Return of the Prodigal Gilvry

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 identification 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.

Once more he was dressed in her husband’s second-best coat, pretending to be what he was not.

The atmosphere when he stepped into the room was tense. Mrs MacDonald sagged at the sight of him. He frowned. What had this lawyer being saying to her that would upset her usual calm?

He bowed. ‘You sent for me, Mrs MacDonald.’

‘Yes, Mr Gilvry. Mr Jones has some questions for you.’

‘Indeed I do,’ the dapper young man said. ‘On what date did Mr MacDonald meet his end? The day and the month.’

Drew had expected questions about the circumstances of MacDonald’s death. Dreaded them. But the date?

He hadn’t known at the time. He’d spent too long living by the seasons and the rise and set of the sun to be aware of dates. But he knew it now. The date was carved in his mind by words that chilled him to the bone. Unbelievable that any man would allow... ‘September fifteenth.’ He forced the words out.

The lawyer’s eyes flickered with some sort of emotion. Disappointment? He gathered himself so quickly it was hard to be sure. He smiled a prissy smile. ‘Are you positive?’

‘I am.’

The lawyer looked at him expectantly. When he said nothing, the man shook his head. ‘You have proof?’

A deep dark cold entered his gut. ‘My word should be enough.’

‘Any statement made is subject to being contested without proof.’

The cold expended to fill his chest. He had the proof. But to make his shame public, a byword.... There had to be another way. ‘If you dinna have the date, is it a problem?’

The lawyer tapped his chin with a well-manicured nail, making Drew aware of his rough weather-beaten hands. No longer the hands of a gentleman. Jones frowned down at paper before him. ‘It is true the date is not so important, once his identity is established. Without proof it is best if we couch it in the most general of terms.’ He looked up with a lawyerly smile. ‘And remain within the bounds of the law, you understand. Yes. Yes. It will serve very well.’

The man talked in such flowing periods, Drew wanted to hit him.

He picked up his pen and filled in some blank spaces on the document. ‘Hmm. Date of death, sometime in late September.’

Drew looked at Rowena. She was pale, worrying at her bottom lip and looking tense. She clearly sensed something was wrong and, damn it, so did he.

The lawyer pushed the paper across the desk. ‘Make your mark there,’ he said, pointing. ‘I’ll witness it.’

His younger brother Niall had always wanted to study the law. One of the things he had said when they talked around the dinner table was that it was a foolish man who signed anything he did not understand. And it was clear the lawyer thought he couldn’t read. He picked up the pen. ‘Why not write the fifteenth as I told you?’

‘You cannot put a date if you cannot prove it,’ the lawyer said. ‘It would not be right.’ He moved the paper out of Drew’s reach with a frown. ‘And as I said, it is not all that important. As long as we have the proof of his death.’ He gave a sly little smile. ‘As we will do, once the remains are carried to Mere.’

‘Then let us omit any mention of the date at all.’ Drew replied.

‘Will that be sufficient?’ Rowena asked, her posture stiff, her expression remote, yet stern. Drew sensed her anxiety.

The lawyer pulled his legal superiority around him like a shield. ‘If more is required, we can return to the matter at a later time.’

It seemed reasonable to Drew. Then why did he have this odd sense of worry? He glanced at Rowena. She also looked troubled, but she met his gaze and nodded.

He pulled the paper back across the table, scratched out the line and signed the document.

‘Mr Jones,’ Mrs MacDonald said sharply, ‘there are other matters pressing upon me at the moment with which I require your assistance.’

His gaze sharpened with wariness. ‘Matters, madam?’

‘Matters such as my husband’s will. His estate.’

‘My dear Mrs MacDonald,’ the man said with a condescension that again made Drew want to hit him, ‘probate of a will takes time. There are many formalities to be undertaken, as I have already explained.’

She gazed at him coolly. ‘I understand. But you must know something of his affairs. I am a governess. I must return to my position at once.’

His eyes widened. ‘Oh, most certainly not. You and Mr Gilvry must travel to Mere.’

Drew stared at him. ‘I have no intention of going to Mere. My own affairs take me in quite another direction.’

