Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Unwed and Unrepentant\Return of the Prodigal Gilvry\A Traitor's Touch (35 page)

And having Pockle for company, much as he despised the man, would keep him from succumbing to the temptation he'd barely resisted the previous night. Not that he expected Rowena would welcome his company.

He dropped the bag on the floor and could not help from glancing at the bed, the covers neatly straightened as if no one had slept there.

All last night he had kept envisaging the way she had surrendered to his uncouth demands. How she had submitted to his rampant lust. His blood ran hot. And then he remembered the shame on her face. The embarrassment. His blood chilled as if he had stepped neck deep into the stream in the garden.

Thank goodness they were leaving tomorrow. Once under the duke's roof there would be no further opportunities for temptation.

If he felt disappointment at the thought, it was because his inner beast had no conscience. But he did. And the weight of it was a heavy burden. He made his way downstairs.

Rowena, with a grumpy-looking Mrs Pockle, met him at the bottom. He gave the servant a hard look. ‘Mrs MacDonald will be needing hot water to bathe and a change of clothes.'

He bowed to Rowena. ‘If it is all right with you, I will go and see if my traps have resulted in fresh meat. Hopefully, Mrs Pockle can make stew for dinner. Or perhaps a nice rabbit pie.'

‘That would be wonderful,' Rowena said.

Mrs Pockle looked as if she wanted to hit Drew over the head. He made good his escape before she found a rolling pin.

* * *

Pockle drained his tankard of small beer and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his belly. ‘Very nice, Mrs Pockle,' he said.

Drew's traps had yielded up some game and, with the supplies Weir had dropped off and the surprisingly excellent cooking skills of Mrs Pockle, he had to admit dinner was excellent.

Rowena was dining in solitary state in the parlour, while he and the Pockles ate in the warm, if somewhat overcrowded, kitchen.

‘Yes,' Drew said. ‘Excellent meal. My compliments, Mrs Pockle.' He drained his own tankard and pushed his chair back.

‘A moment afore you go, Mr Gilvry,' Pockle said.

‘Yes?'

‘You and Mrs MacDonald seem to have a pretty good understanding.'

Drew stiffened. ‘What do you imply?'

Pockle blinked. ‘Why, naught but to say that she seems to take your advice. Can I suggest that you advise her to wait here at the duke's pleasure? It is not a good thing to go upsetting a duke, ye ken.'

It was definitely a warning. Likely something cooked up between the Pockles while he was out in the woods, no doubt. ‘You think he will turn her away from his door?'

Pockle leaned forward. ‘He's a duke. Who knows what he will do? But Mr Weir's instructions were very clear. It won't do her any good to set his Grace against her, now will it?'

‘Do you know why he would not want to receive a visit from Mrs MacDonald?'

Pockle rolled his eyes. ‘Dukes don't confide in the likes of me.' He picked up his tankard and looked into the bottom of it, clearly hoping it wasn't empty. He put it down again with a sigh when he was wrong. ‘All I'm sayin' is that Mr Weir made his orders very clear.'

‘And you want me to speak to Mrs MacDonald about it.'

Mrs Pockle nodded her head vigorously. ‘She won't listen to us, but she might listen to you.'

‘Not if her mind is made up.' Still, it would be an opportunity to talk over their strategy for the morrow in private. ‘Verra well. I'll talk to her.'

‘You do that, lad,' Pockle said.

Ignoring the urge to shove the word
lad
down the other man's throat, Drew got up from the table. He closed the kitchen door behind him and strode into the parlour.

Rowena had made little of the meal he saw and was now seated beside the hearth.

‘You should eat more,' he said.

When she looked up, her gaze was bleak. ‘I'm worried about tomorrow.'

And there wasn't much he could say to ease her concern. ‘Do you think we should wait? You did give the duke a week to respond.'

‘Is that your advice?'

He shook his head. ‘There is something havey-cavey going on.' He raised a hand. ‘I know. I am not being completely helpful. Still, it seems odd to me that Weir did not inform you that Jones was to pay you a visit. It was almost as if he thought it up on the way to find Pockle.'

Some of the worry left her face. ‘You thought that, too?'

‘I did.' He went to the door and looked down the hallway. The kitchen door remained closed. ‘I think attack is the best form of defence. And surprise will give you an advantage.'

