Return of the Prodigal Gilvry

by Ann Lethbridge

  The woman huffed out a breath, but stomped out of the room, defeated.

  Mr Gilvry turned around as the door closed behind their hostess, his expression dark. ‘The woman is right. You should ask the maid to attend you. Or dine alone. You must think of your reputation.’ He took an urgent step towards the door.

  The vehemence in his voice surprised her. Was he was afraid for her reputation or his? Did he fear she might put him in a compromising position? It hardly seemed likely. ‘You honour me with your concern, Mr Gilvry, however, I am not accountable to the wife of an innkeeper.’ She lifted her chin as another thought occurred to her. ‘Or are you seeing it as an excuse to avoid my questions?’

  He glared. ‘I have answered all of your questions.’

  Had he? Then why did she have the sense he was keeping something back? ‘You have,’ she said. It would do no good to insult the man. ‘But I have more. You must excuse my curiosity. I know little of my husband’s activities in America.’

  His mouth tightened. His gaze shuttered, hiding his thoughts. ‘There is little I can tell you on that score, I am afraid. Perhaps this Mr Jones can tell you more.’

  Avoidance. It was as plain as the nose on her face. Her exceedingly plain nose on her exceedingly plain face, as Samuel had made no bones to tell her, once he had control of her money. But it wasn’t because she cared whether this man found her attractive or otherwise that she wanted him to stay; she simply wanted to know if she dared trust him. That was all.

  For one thing, she had never before heard of this Mr Jones. And she was hoping Mr Gilvry could shed some light on how he fitted into the scheme of things before she faced the man.

  She offered a smile. ‘I am sorry if I sound over forward, but I find I do not wish to eat alone tonight. My thoughts about the news give me no rest.’ And nor did her suspicions.

  His shoulders relaxed. ‘Aye, I understand it has come as a shock.’

  And a welcome relief. Guilt assailed her at the uncharitable thought. He would think her dreadful if he guessed at the direction of her thoughts.

  She gestured to the table. ‘The food is here. It would be a shame for it to go to waste.’

  He swept a red-gold lock back from his forehead. ‘To tell the truth, the smell of the food is hard to resist and I doubt they’ll feed me in the kitchen, if yon mistress has aught to say in it.’

  He glanced at the table with longing and it was only then that she realised how very gaunt was his face. His cheekbones stood out beneath his skin as if he had not eaten well in months. At first one only noticed the scars. And the terrible dichotomy they made of his face.

  ‘Then you will keep me company?’ she asked. She wasn’t the sort of woman men fell over themselves to be with, but he was not a man who would have much choice in women. Not now. She stilled at the thought. Was that hope she felt? Surely not. Hope where men were concerned had been stamped out beneath Samuel’s careless boots. What man would want her? Especially now, when she was poor.

  He shook his head with a rueful expression. ‘Aye. It seems I will.’

  The gladness she felt at his acceptance was out of all proportion with the circumstances and her reasons for inviting him. A gladness she must not let him see. With a cool nod, she let him seat her at the dining table.

  He took the chair opposite. ‘May I pour you some wine and carve you a portion of what looks to be an excellent fowl?’

  ‘You may, indeed.’

  While she had little appetite herself after the day’s events, it was a pleasure to see him eat with obvious enjoyment. And his manners were impeccable. He was a gentleman, no matter his poor clothing.

  She cut her slice of chicken into small pieces and tasted a morsel. It was moist and the white sauce was excellent. And she could not help watching him from beneath her lowered lashes as she tasted her food. He might not be handsome any longer, but his youth, his physical strength and powerful male presence were undeniable. Big hands. Wide shoulders. White, even teeth. A formidable man with an energy she could feel from across the table.

  She wanted to ask him what it was that drove him. What he cared about. What he planned. It was none of her business. She would do well to remember that.

  She held her questions while he satisfied his appetite. It was her experience, both at home and in the two positions she’d held as a governess, that men became more amenable with a full stomach. She waited until he had cut himself a piece of apple pie before opening a conversation that did not include passing gravy or salt, or the last of the roast pork.

