Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Unwed and Unrepentant\Return of the Prodigal Gilvry\A Traitor's Touch (29 page)

He sighed. ‘One of them thinks he knows me. And it is no' a happy reunion.'

‘Does he know you?'

‘No.'

This time she believed him. She glanced at the door he had locked so carefully and recalled the pistol he had to hand in his waistband. ‘Do you have another gun?'

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Can you use a pistol?'

‘No. Surely it can't be so very difficult?' Even the stupidest men seemed to manage it.

He gave a short laugh, but there was no humour in it. ‘I have no wish to be shot by mistake, thank you verra much.'

‘But you are worried about their intentions.'

‘Persistent wee thing, aren't you?'

She should have been a bit more persistent in her refusal to accept Samuel's suit. If she hadn't been so unhappy in her cousin's house... Not true. After her first refusal Samuel had made it his mission to gain her hand. She'd never had a chance. The lure of marriage and what she took for love had been far too tempting. But she had learned her lesson. Hadn't she?

‘Do you think they will attack us?'

‘Honestly, I dinna ken.'

Her jaw dropped. What a surprise. A man admitting he was unsure about something?

He touched his cheek and shook his head. ‘I canna understand why this man thinks he knows me.'

‘What happened to your face? Were you attacked by some sort of animal?'

His face shuttered.

She winced. ‘I beg your pardon. It is none of my business. It is not so bad, when one becomes accustomed—'

‘I am in no need of soothing words, ma'am. I see how I look every time I shave.'

‘Then we are both accustomed,' she flashed back.

He gave her a look that was neither irritated nor friendly and resumed eating. He ate quickly, something she had noticed before, as if it might be his last meal.

Taking a chance on his apparent lack of ire, she decided to plunge on with her questions, albeit in a different direction.

‘Mr Gilvry, you never really said what it was that you were doing in the mountains of North Carolina when you met my husband.'

His expression darkened as if the question was unwelcome, yet not unexpected. He glanced at her face and then her bowl of untouched stew. ‘Eat first and I will tell you.'

Or would he find yet another excuse to avoid her questions? ‘I find I am not all that hungry.' Her stomach growled, giving her the lie.

He gave her an I-told-you-so look. He was very good at looks that spoke volumes. She tasted the stew. It was as good as it smelled. Thick rich gravy. Tender meat and plenty of vegetables. ‘The inn must be doing well to provide such an excellent meal.'

‘Likely it's a regular stop for those in the trade. They pay well for silence.'

‘You know a great deal about the smuggling trade.'

She was surprised when he answered, ‘Aye. I used to be one. Before I went to America.'

She closed her mouth on a gasp. ‘I am surprised you admit to it so freely,' she said as calmly as she could manage. ‘Were you... I mean, is that why you went to America?'

‘Was I transported there, you mean?'

So much for being tactful. ‘That is precisely what I mean.'

He leaned back. ‘I wasna' transported for any crime by the government.' His tone was bitter. ‘I had no choice but to go, however.'

‘Oh.' His tone did not encourage further questions. But that didn't mean she wasn't going to ask. Not at all.

He pushed his chair back from the table. His roll had disappeared and so had his stew, whereas she had eaten only a few mouthfuls.

‘Well?'

‘Eat your meal, Mrs MacDonald.' He got up and went to the hearth, crouching down and poking at the fire as if it had gone out, instead of being the merry blaze it was.

He was no doubt regretting saying as much as he had. And it really was none of her business. She ate the rest of her stew and finally sat back, completely sated.

‘That was good.'

He glanced at her plate. ‘Will you no' eat your bread?'

‘I couldn't eat another bite. You can have it if you wish.'

He picked up the bread, but did not eat it. He tucked it into his saddlebag. ‘Would you care for a dram?'

A splash of
usquebaugh
in tea to keep out the cold was one thing, but it was a long time since she'd enjoyed a glass for its own sake. Her father had never drunk anything else and had often invited Rowena to join him in a wee glass after dinner. As a governess, she never drank.

‘I would love a dram.' She got up, drew the counterpane carefully around her and went to join him at the fire, taking up residence on the settle. She couldn't help thinking of those evenings with her father. He had been such a kindly man and had never belittled her abilities. While he was ill, he had come to trust her with his business. All that had changed when he died. She'd become nothing but a spinster relative to be accommodated under her cousin's roof.

If she had known what Samuel would do with her half of the factory, she would have run a mile. She should have listened to her head instead of her heart. Well, she certainly wasn't going to make that mistake again.

He poured them both a drink and lifted his glass in a toast.
‘Sláinte
.
'

‘Good health.'

