Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Unwed and Unrepentant\Return of the Prodigal Gilvry\A Traitor's Touch (34 page)

‘I beg your pardon, ma'am. I had intended to be here several days ago. The duke sent me with supplies, but with the snowstorm...' He gestured vaguely at the window. ‘The Pockles...'

‘At this moment, I have no clue what has happened to the Pockles.'

He swallowed. ‘Mr Samuel—'

‘His remains are with them.'

‘Yes,' he said hurriedly. ‘Yes, of course. But the duke is most anxious to see his cousin appropriately interred, you understand. Most anxious.' He gave her a look askance. ‘If it is his cousin.'

She stared at him and narrowed her eyes in a sudden suspicion. Was this what they planned? To find a way to deny that Samuel was really dead? ‘Of course it is.'

‘The body must be properly identified. To the duke's satisfaction.' He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. The man was sweating despite the room being as cold as charity. ‘And the date of death properly established.'

The date? Aha. Now they were back to the date. ‘Then the sooner I and Mr Gilvry, who knows the date, meet with the duke, the better.'

Sounds emanated from the kitchen. Loud sounds. Drew returning. The steward sent her a questioning look.

Rowena smiled calmly, folding her hands in her lap.

The next moment Drew appeared in the doorway, glowering at her guest. ‘Who is this, then?'

‘This is the duke's steward, Mr Weir,' she said, ‘sent to see if I am pleased with my new accommodations.'

Weir, who had been staring at Drew's face with a kind of fascinated horror, rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘You must be Gilvry.'

Drew looked him up and down with a dismissive expression. ‘I hope you have apologised to Mrs MacDonald for the dreadful state of this property. Not a stick of wood or a bite of food in the place. Not to mention the dirt.'

‘I...I have indeed begged her pardon,' Weir said in a choking voice. ‘I have brought supplies.'

‘How long will it take to get to Mere from here?' Drew asked.

‘It is a day's journey, on a good day, the roads being what they are. I set out yesterday, but was delayed by the storm.'

‘As were we,' Gilvry said in a voice as dry as dust. ‘Come on, then, man, let us see what you have. You can give me a hand to unload.'

The steward stiffened. ‘I...'

Drew glared at him. Only by dint of will did Rowena stop herself from grinning when the little man seemed to deflate as Drew ushered him out.

Chapter Nine

S
omething was wrong. Drew could feel it deep in his bones. And in the bitter taste on his tongue.

He stomped out of the front door and made his way to the back of the cart. When he'd heard about the house set aside for her on the ducal estate, he'd assumed it meant a dower house in the grounds, near the duke's abode, not some cottage in the middle of nowhere.

It was almost as if the duke had decided to isolate her from the world. As if she was some sort of dirty secret.

He threw back the tarpaulin. A cage full of chickens fluttered and squawked in panic. His gut fell away as he stared at the rest of the contents. Flour. Salt beef. Ham. A barrel of apples. Winter supplies. And those were the things he could make out at a glance.

He swung around to face Weir, grabbing the man's lapels, bringing him close to his face with a snarl. ‘What the hell is going on?'

The steward leaned back, ineffectually batting at Drew's hands. ‘How dare you, sir? Release me at once.'

Drew shoved him away. ‘Well? Answer my question.'

‘I do not take your meaning, Gilvry.'

‘I mean,' he said, holding on to his anger, just barely, ‘she is the widow of the duke's cousin, damn it. Why is she being treated like some sort of pariah?'

The little man's moustache's bristled. He tugged his coat straight. ‘She was Mr MacDonald's responsibility. Not the duke's. She has no official status in the family. He is being more than generous.' He gestured to the house and the cart.

Drew's fingers trembled with the strain of not closing around the other man's throat and squeezing. Hard. ‘She's a lady. Is she supposed to raise chickens? Keep a cow? Cook and clean?'

Weir retreated a step. ‘The Pockles were hired—'

He snorted his disgust. ‘The Pockles. A lazy good-for-naught and his slatternly wife and nowhere to house them decently. I demand that Mrs MacDonald be taken to the duke immediately, as is fitting.'

The little man stiffened. ‘Demand, sir? Demand? You are in no position to demand anything. Were you not the man who was present at Mr MacDonald's death? And now the man who sticks like a burr to his widow?' His lip curled. ‘And the pair of you giving the Pockles the slip? How many nights is it since the lady had any sort of chaperon?'

Drew's hands curled into fists. Every muscle in his body tensed. ‘Are you accusing me of some sort of dishonourable conduct with respect to the lady?'

Weir hesitated, his beady eyes clearly calculating the odds of his escaping with his life. He must have realised they were not good. ‘No. Of course not,' he muttered. ‘But you must see this from the duke's perspective. A woman who the duke has never heard of arrives, announcing his cousin's demise with the man who said he witnessed the death, and demanding settlement of her affairs. The duke is bound to be cautious. As are his advisors.'