  ‘The locals say that it is likely to be a hard winter,’ she said, lifting her wine glass.

  ‘I heard the same,’ he replied.

  She waited for him to say more, but was not surprised when he did not. He said little unless it was to the point. Idle conversation had a tendency to lead to the baring of souls. He was not that sort of man.

  She took a sip of wine and considered her next words. Shock him, perhaps? Get beneath his guard, as her father would have said? Her heart raced a little. ‘The coat you are wearing is Samuel’s, is it not?’

  Eyes wary, he put down his forkful of pie. ‘He had no more use for it. My own clothes were ruined on the journey to the coast.’

  Defensive. But why? What he said made perfect sense. Perhaps he feared she’d be overcome by her emotions at the thought of him wearing Samuel’s clothes? Another woman might be, she supposed.

  She kept her voice light and even. ‘It must have been a terrible journey?’

  ‘I’ve had worse.’

  She stared, surprised by the edge in his voice. He looked up and caught her gaze. His skin coloured, just a little, as if he realised he’d been brusque.

  ‘But, yes,’ he said, his voice a little more gentle, ‘it was no’ so easy.’ His voice dropped. ‘Your husband bore it verra well at the end, if it is of comfort to you.’

  It did not sound like the Samuel she had known. He’d been a man who liked an easy life. The reason he had married her money. Could there be some sort of mistake? Her stomach clenched at the idea, but she asked the question anyway. ‘You are sure that he is...I mean, he was Samuel MacDonald? My husband?’

  Misplaced pity filled his gaze. ‘There is no doubt in my mind the man was your husband, Mrs MacDonald. We talked. Of you. Of other things. How else would I know about the lawyer?’ He frowned and looked grim. ‘But you are right. Someone should identify his remains. To make things legal. I didna’ think you...’

  Her stomach lurched. She pushed her plate away, stood and moved from the table to the hearth. ‘No. You are right. This Mr Jones should do it.’

  ‘If he knew him personally.’

  She whirled around. ‘You think he did not?’

  ‘Your husband was not always lucid, Mrs MacDonald. He suffered greatly. But he was most insistent on my contacting those in charge of Mere’s estate.’

  The Duke of Mere. Why did that name sound so familiar? She had heard it spoken of recently, surely? She didn’t care for gossip, but now she remembered her employer’s remark. She turned to face him. ‘The Duke of Mere is dead.’

  His jaw dropped. ‘But...’ He shook his head, got up and took a step towards her. ‘One duke dies. Another follows right behind. Like the king.’

  He was right. She swallowed. ‘Of course.’

  He drew closer. Very close, until she could feel the warmth from his body, the sense of male strength held in check, though why that should be she could not imagine. ‘Mrs MacDonald,’ he said softly, ‘dinna fash yourself. Jones will come tomorrow and your husband’s family will do their duty by you.’

  What family? According to Samuel he was as alone in the world as she was. It was one of the things that had drawn her to him. His need for family. Not that he had needed her, once he had her money. It would be nice to be needed. To be able to
lean on a man and have him take care of her in return. She felt herself leaning towards Mr Gilvry, as if his strength could sustain her.

  Shocked, she straightened. She moved away, turning to face him with a hard-won smile against the melting sensation in her limbs. ‘You are right. It seems that Mr Jones holds the key to everything.’ She put a hand to her temple. It was throbbing again. Too much thinking. Too much worrying. Too much hope that she had not been entirely abandoned after all.

  ‘Mr Gilvry, my husband asked much of you.’ She looked at his poor ruined face and saw nothing but sympathy in his gaze. She hesitated, her mouth dry, the words stuck fast in her throat. She took a breath. ‘Could I trouble you some more? May I request your presence at the interview with Mr Jones?’

  If he was surprised, he hid it well. ‘If that is your wish,’ he said, his voice a little gruff.

  Instinctively, she swayed towards all that beautiful male strength, her eyes closing in relief. ‘Thank you.’