They sipped their drinks in silence.

Steam was rising from his trousers below his knees, just as it had risen from her skirts. ‘You are still wet,' she said.

He glanced down and shrugged. ‘Looks like I'll be dry soon enough. My change of clothes is also in the wagon.'

Now mist was curling up from his coat. It would take for ever to dry. ‘Perhaps the landlord could loan you his shirt.'

He shook his head.

‘What if you take a chill? You can't sit there soaking wet.'

‘Surely you aren't suggesting I strip down to my skin?' There was a mocking note in his voice, but the very thought of it made her insides melt. How infuriating that he would plant such a picture in her mind.

‘At least take your coat off and get nearer to the fire,' she said crossly.

He huffed out a breath, stripped out of his coat and went to fetch one of the dining chairs, which he set on the other side of the hearth. He hung the coat over the back. ‘Will this do?'

‘And the waistcoat.'

He took that off, too, hung it up and came back to sit beside her.

‘Satisfied?'

She eyed his trousers. ‘You really should...'

He put up a hand. ‘No, I really should not.'

‘Stubborn man.'

‘Aye, that may be so.' He breathed deeply through his nose. ‘I thought you wanted to hear my story?'

She stilled. ‘I do.'

‘Then cease your fashing and I'll tell you. Though there is little to tell, Mrs MacDonald.'

‘Would you very much mind calling me Rowena? It is dreadfully hard hearing Samuel's name every time someone speaks.'

He looked...guilty. What reason did he have for guilt?

He turned his face away, staring into the fire, his sculpted jaw softened by its glow, and flames flickering in the depths of his eye as if he was peering into hell.

‘Verra well. Rowena,' he murmured.

It sounded beautiful the way he said it. Softly. As if he was tasting the syllables on his tongue. Her insides clenched, sending a wave of desire rippling through her body. And now he was looking at her with something akin to horror. Self-disgust washed through her and she looked down at her hands. What on earth was wrong with her? She'd never had trouble containing her desires before now.

She clasped her fingers to keep her hands steady.

In the ensuing silence she glanced up at him and saw that his gaze was very far away. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. His expression said they were painful. It was hard to imagine such a hard man feeling emotional pain.

She held her breath and waited for him to speak.

‘I had been living in the mountains for some time. I made up my mind it was time to leave. To take control of my life.' His voice sounded a little strained. As if the memories were painful.

At her look of puzzlement, he shrugged. ‘When an opportunity presented itself, I headed for the coast. Then I heard sounds of the Indians attacking your husband's camp. By the time I got there only your husband was alive. He told me he was on his way back to Scotland when he'd heard that this group of Indians had gold and knew where to find it.'

He looked her straight in the eye. ‘As I understand it, he thought to trade brandy for information.'

At her blank look, he shook his head. ‘Even a dolt knows that Indians have no head for strong liquor. They become wild and aggressive.'

‘So they attacked him?'

‘Not at first. They were too drunk to do more than pass out. But the next day, when they saw he had left, taking the rest of the drink with him, they were no' verra pleased.'

An understatement if ever she heard one. ‘They followed him?'

‘Aye. I arrived too late to be of any assistance. I'm verra sorry.'

‘His foolish actions were hardly your fault.'

Her words, intended to absolve, seemed only to add to the pain in his eyes.

‘If I had arrived sooner—'

‘They might have killed you, too,' she said.

He blinked and looked as if he thought that might have been preferable.

A pain stabbed at her heart. ‘I won't hear another word of you taking the blame for my husband's stupidity.'

He turned his head away and looked into the fire as if he could see the events playing out before his eyes. ‘By the time I got to the camp, the Indians had taken what they came for and left everyone for dead.'

‘The brandy,' she whispered.

‘That they drank as soon as they found it. They took the horses, clothes, money, trinkets. Anything that took their fancy. They are a bit like children in that regard. They left some things. Mostly papers. They were crazy with drink again by then. Everyone in the camp was dead, I thought.' He shook his head. ‘I was leaving when I heard a noise from the bushes. Somehow, they'd missed him. I pulled him clear. The wound was in his belly.' He glanced at her. ‘There was nothing I could do. I thought if I could get him to a white...to a doctor... Charlotte was closest. I carried him. It was slow going. I could hardly believe he was still alive when I made camp that first night.'

She sighed. ‘Go on.'

‘We talked. He was in a lot of pain. Mostly he talked and I listened. He spoke about his wife.' He gave her a sideways look.

‘What did he say?' She steeled herself.

‘Your name. That he had some regrets.'

