Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Unwed and Unrepentant\Return of the Prodigal Gilvry\A Traitor's Touch (25 page)

Mrs MacDonald stared at the leather bag for a long moment. She raised her gaze to meet his and his stomach dipped. She must recognise it as her husband's. He had no choice but to answer her silent query.

‘You are right. It is your husband's valise,' he said. ‘I have made use of his clothes, since I had to leave mine behind.'

Not that he'd had much to leave, unless you counted a breechclout and a pair of moccasins.

She stiffened slightly. ‘And you travelled on his ticket?'

He had not been mistaken in the quick wits behind that high forehead. ‘Since he was making the journey in the hold, I saw no reason to purchase another.' He winced at the cold sound of his words. ‘And I used what money he had for necessary expenses.' Like the makeshift coffin. And a pair of boots. He could hardly travel barefoot and MacDonald's boots had been far too small. He had bought the cheapest he could find, however.

‘How very convenient,' she said.

She suspected him of doing away with her husband and stealing his property. And he had in a manner of speaking. He met her gaze without flinching. ‘I gave my word to your husband that he would board that ship, Mrs MacDonald. I kept my promise.' Out of guilt. MacDonald had not really expected to die on the journey back to civilisation. He had been full of talk of a glorious future in his fevered ravings. And of riches beyond any man's dreams. Riches that would no doubt remain untapped now he was dead.

Guilt stabbed Drew anew. But it would not change what had happened, nor his intentions to follow through with his self-imposed duty. He would see MacDonald's remains and his wife delivered safely to the lawyer and that was all he would do.

He picked up the valise and strode into the inn.

‘Off the ship, are ye, then?' the innkeeper asked, meeting him just inside the door.

‘Yes. The lady needs a room with a private parlour,' Gilvry said. ‘I'll bed down in the stables.'

The innkeeper looked him up and down as if trying to decide if he was trying to gull him.

‘A chamber is all I require,' Mrs MacDonald said from behind Drew, her reticule clutched at her breast as if she feared its contents would not be enough to pay for her night's lodgings.

He pulled out MacDonald's purse and jingled the few remaining coins. ‘The lady's husband charged me with her travel arrangements. A room with a private parlour, if you please, and the use of a maid. Mrs MacDonald will take dinner in her room.'

The innkeeper bowed. ‘This way, please, madam.'

‘Don't worry about the rest of the luggage, Mrs MacDonald,' Drew said as, stiff-backed with indignation, she followed the host up the stairs. ‘I will keep it safe.'

She cast him a look of dislike over her shoulder. ‘Then I hope you have a good night's rest, Mr Gilvry.'

Ah, irony. He'd missed its edge all these many years. No doubt she was hoping her husband would haunt him. Which he would, because, in a manner of speaking, he had been, ever since he died.

Drew turned and stomped out to the yard.

* * *

It was only when Rowena had removed her coat and hat inside her room that she fully absorbed the news. Samuel MacDonald was dead.

She squeezed her eyes closed against the sudden pain at her temples as her thoughts spiralled out of control. She had to think about this logically.

She was a widow.

A destitute widow, she amended. She had very little hope that anything remained of the money Samuel had realised from the sale of her half of her father's linen factory. Creditors had assailed her from all sides after his sudden departure for America, leaving her no choice but to find work and support herself. Her anger at her foolishness bubbled up all over again. How could she have been so taken in after fending off so many fortune hunters over the years?

But she knew why. After her father died when she was eighteen, she had lived with his partner and cousin. She'd hated it. Not that these family members had been particularly unkind, but whereas her father had respected her mind and listened to her advice, her cousin had insisted she leave all business matters to him. He had not valued her opinions at all.

As far as he was concerned, women were brainless. Only good to decorate a man's arm and attend to his house.

And then she'd proved him right. She'd fallen for the blandishments of an out-and-out scoundrel who had fled almost as soon as he had his hands on her money, leaving her to face the creditors he'd apparently forgotten to pay. Her cousin, who had encouraged the marriage, had washed his hands of her, as well he might, once he owned everything.