  She felt his hand on her arm, warm and strong and infinitely gentle. Once more, strange tingles ran up her arm at the strength of his touch. Did he feel them, too? Was that why he released her so quickly?

  ‘Sit down, Mrs MacDonald,’ he said in a rasping voice. ‘By the hearth. I’ll ask our hostess to send up tea. And the maid. It is a good night’s sleep you need. Things will be clearer in the morning.’

  When she looked up, he was gone. So silently for such a tall man. A man whose absence left a very empty hole in the room. But he had said he would stand by her on the morrow. She clung to that thought as if her life depended on it and wondered at her sudden sensation of weakness.

  Chapter Two

  Drew paced up and down between the stalls, cursing under his breath. Frustration scoured through his blood. Desire. He struck out at a post and accepted the pain in his knuckles as his just reward.

  What the hell did he think he was doing? The woman had just learned of her husband’s death and instead of offering platitudes and help, he’d almost pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  He wasn’t drawn to respectable women. Ever. He was depraved. And he knew where to find what he wanted. What the hell had he been thinking up there?

  How could he possibly consider wanting her, let alone begin envisaging her naked and open and...? He hit the post again, then sucked the copper-tasting blood from his knuckles and remembered her soft, wide mouth.

  Damn him. Hadn’t his experience with Alice Fulton been lesson enough? If his family hadn’t been desperate, he would never have taken her in order to force a wedding. The moment he did it, he’d known it would never work. Not for him. He’d have spent his life in purgatory.

  He’d never been so relieved as when she had backed out of their engagement. So why had he almost kissed Rowena MacDonald?

  Because he felt sorry for her? Or because he was grateful that, after her first horrified look at his face, she’d acted as if he was normal. As if his appearance didn’t make her stomach turn.

  Jones had better turn up tomorrow and take charge of this woman, because if he didn’t, Drew was just going to walk away. He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t. He’d sworn to himself that he would see her safe and secure. He didn’t have a choice, not when it was his fault her husband was dead.

  A man staggered down the steps from the loft. The old groom in charge of the stables. He glared at Drew, then recoiled as he saw his face in the light from the lantern hanging from a beam.

  ‘Isn’t it bad enough that your pounding and cursing knocked me out of my bed,’ the old man railed, shaking his fist. ‘Do you have to ruin my dreams with that devil’s face?’

  Drew laughed. He couldn’t help it. The old man’s reaction was exactly the same as everyone else’s, but at least he had the courage to say it.

  He bowed. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Aye, well ye might. If ye’re wanting to bed down, you best get up that ladder now, because when I’m back from tending to nature I’m bolting the trapdoor from the inside. To keep out Old Nick, you understand.’ He staggered to the door at the far end, still muttering under his breath.

  Drew wished he had something to keep out the devil he carried around inside him. But he didn’t. And while the devil wanted a woman, Drew wanted his revenge on Ian more. And so he would keep the devil caged. He’d done it for the past few years; he would continue.

  He had to get Mrs MacDonald off his hands and his conscience. Then he would send Ian to hell, where he belonged.

  * * *

  ‘A gentleman to see you, Mrs Macdonald,’ the maid announced from the doorway to her private parlour the next morning.

  She looked up from her struggle to compose a suitable letter to Mrs Preston, her employer, asking for a few more days’ absence. For a moment she thought it might be Mr Gilvry and her heart lifted a fraction. But at the same moment she knew it was not. He would not have asked the maid to announce him. ‘Did the gentleman give his name?’

  Emmie held out a square of white paper. ‘His card, ma’am.’

  Mr Brian Jones, solicitor, the card stated in bold black letters. On the reverse, a rather crabbed script added cryptically, man of business to the Duke of Mere.

  ‘Show him in, please. And ask Mr Gilvry to come up, if you will.’ The girl raised questioning brows, but hurried off without a word.

  Rowena moved from the writing desk to the sofa and sat facing the door.

