Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Unwed and Unrepentant\Return of the Prodigal Gilvry\A Traitor's Touch (30 page)

‘You lived among them for six years?'

Not for the last two. But she didn't need to know that. ‘It was a simple life. Almost spiritual. They are verra close to the natural world. It reminded me of the Highlands.'

He winced at how stupid that sounded, but her expression held only interest.

‘How fascinating,' she said. ‘But you decided to leave? You weren't satisfied with such a simple life?'

That life had changed. Later. When they were attacked by a band of renegades. The warriors had wanted to kill him, but their
woman of magic
had been fascinated by his yellow hair. She stopped them. And because she'd saved his life she considered him her property. He froze out the images that seared though his brain.

‘It was time to leave.' Hundreds of miles from where he'd first been taken, when her husband had showed up with the firewater and given him the chance he needed. And her husband had paid the price.

‘What about you?' he asked, changing the subject, hoping she wouldn't delve any deeper. He didn't want to lie to her, but he would not tell her the worst of it. ‘Where is your family?'

‘I was an only child. My mother and father are dead.' Sorrow coloured her voice. ‘There is a cousin, of my father's, but we are not close.'

He frowned. ‘The duke—'

She shook her head. ‘That is what I don't understand. Samuel never mentioned Mere. He told me he was alone in the world apart from very distant relatives who would not approve of him marrying into the
bourgeoisie
.' She lifted her chin. ‘It didn't matter that Mother's grandfather was an earl, of course, since she'd married into trade.' She sighed. ‘I really thought he cared for me. But it turned out he just needed my money.'

What she was saying accorded pretty well with what her husband had said, and part of him was glad the man had died. Another part felt guilty, that he'd been the one to cause his death. She'd be a great deal better off if MacDonald had lived. ‘I'm sorry.'

She sighed. ‘It was my own stupid fault. I thought he was my one chance for happiness. It turned out that it only made things worse.' She gave a small laugh and buried her face against her upraised knees. ‘Pride comes before a fall, doesn't it?'

The pain in her voice was like a blade of steel pressing into his temple. It was as if her vulnerability called out to him. He couldn't help himself, he leaned forward and touched her shoulder, felt the bone smooth, round and cool to his palm through the fine linen. ‘Any man would be proud to have you for a wife.'

Her short laugh was hard edged. ‘Mr Gilvry, please do not insult my intelligence. If he could have had the money without me, he would have been the happiest man alive. He couldn't wait to escape, once he had my fortune in his pocket.'

He could hear tears in her voice and for some reason he couldn't bear to think of her crying. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘Hush now. You've had a bad dream. It's the blackest part of the night. Things will seem better in daylight.'

She sniffed, a small sound that made his chest clench painfully. He wanted to hold her in his arms, protect her, but he didn't dare—even sitting this close had him hard with wanting. Something he could and would control. Besides, she would never consent to give him what he needed.

‘You must think me a fool.'

‘Not at all. I think you should sleep now, though. With the snow and all, it will be a long, hard day tomorrow.'

A small laugh shook her frame. ‘And the sooner we get there the sooner you can be about your own affairs.' She looked at him, her grey eyes misty, but a brave smile pinned to her lips. Lips he wanted to kiss. He pushed the thought aside.

That was her, though, he thought. Brave. Full of courage. And no matter what she said about her marriage, she would be worse off as a widow if the duke did not treat her right. For a moment he considered confessing the whole of it. Unburdening his soul. What then? Likely she'd scream bloody murder and he'd find himself behind bars. Imprisoned yet again.

He stood up. ‘Try to get some sleep.' He picked up the candle and blew it out. With the glow from the fire and the moonlight from the window now the storm had blown over, there was more than enough light for him to see his way to his blanket.

The bed ropes creaked as she lay down with a sigh. ‘Thank you, Mr Gilvry,' she said softly.

‘For what?'

‘For listening to a foolish woman.'

If there was anything she was, it was not foolish. Anyone would be troubled with nightmares after the story he'd told her of what the savages had done to her husband and his party. He wrapped himself in the counterpane and settled into his spot on the floor. He put his hands behind his head and stared up where the ceiling would be, if it wasn't hidden in the dark.