She stripped off her thin leather gloves and sat down on the chair beside the hearth, holding her hands out to the flames, revelling in the heat on her frozen fingers. It was a long time since she'd had such a warm fire at her disposal. But creature comforts could not hold her thoughts for long.

Was it possible her cousin had insisted Samuel settle some money on her future when he acted on her behalf in the matter of the marriage?

If so, it was a relief to know that her only family hadn't totally taken advantage of her lapse of good sense in accepting Samuel as a husband. When she'd learned her cousin had bought her half of the family business for a sum vastly below its true worth right after the wedding, she'd suspected her cousin of underhanded dealings.

It seemed she might have been wrong about her cousin. And about Samuel. Partly wrong at any rate, if arrangements had been made for her future.

Samuel was dead.

At least that was what Mr Gilvry had said. But how did she know for certain? She'd be a fool to take any man's word at face value. And she hadn't even seen Mr Gilvry's face. He had raised his hat when he bowed, but not removed his muffler. Nor had he removed it when he entered the inn.

All she had to go on was what she had seen in a pair of piercing green eyes and heard in a deep voice with a lovely Highland lilt. And felt in the flutter deep in her stomach. Attraction. Something she should know better than to trust.

He really hadn't told her what had happened to Samuel. Was there some reason behind his reticence she couldn't fathom?

She got up and rang the bell. It wasn't long before the maid the innkeeper's wife had assigned arrived to do her bidding. ‘Be so good as to tell Mr Gilvry I wish to see him at once.' She glanced at the clock. ‘Please tell the kitchen I would like dinner for two delivered at half past seven.'

The maid bobbed a curtsy and left.

Now to see if he answered the summons. And if he did not? Then she would know that she definitely should not trust him.

And if he did? Did that mean she should? Likely not. But it would help put an end to the strange feelings she had in his presence. He was just a man, not an enigma she needed to solve. She simply wanted the facts about her husband's death.

She opened her door to the passageway. He was a man who had done her a service, no matter how unpleasant. He should not have to scratch at the door like a servant. She shook her head at this odd sense of the man's pride as she took the chair beside the hearth facing the door.

A few minutes later, he appeared before her, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. How odd that she hadn't heard his footsteps, though she had listened for them. Nor had she realised quite how tall a man he was when they were out on the quay.

She frowned. He was still wearing his scarf, wrapped around his head and draped across his face in the manner of a Turk.

His dark coat, like the greatcoat he'd worn off the ship, fitted him ill, the fabric straining across his shoulders, yet loose at the waist, and the sleeves leaving more cuff visible than was desirable. His pantaloons were tight, too, outlining the musculature of his impressive calves, his long lean thighs and his— She forced her gaze back up to meet his eyes. ‘Please come in, Mr Gilvry. Leave the door open, if you please.'

She didn't want the inn servants to gossip about her entertaining a man alone in her room. People were quick to judge and she didn't need a scandal destroying her reputation with her employer.

The man did not so much as walk into the room as he prowled across the space to take her outstretched hand. His steps were silent, light as air, but incredibly manly.

The same walk she'd first noticed on the quay. The walk of a hunter intent on stalking his prey. Or a marauding pirate, or a maiden-stealing sheikh. All man. All danger. A betraying little shiver ran down her spine.

Trying to hide her response to his presence, she gestured coldly to the seat on the other side of the hearth, the way she would direct a recalcitrant student. ‘Pray be seated.'

He sat down, folding his long body into the large wing chair with an easy grace. But why hide his face? She'd thought nothing of the muffler out on the quay. She'd tucked her chin into her own scarf in the bitter November wind.

‘Please, make yourself comfortable.' She looked pointedly as his headgear.

The wide chest rose and fell on a deep indrawn breath. He straightened his shoulders. ‘It is an invitation you might regret.' There was bitter humour in his voice, and something else she could not define. Defiance, perhaps? Bravado?