She gave a small laugh at that statement. Samuel had suffered regrets from the moment the knot was tied.

‘He was determined to get back to Scotland. To make amends, he said. I swore I would see that he did.'

It was hard to believe that Samuel would have cared one way or the other about her. And in his last moments, too. The thought brought tears to her eyes. Tears of regret that she hadn't been the kind of wife he had wanted.

‘The rest you know,' he said.

Looking at his expressionless face, she was certain he was holding something back, telling her only what he thought she needed to know.

Out of kindness? Or was there something more to his reticence? And did she really need to know all the gory details? It couldn't possibly impact on her current predicament.

He pushed slowly to his feet, as if he carried a heavy weight. ‘I am thinking it is time to sleep. Tomorrow will be another hard day.'

Suddenly suspicious, she frowned. ‘Where will you sleep?'

‘In here. As your husband, I can hardly bed down in the common room or outside your door. And besides, I've no intention of leaving you alone, even with the door locked.'

Her gaze strayed to the bed and her heart started to race. What would it be like to lie beside a strong virile man like him? Would he let her see him naked? Touch him. She put a hand to her throat.

‘I'll be sleeping on the floor,' he said harshly as if guessing her thoughts and being repulsed.

He bent and picked up her saddlebag and tossed it beside the screen. ‘Change behind there.'

‘Yes,' she said, breathless. ‘Yes, of course.' Flustered by the heat generated by her wayward thoughts, she ducked behind the screen and changed. When she came out, face washed, teeth cleaned, dressed in her nightgown and wrapped in the counterpane, he was standing at the window, staring into the dark.

It was almost as if he'd forgotten her presence.

She hopped into bed and drew the covers up to her chin. ‘I left some clean water in the jug,' she said. ‘And you might as well have the counterpane as a cover.' She hesitated. ‘If you would like.'

‘Thank you.' His voice was grim. He must really be regretting agreeing to this journey, she thought dismally. She tossed the cover on to the floor and pulled the sheet up over her head. The least she could do was give him some privacy.

And she didn't dare let him catch her peeking.

Chapter Five

L
ying on the hard floor beside the bed in the dark, Drew didn't know which was worse, listening to her get ready for bed and imagining her baring the slim body that he'd felt pressed against him for one brief instant out in the yard or glimpsing her chestnut locks spread out over a white pillow before she disappeared beneath the sheets.

And now there was the sound of her breathing inches from his head. His body ached at the thought of those sweetly curved lips and the image of soft little breasts rising and falling beneath the covers.

He couldn't believe how much his body wanted more of those swells and hollows. The sparks prickling along his skin every time he came within just a few feet of her were one thing. This more intimate sensual knowledge had added a new and higher pitch to his lust.

He clenched the counterpane tight in his fists and rolled on his side, facing away from her. He didn't want to find her attractive. He was his own man now, with no fetters or ties. That was how he wanted his life, and the sooner he left her with the duke, the better.

If he hadn't said he was her husband, he could have spent the night in the common room, drinking with the other men. And fighting if he had to, though he had no recollection of the man who had looked at him with such rancour. It might be a case of mistaken identity. He rubbed his fingers over his scar, feeling the raised and twisted welts. Hardly likely.

No matter what, their kind of trouble was far more welcome than what he risked in this room. But if he was busy defending himself, there would be no one looking after Rowena. He didn't dare take the chance of leaving her alone with a gang of cut-throats nearby.

He huffed out a breath. No doubt he'd have some explaining to do when he left her with the duke. There was no way around it, given that the innkeeper was the duke's tenant, not to mention what the Pockles would hear when they arrived.

Thank goodness she was a widow. At least he wouldn't be facing down an angry husband. Or worse yet, the father of an unmarried lass with a wedding on his mind. But the knowledge that she was a widow, an experienced woman, was a temptation he didn't need. Disgust at his weakness writhed like a monster in his gut.

He forced himself to breathe deeply. To listen to the sounds of the night, the way he had done so often in the vast forests. The sounds of the men below filtered through the floorboards. The carousing seemed to have tapered off. There was only the occasional mutter or shout of laughter. No doubt they would slip beneath the tables as drink overcame them. It was why he had ordered the whisky. The inn's comforting warmth would also do its work, since this sort of man usually slept out of doors. He could remember his own nights travelling the Highlands with contraband. He and Ian had thought it such an adventure, they hadn't cared about the cold and the damp. But they'd been young then, and carefree.

Was Ian still smuggling brandy for Carrick? The men downstairs would likely know. McKenzie's men from Edinburgh, the stableman had said. He wasn't familiar with the name, but no doubt the people involved had changed over the years. What they did was the same as it had always been.