Tomorrow they'd reach the duke's estate where he'd be questioned very closely. The thing was, would he tell the duke all of it? For her sake? Would it help? The lawyer had said since there was no proof, the date wasna' important. His eyes said he was lying.

Drew listened to the sounds of a house breathing as his mind grappled with the question. The soft sounds of a dwelling at rest.

A creak. Outside the door. Heavy weight pressing down on wood. Metal against metal. He sat up. So did Rowena. Silently he rose, pistol in hand, leaning over her, once again pressing his palm to her lovely mouth. ‘Hush,' he breathed softly in her ear.

She nodded. Not only brave, but trusting. Of him. Too trusting.

The thought was a sickening lurch in his stomach he could not afford to acknowledge. He crept to the door, careful to avoid the loose board in the middle of the room and another in front of the door.

The latch lifted, the door moved in the frame, just a wee bit. As far as the lock would allow. Now, who would be trying the door in the middle of the night? And what sort of idiot would expect it would not be locked?

He glanced over his shoulder. Rowena was watching him, her profile outlined by the glow of the fire, her body rigid.

The pressure against the door ceased and it returned to its former position in the frame, but he could hear the sound of quiet breathing on the other side. A sound of metal against metal. Whoever was out there was determined to get in and, if he wasn't mistaken, they had another key.

* * *

All Rowena could see was the dark bulk of Drew's shape in the shadows near the door where the moonbeams streaming through the window did not reach. Breath held, she watched, her stomach clenched tight, her throat aching with the urge to say something to break the tension she felt in the room.

Was someone really trying to break in?

A sharp sound. Something dropping to the floor. Drew picked it up. In a flash, she realised it must be the key from their side of the door. Startled, she threw back the covers.

At the same moment, Drew flung open the door to reveal two burly men, one holding a lantern. Rowena, half out of bed, covered her eyes against the sudden glare.

Someone—one of them, she thought—cursed.

When she looked again, she could see why. Drew was holding them at bay at pistol point. The man with the lantern was backing up, struggling to free his pistol from his belt, the other one had what looked like a lump of wood in his hand.

‘Leave that where it is,' Drew said calmly to the man with the lantern. The man held still.

Drew narrowed his eyes. ‘Planning on robbing us while we slept? Who gave you the key?'

‘We just wanted to ask a few questions,' the man with the cudgel said, his voice hoarse. He looked at the pistol and licked his lips.

Drew glared at him. ‘You could have asked me in the morning.'

‘We won't be here come morning,' the man with the lantern said. ‘I do know you. I've seen you afore.'

Drew stiffened. ‘I have never met you in my life.'

He frowned. ‘Gilvry your name is. Not MacDonald. Led us a pretty chase in Edinburgh last summer, didn't he, Morris?'

‘Aye,' the man called Morris said. ‘Caused our boss a load of trouble.'

An expression of shock passed across Drew's face. He masked it quickly, but Rowena knew the man's words had hit home for some reason. But how could he have been in Edinburgh last summer? It didn't make sense.

‘You are mistaken,' he said. ‘I am Samuel MacDonald. And this is my wife.'

The man with the cudgel, the one who seemed to be in charge, shook his head. ‘No, laddie. You might have fooled us poor folks, what ne'er meet with the nobs, but you can't fool McRae. He's met Samuel MacDonald. You're a Gilvry. A spy. You ruined McKenzie's business once—he'll no' be very happy if you ruin more of it. So what I wants to know is, what game are ye playing?'

Comprehension dawned on Drew's face. ‘Whisky,' he said. ‘You think I'm here because of the whisky. Well, I'm not.'

The man shook his head. ‘Not good enough, laddie. You'll need to explain to McKenzie. We'll be takin' you to Edinburgh.'

Rowena gasped.

Drew smiled tightly. ‘I see. Well, if we are going on a journey, I hope you won't mind if my wife gets dressed.'

The man with the lantern leered. ‘She is more than welcome to come as she is.'