Turning partly away he unwound the muffler. At first all she could see was the left side of his face and hair of a dark reddish-blonde, thick and surprisingly long. His skin was a warm golden bronze. Side on he looked like an alabaster plaque of a Greek god in profile, only warm and living. Never had she seen a man so handsome.

He turned and faced her full on.

She recoiled with a gasp at the sight of the tributary of scars running down the right side of his face. A jagged, badly healed puckering of skin that sliced a diagonal from cheekbone to chin, pulling the corner of his mouth into a mocking smile. A dreadful mutilation of pure male beauty. She wanted to weep.

‘I warned that you'd prefer it covered.' Clearly resigned, he reached for the scarf.

How many people must have turned away in horror at the sight? From a man who would have once drawn eyes because of his unusual beauty.

‘Of course not,' she said firmly, deeply regretting her surprised response. ‘Would you like a dram of whisky?' She made to rise.

Looking relieved, he rose to his feet. ‘I'll help myself.'

He crossed to the table beside the window and poured whisky from the decanter, the good side of his face turned towards her. It made her heart ache to see him so careful. He lifted the glass and tossed off half in one go. He frowned at the remainder. ‘I didna' expect to find you alone. Did they no' give you the maid I requested?'

‘She has duties in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal.'

He lifted his head, his narrowed gaze meeting hers, the muscles in his jaw jumping, pulling at the scars, making them gleam bone white. Her stomach curled up tight. She could only imagine the pain such an injury must have caused, along with the anguish at the loss of such perfection.

Anger flared in his eyes as if he somehow read her thoughts and resented them.

He did not want her sympathy.

She looked down at her hands and gripped them together in her lap. She had asked him here to answer her questions. She might as well get straight to the point.

‘Mr Gilvry, I would like to know exactly what happened to my husband, if you wouldn't mind?' Did she sound too blunt? Too suspicious?

She glanced up to test his reaction to her words. He was gazing out into the darkness, his face partly hidden by his hair. ‘Aye. I'll tell you what I can.'

She frowned at the strange choice of words. ‘Were you travelling with Samuel, when...when—?'

‘No. I found him some time after the Indians had attacked his party. He had managed to crawl away from the camp and hide, but he was badly injured.'

‘Why? Why were they attacked?'

He turned his head slightly, watching her from the corner of his eye. ‘I don't know.'

Why did she have the sense he was not telling her the truth? What reason would he have to lie? ‘So you just happened upon him? Afterwards.'

‘I heard shots, but arrived too late to be of help.' His head lowered slightly. ‘I'm sorry.'

He sounded sorry. More regretful than she would have expected under the circumstances he described. ‘He was alive when you found him?'

He took a deep breath. ‘He was. I hoped—' He shook his head. ‘I carried him down from the mountains. For a while I thought he would live. The fever took him a few nights later.'

‘And he requested that you bring his remains back to me?' She could not help the incredulity in her voice.

He shifted, half turning towards her. ‘To Scotland. To his family. That is you, is it not?'

‘I doubt he thought of me as family.' She spoke the words without thinking and winced at how bitter she sounded.

‘He had regrets, your husband, I think. At the last.' His voice was low and deep and full of sympathy.

An odd lump rose in her throat. The thought that Samuel had cared. Even if it was out of guilt. It had been a long time since anyone had truly cared. She fought the softening emotion. It was too late for her to feel pain. How would it help her now? ‘And his executor is to meet us here? In Dundee.'

‘Aye. Or at least his lawyer. A Mr Jones. I wrote to him from Wilmington. But if you didna' get my letter...'

‘The address you used, it came from Samuel? Naturally it did,' she amended quickly at his frown.

‘Aye.'

‘I moved. I had no way of letting Samuel know.' She'd also changed her name. She could scarcely have Samuel's creditors coming to her place of employment. ‘An old friend forwarded Samuel's note, because I asked him to do so.' Her cousin's butler, once her father's man, would not have forwarded a letter unless he knew the name of the sender. There had been too many odd requests for money and not all of them from tradesmen. ‘I doubt your other letter was similarly impeded. Let us hope Mr Jones will arrive tomorrow.'