Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Unwed and Unrepentant\Return of the Prodigal Gilvry\A Traitor's Touch (31 page)

She grabbed his arm. ‘Wait. What on earth was going on back there? Why did they attack us?'

Even with only moonbeams to light his face, she could see his jaw harden. He touched a hand to his scars. ‘It seems they mistook me for one of my brothers.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘My brothers smuggle whisky for a living. I assume they are competitors.'

His brothers were criminals. Like those men at the inn. Her heart raced. An overwhelming sense of danger flowed through her. The same feeling that had woken her earlier in the night.

‘Come along,' he said, pushing ahead.

What choice did she have?

Chapter Six

I
t had been getting colder as they climbed upwards, as Drew had expected. It might not be snowing, but the wind was raw and biting. Neither of them were dressed for it. It didn't matter to him. He was used to being cold and hungry, but Rowena was a whole different matter.

They had to find shelter, and soon. He was just hoping that by climbing, he would make it harder for the smugglers to follow. Hoping they wouldn't bother.

Damn Ian and his bloody smuggling.

What the hell had he been up to in the years Drew had been gone? Starting a war, by the sound of it. And then there was the Pockles. They were bound to reach McRae's some time the next day and their ears would be filled with the account of him and Rowena posing as husband and wife. He just hoped he could speak to them and explain before they reached the duke.

Right now, though, that didn't matter. What mattered was finding somewhere to shelter until it was light, which wouldn't be until around nine in the morning these short winter days.

He glanced back at Rowena hunched into her cloak, her horse struggling through the snow. The lass was as valiant as a soldier. She hadn't offered one word of blame for what had happened back at the inn, but she had been very quiet. Withdrawn.

Likely in fear for her life.

And it was his fault. His lack of judgement about those men at the inn. He'd not trusted them, but he had not really expected an attack. He turned and looked ahead, keeping his gaze fixed on a small break in the vegetation, almost disguised by snow. He was sure it was a track and plunged ahead. The horses were beginning to flag. If they didn't find shelter soon, they'd be forced to dismount.

He'd done a lot of walking in snow in the winter these past few years. After spending a good few days floundering along behind the rest of the band, much to their amusement, he'd learned to fashion the snowshoes they used. This snow was nowhere near as deep and difficult. Not yet anyway.

A dark shadow loomed out of the hillside. He halted. Pleased could hardly describe his emotion at that moment.

‘What is it?' Rowena called out from behind him. ‘Is something wrong?'

Was that an edge of panic he heard in her voice?

‘Nothing's wrong. We have shelter.' A lowly building to be sure, with a low-pitched peat-covered roof, no windows, no outbuildings. And there was no doubt it was deserted.

Rowena brought her horse up alongside him. ‘What is it?'

He pointed. ‘A bothy. We'll stay here for the rest of the night and continue on in the morning.'

She looked puzzled. ‘Will they mind if we get them out of bed at such a late hour?'

He almost laughed. ‘There is no they. No one lives here. It's used in the summer by shepherds. We'll be lucky if I can make us a fire.'

She glanced around. ‘Do you think the smugglers know about this place?'

‘They might, which is why we will need to be away early. And if we are lucky, we'll have a wee bit more snow and they won't be able to follow our tracks.' He got down and helped her off her horse.

Luck didn't seem to be something he had much of, but he saw that his words had cheered her up. A little.

He tried the door. As he expected, it swung open. Bare stone walls, a dirt floor, an open hearth, a flat lump of granite balanced on rocks for a low table. It was better than he had expected, worse than he'd hoped. He'd hoped for a cot or two. Some blankets to keep out the cold.

‘Oh, dear,' she said as he ushered her into the small stone chamber.

At least they'd be out of the wind. And against the wall was a small pile of peat. They would have a fire after all. And hot tea. He fumbled around the walls until he found what he was seeking. Tallow candles. He lit one, dripped wax on the table and it stood there, a small warm glow.

‘I'll see to the horses, then light the fire,' he said.

She rubbed her hands together, the candlelight showing her face, calm and accepting. No anger. Not even worry as she looked around at the bareness of the place, which made him feel somehow worse. He'd been an idiot for not following up with the fellow who had stared at him so hard at the inn. A sensible word with the man might have prevented what had happened tonight.