Drew forced his hands to relax. ‘The duke owes her the courtesy of speaking to her in person.'

‘Perhaps if you and the lady could provide a little more definitive information.' His smile was ingratiating.

‘Will her husband's body be definitive enough?'

‘Once it is identified it will go part way to easing the duke's concerns.'

Drew smiled, or at least bared his teeth in what might be interpreted as a smile, but clearly was not by Weir, who backed up hard against the cartwheel. ‘It can be identified. I ha' made sure of it, if the damned Pockles have not lost the body along the way. Perhaps the duke should be sending out a search party. Does he know there are smugglers using his land for convenient passage?'

‘Smugglers?'

‘Oh, aye, you know, all right. I can see it in your face. They set upon us at McRae's inn last evening, which is why we have now arrived without the damned Pockles.' A thought occurred to him. His gut clenched. ‘We can only hope the Pockles did not encounter them on the road.'

‘I doubt smugglers would have any reason to bother a coffin,' the man said a little stiffly.

‘Unless that coffin is also a cask full of the best brandy to be found in North Carolina.'

Mr Weir turned green.

Drew glared at him. ‘Well, let us get this cart unloaded. We can continue our conversation while we work.'

* * *

Rowena watched as Drew piled two sacks onto the steward's outstretched arms. The little man's knees buckled, but he bravely staggered around the back of the house with his burden.

She stared open-mouthed at the crate of chickens Drew pulled off next. Live chickens? Was she supposed to keep them, or eat them? Her only experience of chickens was with a roast or a fricassee presented on a plate on the table. Or paying the butcher's bill.

But without any servants, or money to pay them, she had the horrid feeling she might be learning a whole new way of dealing with them. She glanced down the lane in front of the house, hoping to see the Pockles riding to the rescue.

No. She couldn't rely on anyone else to help her out of this peculiar situation. She must attack the problem head-on. Take on the duke. She ran upstairs and dug around in her saddlebag. Yes, here it was. The tattered remains of her journal and a pencil Samuel had purchased for her as a bride gift. He had one just like it, only his was bound in blue morocco leather, while hers was red.

What had happened to his journal? It might have shed some light on just what her husband had been doing out there in the wilds. It was completely out of character for a man like Samuel, who liked his comforts, to stray from the pleasures offered in town.

She ripped a blank page from the back and looked at the tip of her pencil. A bit blunt, but not completely useless. She sat at the dresser and began to write.

Your Grace,

While we have as yet to meet, I find myself compelled to introduce myself. I am, as you are aware, your cousin by marriage to Samuel MacDonald. It is most important that you grant me an interview at your earliest convenience, to discuss matters that I believe we will find of mutual benefit. I look forward to hearing from you as to when such a meeting will be convenient. If you have not come to see me before the week is out, I shall call on you at your residence.

Respectfully yours...

Once more she raked through the saddlebag and this time located a stub of sealing wax and Samuel's ring.

She took her letter downstairs, heated the wax over the fire until she managed to get a few drops to fall on the fold then pressed the ring into it.

She spun around as Mr Weir entered the kitchen with an arm full of logs, followed by a glowering Drew.

‘That's everything,' he said.

‘Are there candles?' she asked.

‘Aye. I put them in the dresser,' Drew said.

‘Excellent.' She turned to Weir. ‘I have a letter for you to take back to the duke, if you would be so good.'

The man glanced at Drew and shifted from foot to foot. ‘It would be my pleasure, ma'am.'

‘If I do not hear back from the duke within a week, do tell him to expect my call,' she said sweetly. ‘I am sure Mr Gilvry would be happy to accompany me to the castle.'

A look of panic crossed Weir's face.

She frowned. ‘Would that be a problem?'

But the man had already pulled himself together and his face was once more without expression. ‘I will give his Grace your message.'

He turned, then realised Drew was standing right behind him. He tried to dodge, but both men stepped in the same direction. Once, twice and a third time. Drew finally took pity on him and stepped aside to let him pass.

‘One week, mind,' he said as the man scurried out of the kitchen door.

When she was sure he was out of the house and turning his cart around in the lane, she took a deep breath. ‘I don't care what the duke answers. I will not stay here for more than one week.' She paced across the floor to gaze out of the window. Weir and his cart had disappeared. She spun around. ‘He queried Sam's date of death.'

‘What? Why?'

‘It was a passing mention. It is very strange. If only there was something to prove your recollection.'

A shadow passed across his face. ‘I'm sorry,' he said.

Her stomach dipped. His expression was wooden. He had thought of something, but it did not suit him to tell her.

He must have seen the doubt in her face because he grimaced, the movement pulling at the scar on his cheek and making his lip curl more than usual. ‘Perhaps the duke will take a man's word without cavilling.'

‘I don't think they mean to impugn your honour,' she said. ‘It seems to be more a matter of legalities.'