‘Rowena,' Drew said.

The word was a command. Legs shaking, she scurried behind the screen. Stays were impossible, but she could manage her shirt and riding habit. With a bit of a struggle she got dressed. If only her hands would stop shaking. And her throat was so dry, she couldn't swallow.

She pulled on her boots and sidled around the screen.

‘Are you ready?' Drew asked.

‘Yes,' she croaked and tried swallowing again.

Drew smiled and cocked his weapon. ‘This pistol says I am no' going anywhere with you.'

The men at the door gaped at him.

Then there was a noise beyond the window. A sort of scraping sound. From the cocking of his head, she knew Drew heard it, too. He jerked his head in that direction and she ran to look out.

And screamed, leaping back. There was a bearded face on the other side of the glass, grinning at her.

In that second, all hell seemed to break loose. The door slammed shut. The room went dark. A pistol fired with a blinding flash and deafening bang. Glass shattered. The smell of black powder hit the back of her throat. She threw herself to the floor.

‘Get up,' Drew said, his voice cold, his hand gripping hard on her arm as he pulled her to her feet. ‘Get your cloak.'

As ordered she grabbed her cloak from the settle and wrapped it around her. Still damp, but warm from the fire.

Shouts and bangs came from beyond the door. Then the sound of someone running downstairs.

‘Come here,' he said. He flung something out of the window and then knelt by the bed, tying something to the leg. A rope.

Then he picked up their saddlebags and threw them out. ‘What are you doing?' she cried.

‘We're leaving.' He picked her up, flung her over his shoulder and climbed out of the window.

It was a short drop to a roof just below the window. And another to the ground. He landed in a shower of snow. Another bang and a flash. She ducked. Someone was firing at them from the window they had just left. A scream lodged in her throat.

‘Run,' Drew said. ‘This way.' He grabbed her hand, snatching up the saddlebags on the way past. They charged into the stables.

The horses stirred.

‘No time for saddles,' Drew said hastily untying the horses. ‘Can you ride astride?'

She had no idea, but, too breathless to speak, her heart thundering too loud, she nodded.

He threw her up on her horse. ‘Tuck your skirts between your legs, aye.'

Her jaw dropped, but he'd left her to mount his own horse at a leap. Assuming he knew whereof he spoke, she did as he suggested. He grabbed her horse's reins and they charged out of the stable door at a gallop.

A shape holding a lantern darted towards them, but when he realised they were not going to stop, he dived out of the way.

A gun fired. She half expected to feel a searing pain in her back. But no, it seemed whoever was shooting had missed. And then they were fleeing into the night, leaving behind them the sound of curses.

They rode uphill, sometimes walking the horses to give them a brief rest, sometimes breaking into a bone-jarring trot. Moonlight reflecting on snow made the landscape featureless and ghostly.

Ahead of her, Drew kept looking over his shoulder. She looked back once, but almost lost her seat, so contented herself with clinging on desperately and praying that they were not going to stumble off a cliff or fall into a burn. The cold bit into the bare flesh of her legs above her boots and stockings and the rough horse blanket rubbed against the insides of her lower legs. She could not deny she was glad of the fabric of her skirts between the blankets and her thighs, but even so she did not know how long she could ride without a saddle.

Soon it was clear the horses were blown and about the time she was going to suggest they stop for a rest, he halted. Once more he looked back.

Her heart tripped and stumbled. ‘Are they coming?'

‘No.'

The hoof prints in the snow would be hard to miss. ‘Do you think they will follow?'

‘Lucky for us, they only have ponies. The wee beasties canna follow us through the drifts.'

‘Well, that's a relief.'

He looked at her, then laughed.

‘What is so funny?'

‘Nothing. I'm just relieved you are no' having a fit of the hysterics.'

‘Do you think it would help?'

‘Not at all.' He looked up at the stars. ‘North-west is where we need to go if I remember right from the map.'

She looked up. ‘You can tell where we are from the stars?'

‘Aye. Something I learned from the Indians. It works the same on land as it does on the ocean.'

He turned away.