Angry at his failure to protect the woman in his charge, he stomped out to see to the horses, who were standing patiently outside. He hobbled them, rubbed them down with one of the blankets and hoped for the best. They'd already been fed, so they should be fine outdoors for a few hours.

He removed the saddlebags and blankets and took them inside. It was little enough to offer comfort, but at least the blankets wouldn't take long to dry.

He was surprised to find Rowena piling peat in the central open hearth. She looked up at his entry. ‘I thought I would help get it started, although I am not sure I have laid it correctly.'

‘Is there kindling?'

She shook her head.

Without kindling it would be difficult to make it catch. He tried not to let his concern show. No sense in worrying her about something until it was a real problem. He cast his gaze around the room for something to get the peat started. ‘I expect they use gorse or heather in the summer.'

Rowena held up a small book. ‘My journal,' she said at his glance of enquiry. She ripped out the small sheets of paper and twisted them into spills. ‘They will light very nicely, I think.'

Smart as paint, this woman. He had a journal, too, buried deep in his saddlebag. Not his, though, and he was loath to dig it out, fearing she might recognise it. It had been one of the few personal things the Indians hadn't taken or destroyed when they attacked MacDonald's camp.

What he had read of its contents on his way down from the hills had revealed it to be a document he would never want another living soul to see, but since MacDonald had written his authority to use his money and property to get him to Scotland on one of the pages, he'd had no choice but to keep it, in case anyone asked. Not that MacDonald had expected he would be transported in a barrel. The man had had no idea of the extent of his injuries.

And as soon as Drew was free of this duty of his, he would burn the journal. But not to keep out the cold.

‘Will it be enough, do you think?' Her hands were trembling with cold as she worked and her teeth chattered every now and then.

They had to have heat.

He arranged the blankets close to the hearth. ‘It will do very well,' he said and let her hear his admiration.

She glanced up at him and their eyes met and lingered. There was warmth in her gaze.

It sparked a fire inside him. His throat dried. ‘I'll see if I can find some brush, as well. To make it burn better.'

Cold air was what he needed right now. Or better yet, a dip in the nearest loch and the more ice, the better.

* * *

Rowena poked the few twists of paper deeper into the overlapping slabs of peat. They had never used peat in her father's house in Edinburgh. Coal had been plentiful, but it seemed to her that fuel was fuel, and the maids had used paper spills to light the fires.

She stood up, rubbing her hands together trying to get some feeling back in her fingertips, then strode to the slab of rock that served as a table, cupping them around the candle flame for a moment before slipping her gloves back on.

Even frozen as she was, she could still feel the warmth of Drew's intense gaze in her belly. It had been better than a shot of whisky. Not that he seemed to notice. To him she was just a responsibility. There had to be something wrong with her, being attracted to such a man. He was no different from Samuel, using her for his own gain. No doubt he expected the duke to reward him handsomely for delivering his relative's remains. And her.

The duke might not feel so generous when he learned he was naught but a smuggler. She sighed. Not that she would tell him, but it would be hard to keep it a secret. The Pockles were bound to arrive at the inn and hear the whole story.

Drew brought in a rush of cold air. And she'd thought the air in the bothy was freezing before. She clenched her jaw to prevent her teeth from chattering while he, with his arms full of brush, stamped the snow off his feet in the doorway. Without a word he crouched before her peat pile, rearranging the earthy slabs, lifting them, inserting clumps of heather. She was pleased to see that he also took care with the placement of her little bits of paper in the heart of the pile.

She freed the candle from its wax blob and held it ready. He looked up and met her eyes. Her heart tumbled over. Her hand shook, splattering hot wax on her glove. She could feel the heat of it through the leather, but it was nowhere near as hot as the flare of heat blazing a path through her veins.

She had no business feeling such things. Even if he had kissed her, it had meant nothing. His shoulders tensed, as if he sensed her dismay. Then he took the candle and touched it to each twist of paper.

Pinpricks of flame. He dropped cross-legged to the floor and nurtured each little lick of bright light, breathing on each tiny flicker, protecting them from the draughts that eddied around them.