‘Then it's settled.' She rose to her feet. She was wearing the same gown she'd been wearing the first time he saw her. She'd looked so calm that evening. So controlled. So much in command. It was hard to put that side of her together with the woman who had subjugated herself to his dark desires.

He wanted to apologise. Beg forgiveness. To do so would be a lie. Because if he had the chance, he would do it all over again.

Chapter Ten

C
astle was a complete misnomer, Rowena thought as the cart rocked its way up the long drive. Yes, off to the right there were some ruins that might have been a castle once, long ago. The ducal residence was in fact a grand mansion built some time in the late seventeenth century that had somehow survived the wars between England and Scotland.

Its walls were grim and grey, as was the statuary decorating the corners and niches across its face. It had a slightly shabby look about it. Imposing, yes, but here and there brickwork showed through the stuccoed facade. And some of the statues were missing an arm or a bit of their drapery.

A place like this would be enormously expensive to keep up.

‘Have you been here before?' she asked Mrs Pockle seated beside her on the cart. Drew and Pockle rode either side of them, like an honour guard.

The woman nodded. ‘My family lived on the estate. So did Pockle's, but ne'er did I expect to go inside the house.'

She might not enter upon this occasion either, if the duke turned them away at the door. Rowena glanced down at her clothing. She'd worn her second-best gown and spencer. Fortunately, a governess wore subdued practical colours and dark grey was very nearly appropriate for mourning. They halted outside the front door. Drew helped her down from the cart. She eyed the imposing entrance askance. No sense in hesitating. She squared her shoulders and walked towards the front door.

Drew kept pace. As usual he wore Samuel's coats and linen as well as snug-fitting doeskin breeches, and his boots were polished to a high shine that did not hide that they were neither new nor in the first stare of fashion.

But for all that the greatcoat was too tight across his shoulders and chest, he looked remarkably handsome. And to his surprise, she had told him so before they left.

He'd touched his cheek and she'd shaken her head. ‘I hardly notice it, you know,' she had said. An odd look had softened his usually harsh expression, but he had turned away before she could interpret it.

Now he strode at her side, looking grimly purposeful, as if preparing to fight a dragon on her behalf. How could she not feel safe with such a strong, commanding man at her side? Yet it would not do to rely on him too much. He had made it quite clear he intended to hand off his responsibility for her at the earliest opportunity.

He rapped on the monstrous wooden door.

It creaked open, loudly proclaiming it needed oil. Something a good housekeeper would never allow.

An elderly footman looked at them with enquiry.

‘Mrs MacDonald to see the duke,' Drew proclaimed and handed him her calling card. Or rather the card she had created from a flyleaf at the back of her woebegone journal.

With a muttered, ‘Wait here,' the man shut the door in their faces.

Rowena raised a brow and looked at Drew.

He shrugged. ‘He didna' say go away.'

So they waited. After five minutes, Rowena wondered if she should ask Drew to knock again.

She opened her mouth to do so, but the door once more protested on its hinges and swung inwards. This time, a butler stood at attention, wearing a black frock coat and a severe expression.

‘You are to come in,' he said, and gestured for her to enter.

Relief slid down her spine in a whisper. It seemed the duke was not as unreasonable as his minions seemed to indicate. She stepped over the threshold and Drew followed her in. The butler, a man well into his sixties, with a few grey hairs pasted to his bald pate, took their coats. He looked at Drew and then at her. ‘Who else shall I say is calling, madam?'

‘This is Mr Gilvry, my man of business. Mr Jones is acquainted with him.'

‘Will you send someone to see to the horses?' Drew requested. ‘And Mrs MacDonald's driver and maid.'

The butler bowed. ‘Yes, sir.' He walked to one of the doors leading off the great hall and opened it. ‘If you would wait here? I will inform her ladyship.'

‘Are you speaking of the duchess?' Rowena asked.

‘Lady Cragg, madam.'

‘We wish to see the duke,' Drew said.

‘The duke is indisposed.' He whisked away before they could ask more questions.

‘I have no idea who Lady Cragg might be,' she said to Drew.

‘Nor I. It is not a name I have heard on anyone's lips before now.'

‘It seems odd that the duke would send someone who is not a family member to receive me.'

‘She could be a cousin. Or a companion to the duchess.'