He had been tempted to go back downstairs and ask after his brothers, but it seemed he'd already aroused suspicions enough. And besides, what was the point of torturing himself with thoughts of a family who had banished him out of their lives? Aye, or with recollections of an older brother who had arranged for his death? He gritted his teeth as the old pain of it squeezed the air out of his lungs.

No, he'd find out soon enough what was happening with his family when he had delivered Rowena and her husband's remains to Mere.

He forced himself to relax, to let the dark enter his mind, to welcome the oblivion of sleep.

A soft sound brought him upright, hand on the pistol he had primed and placed at his side before lying down. A whimper. From the bed. She was dreaming. No doubt she was seeing his face in her dreams. It would be enough to make anyone cry out.

She turned over.

He could see only her outline in the light from the candle, a lock of hair hanging over the side of the bed. His fingers itched to stroke its silky length.

She screamed.

He leaped to his feet and leaned over her. She was panting and fighting the bed sheets.

‘Rowena,' he said, his mouth close to her ear, his nose filling with the scent of soap and warm woman. Lust surged. He bit back a curse. ‘Rowena.' He shook her shoulder.

She opened her mouth. He cut off the scream with his palm. Her head thrashed back and forth, her fingers clawed at his hand. Scratching at his wrist.

‘Rowena,' he said in an urgent whisper. ‘Stop. It's me. Drew.'

Her eyes opened, dazed, confused. Her breathing rapid, her body trembling with fear.

Slowly he lifted his hand.

‘It is you,' she murmured. Her voice cracked on the last word, tears welling.

‘Yes,' he said, ‘You were having a bad dream.'

Staring at him, she took a few deep breaths and sat up. ‘You were trying to smother me.'

He reared back at the accusation in her voice. ‘You screamed. Another one and we'd have had that lot from downstairs knocking on the door offering assistance.' Or asking to participate. ‘You didn't want that, did you?'

‘Oh.' Her eyes cleared as if she was only now coming fully awake and conscious. ‘No. Of course not.'

He let go a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. For a moment, when she'd looked at him in terror, it had given him an unpleasant, sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach. It receded and left a very fine appreciation for the way her breasts created two snowy mounds beneath her flimsy nightgown. Under his gaze, the peaks pearled, little hard nubs at the crest of high firm breasts the size of peaches.

She followed the direction of his gaze and her face flushed bright red.

He bit down hard on a string of curses and moved away from her, going to the hearth to rake at a perfectly smoored fire. After such violent treatment, he'd be lucky if it lasted until morning. He set to work putting it right, banking it so it would once more give off enough heat to keep the chill off the air, but not use all the fuel before it was time to rise.

‘I'm sorry I woke you,' she said softly from the other side of the room.

‘It must have been a pretty bad dream,' he said, standing up, satisfied with his efforts. He glanced her way and was surprised to see she had not pulled the sheets up, but instead was sitting with her arms around her knees, watching him with those cool grey eyes.

Blood stirred in his veins. His shaft responded to the quickening throb of his pulse. How did a woman who looked as stern as an angel of retribution able to see a man's sins rouse his passions so easily?

Because he was little better than an animal, he thought bitterly.
She
had roused him, too. Made him a slave to her desires. It had been the only way to survive.

He turned away, running a hand over the beard forming on his chin.
She
'd hated those bristles almost as much as he had hated her. But if he'd stayed with her, Samuel MacDonald would still be alive and his wife wouldn't be having nightmares likely brought on by all the details he'd revealed. And by hours of seeing nothing but his ugly face.

‘I think you'll sleep better alone.' He picked up the cotton cover and headed for the door. ‘I'll be right outside the door.'

‘Drew,' she said, and while she spoke quietly there was a note of panic in her voice. ‘Please. Don't go.'

Stunned at the sound of his name on her lips, he stared at her. She looked away, twisting the sheet in her fingers. ‘I don't want to be alone right at this moment.' She lifted her gaze. ‘Talk to me. I've slept enough.'

She'd slept all of four hours. But she was still upset. Those restless hands were trembling.

She gave a small self-mocking laugh. ‘I'm sorry to make such a fuss about a dream. You need your rest. Please take no notice of my foolishness. And please don't go sleeping in a draughty corridor on my account. Indeed, take the bed. I will be quite happy to sit in the chair.'

She was babbling like a nervous child, but she was smiling at him. A smile that made him think of kindness and courage. A smile that pushed back at the shadows he saw in her eyes.

‘I'll no' be putting you out of your bed,' he said. ‘But I'll stay, if that is your wish.'