‘It is some sort of bureaucratic nonsense, if you want my opinion.' His fingers flexed, then he let out a short breath. ‘I know for certain he died on September fifteenth and so I will swear before God and the courts.'

‘Then we have to hope it will suffice.'

‘Aye.'

Such a wealth of meaning in that one word. Distrust. Regret. Anger. Drew Gilvry was a complex man who had secrets. And he wasn't going to part with them for a mere duke. Or for her. Not unless it suited him. But if he did have some sort of proof of the date, what possible reason could he have for keeping such a thing a secret?

No, her suspicions were groundless. It was wishful thinking that something good could come from all this. She sighed. ‘In the meantime, I suppose we must kick our heels until we hear back from the duke.'

‘Indeed.'

‘Then it is a good thing I gave him an ultimatum.'

‘Aye. I suppose it is.' He sounded amused.

She shot him a hard stare. ‘Then let us see if we can turn some of those supplies into a decent meal.'

‘Oh, I think that can be done, Mrs MacDonald.'

* * *

The next afternoon, the Pockles arrived.

Sans the barrel.

‘Where is it?' Drew barked at Pockle, looking into the back of the cart.

‘That is what I would like to know,' Rowena said, marching down the path. ‘I am glad to see you have not lost my luggage, but what have you done with my husband?'

Pockle touched a finger to his forelock. ‘We broke a wheel when we were setting out from McRae's. We were only hours behind you, but had to stay until it was repaired.'

She looked down her haughty nose, like a queen observing the lowest of her subjects, and Pockle seemed to shrivel. Drew held his tongue. She didn't need any help from him. Pockle was most definitely cowed.

Mrs Pockle gave her a look of dislike. ‘One of the duke's men met us on the road. Mr Weir. He took charge of his Grace's cousin. And glad of it I am.' She shuddered.

Rowena's eyes widened. She glanced at Drew, worry clouding her gaze.

‘Why did he do that?' Drew asked.

‘He said the duke was anxious to see his cousin's remains decently cared for.'

And if the duke saw fit not to identify them as his cousin? He could see the same thought flickering over Rowena's face.

‘I think we should not wait for his Grace to agree to a meeting,' Drew said.

Pockle stared at him. ‘What? No. You are to stay here until the duke sends for you. Weir said so.'

‘I don't answer to Mr Weir,' Rowena said. ‘Or the duke, actually.'

‘Och, now, listen here,' Pockle said. ‘His Grace is to send his lawyer to visit you. In a day or so.'

Weir had said nothing about sending the lawyer. It was something Weir must have made up on his way to meet the Pockles. Now, why would he do that?

‘You mean Mr Jones, I assume,' Rowena said sweetly.

Pockle scratched at his shoulder. ‘That's it. That's the name he gave.'

‘I already met Mr Jones. The person I have not yet met is his Grace.'

‘We will set out first thing in the morning,' Drew said.

Mrs Pockle gave a sort of a wail. ‘But we only just got here.'

‘You don't have to come with us,' Rowena said.

Pockle glowered. Drew tried to hide a smile as she lifted her chin and the man seemed to crumble.

‘There is one thing I wanted to ask you,' Drew said. ‘Did you run into a gang of smugglers at McRae's?'

‘No,' Pockle said. ‘But I heard they attacked the inn. You were lucky you escaped with your lives.'

‘Attacked the inn, did they?' Drew said his voice dry. He could imagine McRae covering his own arse in case he or Rowena went to the duke, demanding justice.

‘And the one I shot?' Drew asked.

‘Dead.'

Drew swallowed a curse, not wanting to worry Rowena, but he had the feeling that he wouldn't have heard the last of the smugglers if he'd killed one of their number. Something else to lay at his brother's door.

‘Did McRae say anything else?' he asked. Such as he'd slept in Rowena's chamber?

‘He said he was sorry it happened under his roof,' Pockle said, his eyes innocent of any slyness. ‘He asked me to apologise. To say he would not have had the lady so inconvenienced for the world and so he would tell the duke if need be.'

And if Rowena didn't blame him for what happened, no doubt he would say nothing about their pretence to be a married couple.

He noticed Rowena eyeing her bag with eagerness. He could imagine why. The poor lass hadn't had a change of clothes in days. He lifted it down and carried it into the house.

‘Don't bother carrying it upstairs,' she said, following him in, ‘since we will be carrying it out again tomorrow.'

‘It is no trouble, madam,' he said, and marched upstairs.

‘And where do I sleep?' he could hear Mrs Pockle asking Rowena.

‘There is another bedroom at the back,' she replied. ‘Pockle will join Mr Gilvry in the stables until we can make a better arrangement. It is something I mean to take up with the duke.'

He grinned at the sound of Pockle's groan of displeasure. But it made a point: that he had not been sleeping in the same house as a woman on her own. Whether the Pockles would believe it was another matter, but since he had made his bed out there last night and the evidence was quite plain to be seen, there was no reason for them not to believe it.