Rowena frowned. ‘Is there a duchess? I wish I had been able to look him up in
Debrett's
. Indeed, I should have thought to do so before we left Dundee. It just didn't occur to me.'

The sound of quick, sharp footsteps on marble echoed in the great hall on the other side of the door. ‘I suspect all is about to be revealed,' Drew said.

* * *

‘Dear Mrs MacDonald, it is my pleasure to welcome to you to Mere, despite the sadness of the times.'

The woman who entered, holding out her hands and offering a gentle smile to Rowena, was in her sixties, with crimped grey hair beneath a black lace cap. She was wearing deep mourning. For the recently departed duke? She was followed in by Jones, the lawyer. He must have set out for Mere at the same time they had. Why had he lied about going to Edinburgh?

‘Thank you,' Rowena said, clearly taken aback by the effusive welcome as she let the woman take both her hands in hers, but her frowning gaze had fixed upon Mr Jones, who bowed and smirked.

‘I am Lady Cragg,' the other woman said. ‘Also a distant relation to your poor husband. You know Mr Jones, of course. Please, do sit down.'

Rowena sank into the offered chair. The woman looked pointedly at Drew and then recoiled as she took in his face. He should have worn his scarf. Her gaze wandered over his too-small coats and shabby boots, and her lip curled in a sneer. He met her gaze with a glower. ‘Andrew Gilvry, my lady. At your service.' He bowed.

‘Please, do be seated, Mr Gilvry.'

This was a woman very much used to obedience and a woman very much in command of the situation. A strange prickle ran across the back of his neck.

Drew sat to the right and a little behind Rowena, offering his support, but making it clear she was in charge. After pulling the bell rope, Mr Jones sat on a gilt chair a few feet from Drew.

‘I wish to speak to his Grace,' Rowena said, gathering herself once more.

‘Sadly, he is indisposed,' Lady Cragg said calmly. ‘He was laid low by the death of the late duke, and I, as his only living relative, am charged with looking after his affairs until his doctor indicates he is well enough to face the world.'

Rowena frowned. ‘I understood that there was no direct heir to the dukedom. That there were some doubts—'

‘All doubts have been resolved,' Mr Jones said. ‘Even now the late duke's will is in probate.'

‘That is the reason I wish to see the duke. I understand that my husband, Mr Samuel MacDonald, left the duke as executor to his will. So far, Mr Jones has been able to give me very little information about my husband's financial affairs. While the duke is kind to provide me with a house, I really prefer my independence. So I have come to sort out my affairs.'

Nothing like attacking a problem head-on, Drew thought with admiration.

‘I understand your anxiety, Mrs MacDonald. Indeed I do. You must understand there have been many petitioners coming forward seeking financial redress of the duke. A most distressing time for all. Clearly as family, you have more claim than most, hence the offer of a house until matters could be resolved. Am I to understand that you are rejecting the duke's largesse?'

Drew looked to see how Rowena would receive what was obviously a reprimand. Her face was pale and her expression worried. His anger pushed to the fore. ‘Mrs MacDonald has no wish to discommode anyone, Lady Cragg,' he said. ‘But the house is most unsuitable for a widow of her standing. Not only is it in the middle of nowhere, but it is practically in ruins.'

It was pushing it a bit, but he could not sit by and see her bullied.

Lady Cragg turned her gaze on Drew. While her smile was pleasant enough the brown eyes were shrewd and calculating. ‘Ah, yes. I understand from Mr Jones that you are the man who brought Mr Samuel back to Scotland and that you are acting as Mrs MacDonald's man of affairs.'

She made it sound sordid. Had the Pockles said something to Weir about them spending a night together alone after all? He glared at her. ‘I am. And it seems to me, that as a member of Mere's family—'

‘Your defence of your client is commendable, Mr Gilvry,' Lady Cragg said. ‘And I wholeheartedly agree with your sentiments. I don't know what Mr Weir was thinking when he suggested that cottage. Likely it was the only vacant property available. I was appalled at Weir's description when he returned yesterday. You must understand that our lives have been at sixes and sevens here at Mere for some weeks now.' She bowed her head slightly. ‘I apologise for his mistake.' Her smile was tight and a little forced. ‘Please, Mrs MacDonald, do forgive us, and may I welcome you to reside at Mere Castle until the duke is able to meet with you. You may be sure that appropriate arrangements will be made for your future. The duke is not one to avoid his obligations.'