  The man who stepped across the threshold a few moments later was surprisingly young for such a responsible position. In his mid-thirties, she thought, and reasonably fair of face, if one ignored the tendency of his long nose to sharpness and the slight weakness of his chin. But his pale blue eyes were sharp and his smile positively charming. He was dressed quite as soberly as one would expect for a lawyer, though his cravat was perhaps a shade flamboyant in its intricacy.

  ‘Mrs MacDonald,’ he said with a deeper bow than someone of her station warranted. An odd little slip for such a man.

  ‘Mr Jones. Please, be seated.’

  He settled himself into the armchair opposite without a sign of any nervousness. Indeed, if anything, he looked confidently in control. A small smile hovered on his lips as he waited for her to speak. She could wait him out. Her father had taught her the game of negotiation almost before she had learned how to sew a fine seam. But with her future in the balance, she wasn’t in the mood.

  ‘You received the message about my husband’s death from Mr Gilvry, I assume?’

  He arranged his face into an expression of sympathy. ‘I did. May I offer you my condolences on your loss,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘Indians, I understand.’

  She nodded. ‘So I gather.’

  ‘Most unfortunate.’ A touch of colour tinged his cheeks. ‘Did you—’ He coughed delicately. ‘Are you certain he did not survive the attack?’

  His eyes were fixed intently on her face. A strange feeling rippled across her shoulders. Her scalp tightened at the shock of it. It was something like the sensation described as a ghost walking over one’s grave, only more unpleasant. A premonition of danger. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who had wondered about the truth of Samuel’s death. ‘If you require confirmation, Mr Jones, you must inspect his remains. They have been returned to Scotland at his wish.’

  Distaste twisted his mouth. ‘Not me. I never met Mr MacDonald in person.’ He coughed behind his hand. ‘I have arranged for someone in the duke’s household to confirm his identity.’

  The duke’s household? ‘My husband never mentioned the Duke of Mere once to me during our marriage.’

  ‘Ah, dear lady, it is a distant connection. Your husband’s branch of the family has long been estranged from its senior branch. He visited Mere shortly before his departure for America. It was Mere’s wish that relationships that were broken be mended. The identifica
tion is mere formality, you understand, but a necessary one.’

  His smile felt just a little too forced. But then it was likely difficult to know what to do with one’s face in the presence of a supposedly grieving widow. He drew a notebook from his pocket and a small silver pen. He turned the pages as if looking for something. ‘It was a Mr Gilvry who discovered his body. It was his letter we received.’

  ‘Yes. He accompanied my husband’s remains from America.’ His voice made her wonder if he harboured doubts about Mr Gilvry. She pursed her lips. Where was he? He had promised to attend this meeting. ‘He will join us shortly.’

  He looked around somewhat disapprovingly as if he expected Mr Gilvry to pop out of her bedroom.

  ‘Nothing can move forward until the circumstances of your husband’s death are fully documented and sworn to,’ he continued. ‘It is this—’ he glanced down at his notebook ‘—Gilvry I need to speak to. As well as verifying the death of your husband and...’ He frowned. ‘And the validity of your marriage.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘None of the MacDonalds were aware that Mr Samuel MacDonald had taken a wife.’

  ‘You will find it in the records of my parish church.’

  Again that delicate cough. ‘Or if there are offspring? Our contact with Mr MacDonald was most perfunctory.’

  ‘No.’ She raised her chin. ‘No offspring.’ And she’d been glad of it, too, given how he’d left her in the lurch.

  ‘And Mr Gilvry?’

  She glanced towards the door. Where on earth was he?

  * * *

  The call to attend Rowena and Mr Jones came at eleven. Damn it, not Rowena. Mrs MacDonald. All night he’d been thinking about the lovely pale skin glowing in candlelight over dinner, his memories of the challenge her slender curves and hollows presented to his own desires and cursing himself.

  He’d made very sure the servants had seen him leave her room. He’d sent the maid up to help her ready for bed, too, so she would know nothing untoward had occurred. He’d done all he could to protect her from gossip. He would have to make sure this lawyer saw only mistress and servant.