‘You are very kind, Mr Gilvry.'

So they were back on formal terms. As they should be, but he couldn't help liking the way his name sounded on her lips. It was a long time since anyone had called him Drew.

She
had always called him her yellow dog. The others in the band had followed suit, when they called him anything at all.

Sometimes, in his head, he'd begun to think of himself that way, too.

He brought a chair from the table and set it near the bed. ‘Do you want to tell me about your dream?'

She frowned. ‘Something or someone was chasing me. That is all I remember.'

A common enough dream. A shaman might have read something into it, but Drew didn't believe in their heathen superstitions. Or not much anyway.

‘What would you like to talk about?' He prayed it wouldn't be more questions about her husband. He'd revealed far more than he intended over dinner. The lingering death. Their conversations. The man had been utterly callous with respect to his wife, only caring about the prospect of wealth. Nor did he want to reveal how he had slipped away from the band who had held him prisoner for two long years. It was their drunkenness that had given him the chance to escape. But he should have known that
she
'd want him back. They must have thought he'd try to join up with MacDonald. He'd known better, but it hadn't made any difference.

‘Tell me more about you,' she said. ‘Where you grew up. Your family.'

His blood ran cold. ‘I'm no' a very interesting topic of conversation, I'm afraid.'

He slouched in the chair, trying to look at ease. It wasn't easy when he was still as hard as granite. ‘Where to start?'

‘Where in Scotland did you grow up?'

As topics went it was fairly neutral. ‘My family is from Dunross, a small village north of Inverness. My father was the laird. And my brother after him.'

She straightened. ‘You have a brother? I had the impression you were alone in the world.'

Curse intelligent females who listened to what you said. ‘I have family, but they are not looking for me to return.'

‘Why?'

Well, here was his chance to confess just what sort of man she'd been trusting. A way to serve up a bit of reality to keep her at a distance. Yet something held him back. Pride. He did not want her to think worse of him than she already did. And a measure of lingering shame. He had hurt Alice badly. He couldn't think about it without a nasty lurch in his stomach. He'd deserved his punishment. But he had not deserved to die for his mistake.

He shrugged. ‘Let us say it was better for all that I left.'

‘How long ago did you leave?' she asked softly.

Hell, if it was the year 1822 now, then it had to be... ‘Six years.'

‘And you haven't seen your family since?'

Hadn't seen them or heard from them. There had been no way to get in touch even if he had wanted to. And he hadn't. And when he did, it wasn't going to be pleasant.

He shook his head.

‘And your parents?'

He winced inwardly. ‘My father died years before I left. My ma—' It was hard to say it. He forced the words out. ‘Ma was alive when I left.'

‘She must be terribly worried.'

That was females for you. Straight for the kill. Rip out your throat or your heart. ‘I doubt it.'

A lie. His mother had been devastated when he had told her he was leaving. Had begged him to write. He hadn't sent one letter. Ian had made sure of that.

They must all assume he was dead. He steeled his heart against a surge of longing. He'd made his decision. He'd see Carrick first. Confirm exactly what favour Ian had asked of him. And then he'd send Ian to the same kind of hell as he had endured.

Her face softened. ‘And your injury?' She touched her own cheek. ‘If it is not too difficult a topic.'

He inhaled a breath though his nose. He could slough her off, but it would come up again. It wasn't as though he could hide it, not really. And every time she looked at him, she would wonder. A deep longing filled him. The need to tell someone. To tell her. Something about this woman made him want to be rid of the weight of his past. To unburden himself. But he couldn't. The shame of her knowing would finish off what was left of his soul. But he must tell her something.

‘I had been in America less than a week. I went hunting. It seemed like a grand adventure, ye ken.' He paused to gather his thoughts. ‘There was an accident.'

It wasn't until his fingers encountered the welted, knotted skin that he realised he had touched the scar. He grimaced, then smoothed out his expression. Any sort of emotion only made him look worse.

‘What sort of accident?' she asked.

‘A stray bullet.' It had strayed off its target. Either his brain or his heart, he didn't know. His foot had slipped at the same moment the shot had been fired. ‘It knocked me off my feet and I fell into a river. An Indian band found me downstream in verra poor shape.'

At her wide-eyed gasp, he shook his head. ‘Nae those who killed your husband. A small, peaceful family. They did what they could. Fed me and cared for me. And when I was well...I just stayed.'

He'd been unable to face going back as he was. Scarred. Angry, yes, but also hurt that Ian had wanted to be rid of him in such a final way. He'd decided to try to forget the words he'd heard before the shot was fired. To let his brother think he had won. Then anyway.