That took the wind out of their sails to be sure and the worry out of Rowena's face. ‘You are very kind,' she said.

It was just too easy. ‘What sort of arrangements?' Drew asked.

The gimlet eyes returned to his face and she visibly repressed a shudder of distaste. ‘I do not believe Mrs MacDonald will require your services any longer, Mr Gilvry. The remains have been identified as Mr Samuel MacDonald's. Mr Jones is undertaking the probate of his will along with that of the duke's...' She frowned. ‘You are not a lawyer, I understand?'

‘No, I am no' a lawyer,' he said. ‘I stand as a friend and an advisor—'

‘I am sure Mrs MacDonald will be more than happy to leave legal matters in Mr Jones's capable hands?' She looked at Rowena, who in turn looked at Drew.

‘What about the matter of the date of Mr MacDonald's death? There has been some importance placed on this issue in our conversation with Mr Jones. And with Mr Weir.'

Lady Cragg waved a dismissive hand. ‘Mr Jones was following my instructions, I am afraid. Our concern was the interment, the carving of the stone. A date is required.'

He glanced at Rowena, who was looking at her open-mouthed. ‘I gave Mr Jones the date. He said he needed proof.'

Lady Cragg raised her iron-grey brows at Mr Jones, who gave a little cough behind his hand. ‘A misunderstanding, I'm afraid. I was confusing the date with that of the duke. A most unfortunate lapse. I do apologise. Your word is not being questioned.'

He gaped at the smarmy young man, who shrugged.

‘May I have a moment alone with Mrs MacDonald?' Drew asked.

‘Certainly,' Lady Cragg said. ‘I will arrange for tea to be served in the parlour, Mrs MacDonald. Ring for a footman to show you the way when you are done here. Mr Gilvry, you have been of great service to our family. You will attend Mr Jones in his office when you are ready to leave and you will be recompensed as is only right.'

She got up and swept out.

Jones bowed to Rowena. He looked at Drew. ‘I will wait outside in the hall.' He also withdrew.

Drew frowned. ‘They seem very...accommodating.'

Rowena rose to her feet and paced around the room. ‘Almost a complete about-face.' She looked at him. ‘Do you think I should trust them? Lady Cragg seems very nice. Very open. The date is no longer an issue and they are my husband's family...'

Did being family make Lady Cragg worthy of trust? He wouldn't trust his own family. Not anymore. But his responsibility ended here. He had done what he set out to do and they were accepting his verbal account. ‘If you feel comfortable, then it seems my presence is no longer required.'

She took a deep breath and gave him a smile that was gentle and quite endearing. ‘I do thank you for your help. And your patience.' She coloured and looked away. ‘Perhaps, once this is settled and I have returned to Edinburgh, you might wish to call.'

Stunned, he stared at her. He had not expected her to wish to continue their acquaintance, not after the way he had treated her. His heart gave an odd little lurch. A pang of longing. Desire heated his blood.

But when he left here, he was going to seek out Ian. And once he found him, he wouldn't have a future. ‘I don't think—'

‘No. No, of course not. You have your own affairs to consider. It was foolish of me to ask.'

Now, why the hell did she sound so embarrassed? And even a little distraught.

She held out her hand. ‘Then I must wish you goodbye, Mr Gilvry. And thank you for all your help.'

He bowed over her hand. ‘My pleasure, Mrs MacDonald.'

An empty space filled his chest and, with a sense that he was leaving something very precious, he strode out quickly, in case he did what he really wanted to and disgraced her before her family by taking her lovely mouth in a punishing kiss.

Feeling strangely hollow, he found Jones waiting in the corridor outside the drawing room, too far away for him to have been listening to the conversation inside the room, yet he looked relieved when Drew appeared, as if he had not been sure of the outcome of his discussions with Rowena.

Was there some meaning to that worry?

‘This way,' Jones said. ‘We'll go to my office in the east wing.'

He followed the lawyer along a series of passages and down a flight of stairs. The office he entered was small, with a window overlooking the stables. Its shelves were lined with law books and ledgers.

Jones pulled out a metal box from the bottom drawer of a plain wooden desk and unlocked it with a key from the chain attached to his fob. He drew out of it a leather pouch that landed on the table with a heavy thump. ‘For your trouble. There's enough gold here to carry you far from here. Back to America if you wish.'