‘Ah,' he said softly as little curls of smoke rose up.

The peat caught. At first just a glow of tiny embers, like hair caught in a candle, then real flames. She breathed a sigh of relief. They were not going to freeze to death after all.

He pulled his little pot from his saddlebag and the tea and the whisky and she bit back a laugh. ‘Too bad you don't have a loaf of bread tucked in there, too.'

‘I have your roll left from dinner and something better,' he said. He pulled out the small muslin pouch of oats and dangled it in the air. ‘Porridge, ye ken. We'll no' set out on an empty belly in the morning.'

‘Porridge. The Scotsman's answer to everything.' She could not help but smile.

His face tightened as if with a painful memory. ‘A Highlander never leaves home without one night's food in his sporran. Something my grandfather taught me.'

‘Well, my thanks to your grandfather, where e'er he may be.'

‘Aye.' He glanced up at the roof where the smoke was curling around in the low rafters. ‘I'll open the chimney or we'll be kippered by morning.'

Smoked like fish. She couldn't help a smile at the vision.

He climbed up a series of larger stones set like steps in one of the walls and then up to balance on one of the beams supporting the thatched roof. He found what looked like a long piece of metal, hooked at one end, and used it to push at a trapdoor let into the thatch. It opened an inch or two. The smoke disappeared through the gap and into the night.

While he climbed down, she sank onto the nearest blanket, glad of the warmth of the fire. ‘What do you think we should do about the Pockles?'

He dropped to sit beside her. ‘Nothing we can do. We'll either meet them on the road or at our destination.'

‘You think they will look for us?'

‘They might.' His mouth tightened, one corner curling up as if to mock his words. ‘I'd sooner they didn't.'

‘You are thinking of those men.'

‘Aye.'

‘Did you know them, as they said?'

‘No, but I have no doubt they know my youngest brother, Logan. As wild a wee scamp as there ever was. He was a fair way to looking like me when I left.'

Two like him. It seemed hard to imagine. ‘They don't seem to like him very much.'

‘I can't imagine why,' he said drily, as if he knew very well.

Under that sullen demeanour she sometimes suspected he had a wry sense of humour. ‘Business, I suppose.'

He raised his gaze to hers and she was right, there was amusement glinting there, hidden unless you cared to look. Not that she thought he'd be pleased that she'd noticed. He'd likely deny any kind of warm feelings.

But right now there was one rather urgent problem she needed to deal with. ‘I don't suppose there is a privy out there?'

He winced. ‘No.'

‘But there are bushes.' She nodded at the few bits of brush he'd kept back from the fire.

‘Aye, but you canna go out there alone. It's too dark. Too easy to lose your way. I'm afraid you will have to suffer my escort.'

So much for modesty. But there was no sense to being missish. She rose to her feet and he stood with her. ‘I am sure you will not mind turning your back.'

Outside, she couldn't see an inch in front of her face, once he shut the door. She looked up at the sky. The moon had either set or disappeared behind clouds. She would have been afraid to take one step farther if it had not been for his strong hand beneath her elbow.

They went around the side of the house where the wind was less fierce. ‘This will have to do, I'm afraid.'

He stood with one hand against the wall, his back towards her. She followed the length of the wall to the furthest corner, putting the width of the house between them, and took care of her needs. It was at times like these that she found differences in rank more than ridiculous. People were people, no matter what they were called, and if they were above the animals in the fields, it was not by much. She stood, straightened her skirts and followed the wall back to Mr Gilvry.

‘Thank you.'

He grunted, then put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You're not like any lady I ever met.'

She couldn't see his face in the dark, but she heard something odd in his tone. Criticism? The kind she'd endured from her husband.

‘I'm sorry if you find me a disappointment, Mr Gilvry.' Head high, she stalked back to the front door and inside.

* * *

It seemed he'd unintentionally touched a nerve when he'd intended his words as a compliment. Apparently, he was out of practice in the charming of women. Not that he'd had to practise when he was last in Scotland. Or in London, for that matter. All he'd ever needed was a smile. A smile wouldn't do him a bit of good anymore, since it made him look like a gargoyle, the kind that terrified small children in the night. More than one had run away in terror after seeing his face.