm. Disgusted by his reaction, he dropped the saddlebags off to one side and set the whisky and the glasses on the table.

‘Out,' he said to the maid.

Mrs MacDonald rose up on her knees and turned to look at him, surprise on her face.

Drew looked at the maid. ‘If you don't mind?' he said as politely as he could manage.

The little lass bustled past him.

Drew closed and locked the door, using the moment to repress the wicked images his mind had conjured up.

‘Mrs McRae will be along shortly wi' our supper,' he said, annoyed by the hoarseness in his voice.

She put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, well, if it isn't my dear husband.' Her eyes sparkled like water running over pebbles in a brook. Anger or amusement. Whichever it was, it made a breath catch in his throat; she looked so lovely with her hair hanging about her shoulders and her cheeks flushed by the warmth from the fire.

He strode for the window and opened it.

The wind gusted in, bringing with it a whirl of snowflakes and a chill to his overheated blood.

‘What on earth are you doing?' she asked, her voice rising in pitch.

‘Admiring the view,' he said over his shoulder. And checking for a way out should it be needed. The kitchen roof jutted out a few feet below. An easy climb down to the ground.

He took a deep breath, closed the window and turned back to face her. ‘I'm sorry I had to tell them we were wed. I couldna' leave you up here alone with that lot staying below.'

Her lips thinned. ‘And I suppose you are sorry you had to kiss me, too.'

Heat travelled up his neck. ‘It was necessary, but, aye, I'm sorry.'

The apology didn't seem to mollify her one little bit.

He jerked his chin at her saddlebag. ‘Is there something dry in there you can change into?'

She glanced down at the bag and then up at him. ‘Only my nightgown. I wasn't expecting to put up at an inn without my luggage, which is now with the Pockles who, by the way, will be surprised to find us calling ourselves man and wife.'

The Pockles were another worry. They could not have been more than a half hour or so behind them, so they should have arrived by now. He didn't see any reason to let her know his concern, though.

He shrugged. ‘We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.'

A rap sounded at the door. ‘Who is it?' he asked, one hand going to his pistol.

Rowena's eyes widened and he cursed himself for a fool for putting fear in her eyes.

‘Mrs McRae, dearie,' the landlady called out. ‘With your supper tray.'

‘Leave it outside the door. I'll fetch it in when I'm dressed,' Drew said. He moved to the door, listening first to the sound of the tray hitting the floor, then the woman's footsteps moving away. He pulled his pistol and unlocked it with his left hand, ready to leap clear.

Slowly he opened the door. The sound of men's laughter wafted up the stairs.

His instincts told him there was no one there, but still he glanced up and down the hallway before tucking away his pistol and bending to pick up the tray. He set it down on the nearby chest of drawers.

Thank goodness the common room was in the front of the house and this chamber was at the back or, with that racket, there'd be no chance of sleeping.

Rowena gave him a narrow-eyed look. She nodded at the pistol. ‘You really do think we are in danger, then?'

‘Aye.' He kicked the door closed and turned the key.

The look on her face said it wasn't enough to make her feel safe. He breathed out through his nose, summoning calm. ‘They are smugglers.'

‘Oh,' she said. ‘Not good.'

‘As a general rule, I would no' be concerned. They go about their business and as long as no one interferes...' He shook his head. ‘These men have a different look about them.' Not to mention the one who thought he knew him.

‘Not your normal run-of-the-mill smugglers, then.'

He couldn't help but smile at the no-nonsense tone of voice, as if she dealt with such criminals on a daily basis. And he had the feeling, if he was truthful, she wouldn't flinch if they did turn up at the door. ‘No. Not run-of-the-mill at all. And when I explain why we are sharing a room to the Pockles, they will understand.' He hoped, because if they didn't he was going to find himself with a duke who might feel vengeful. An angry duke might be worse than an inn full of smugglers. And they were quite bad enough.

* * *

Another tête-à-tête meal with Mr Gilvry. Rowena felt a rush of warmth in her belly. This time, he rearranged the table so he sat beside her, instead of opposite, presenting his profile. Unlike last time, when she had dressed in her best, she was wrapped in a blanket and he was posing as her husband.

Why?

Was it possible he had deliberately separated her from their escort? After that kiss she might almost believe it, if it wasn't for his mortifying apology.

She was not the sort of woman a man wanted to kiss of his own free will. He'd used it as a pretence to give her instructions. The logical side of the brain applauded his cleverness. Her foolish heart contracted painfully every time she recalled his harsh apology.

Perhaps he wished he could be downstairs, kissing pretty little Sin.

Anger and disappointment rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. Anger at her own stupid thoughts, surely.

But she knew she was lying to herself. She found him attractive.

No matter. There was no use in feeling wounded. It hadn't done any good with Samuel, or her cousin. It would be no different with this man. She just wasn't the sort of woman to engender strong feelings in a man. Instead of worrying about such nonsense, she would use the opportunity to find out more about her escort. Mr Gilvry could hardly walk away, given he had taken it upon himself to remain on guard in her room. And while she didn't dare trust him completely, she trusted the smugglers a whole lot less.

Pulling the counterpane tight around her shoulders, she let him seat her at the table. ‘It does smell surprisingly good.'

‘Aye.'

‘Will you say grace?' It was a habit to ask her pupils to do so, so it came naturally out of her mouth.

Surprise flickered across his face, then something that looked like embarrassment before he bowed his head. ‘Thank you, Lord, for this food and for bringing us safe to this place.'

She added a silent prayer that they might leave it in one piece. ‘Amen.'

He picked up a bread roll.

‘Do you think the duke is aware that one of his tenants entertains smugglers?'

He glanced up, his expression unreadable. ‘Probably.'

She huffed out a breath and picked up her own spoon.

‘What?' he asked, still looking at her.

There was no point. When a man didn't want to tell you something, asking questions only made him more determined to remain silent. ‘Nothing.'

He gave her an irritated look and broke the roll apart with long strong, fingers. ‘You asked and I answered.'

‘You said
probably
as if you meant
of course
.' Dash it, why was she explaining? Giving him the opportunity to put her in her womanly place?

His sideways glance showed surprise, as if he hadn't expected her to realise he was trying to protect her. ‘Smuggling is a matter of survival in the Highlands. A great lord might not admit to it, but he'd be a fool if he didn't know. He probably buys his whisky from them, too.'

The truth. ‘But why, if it is such a normal thing, do you think they mean us harm?'