The lawyer shifted in his seat. ‘It was my understanding that you were to accompany Mr MacDonald’s remains to his final resting place. That is Mere.’

‘I prefer to leave that to you.’

The lawyer shook his head. ‘Until a third party has confirmed that the deceased is truly Samuel MacDonald, at which time the court will no doubt accept your information, Mr Gilvry, I cannot release you from your obligations.’

He turned to Rowena and, if anything, his smile became more oily. ‘I should not be saying this, but before he left, Mr MacDonald changed his will. Everything is left to Mere’s estate. Any settlements will be at the discretion of the new duke. You will not find him ungenerous, I assure you, once your claim is established.’

Drew’s hackles rose. The longer he spent in this man’s company, the less he trusted him. While at first glance he seemed charming, with that ready smile, his eyes drifted away when met head-on, even taking into account that no one liked to look Drew full in the face.

Rowena visibly wilted as if the stuffing had been knocked out of her. ‘He left everything to Mere? He indicated to Mr Gilvry that he made a settlement—’

Jones shook his head. ‘It is in Mere’s hands now. I am merely his representative. You will have to take your case directly to him.’

Drew glared and the man shifted his gaze to the documents on the table. ‘MacDonald told me his wife would be cared for.’ The dying man had said it with such bitterness, Drew had been shocked, but he had not doubted his words.

Jones frowned. ‘The duke takes his responsibilities seriously, I can assure you.’ Again that tight little smile at Rowena. ‘As you will discover, Mrs MacDonald, if you will allow yourself to be guided by me.’

Rowena took an unsteady breath. ‘It would be enough if I am relieved of his debt.’

The defeat on her face made Drew’s chest feel as if it was weighed down with a rock.

‘If there are assets, they should be passed on to MacDonald’s widow,’ he said firmly.

The lawyer was tapping his chin again. A sign he was thinking on his feet, perhaps. ‘I see you are not satisfied with the word of a duke,’ Jones said in an exasperated tone. ‘Very well. If your claims are proved—’ he inclined his head slightly ‘—as I am sure they will be, dear lady, there is a house set aside for you, at Mere, and an annuity.’

She perked up. ‘The house would be mine? Something I can sell?’

Jones shook his head. ‘It is on land that is part of the estate.’

‘So the duke will continue to own the house.’

He nodded. ‘Indeed. But once your husband’s will has gone through probate, there may be more. You did mention debts?’

She looked down her autocratic nose and the lawyer visibly wilted. ‘Yes, but none of my making.’ She let go a little breath. ‘But Mr MacDonald realised a large sum from the sale of my half of McFail’s. I cannot believe there is nothing left.’

‘Let us hope you are right. In the meantime...’

‘In the meantime, it seems I have no choice but to accept the duke’s generous offer. I will travel to Mere and learn the outcome of my husband’s business affairs.’

Jones turned his gaze to Drew. ‘I do hope I can prevail upon you to finish what you set out to accomplish. The return of Mr MacDonald to the bosom of his family. You will, of course, be rewarded for your time.’

‘I would prefer to leave it to you,’ Drew said. ‘I have another engagement.’ Ian. His gut clenched painfully.

Jones gathered up his papers. ‘My first duty is to ascertain this lady’s claim of marriage, which takes me in a different direction, after which I will then make post-haste to Mere. But you must allow it is vital that the poor dear departed be taken swiftly to his final resting place. Who knows what ravages may have occurred during shipment? If it is not possible to prove his identity...’

Rowena paled. Drew felt slightly nauseous, though the undertaker had assured him all would be well.

Rowena looked at him and, while her expression was one of serene indifference, he knew from the pleas deep in those soft grey eyes that she wanted him to say yes. ‘Verra well. I will accompany Mrs MacDonald to Mere.’

The lawyer looked far too relieved at his words, but Drew could hardly change his mind, because Rowena had looked equally relieved.

‘Excellent,’ Jones said. ‘You will make your way to Penwood House. No doubt his Grace will be delighted to receive you at the castle once you are established there.’

Drew didn’t like the glint of triumph in Jones’s eyes. ‘And a conveyance?’ Drew asked.

‘I will arrange for a cart for the transportation of the...luggage.’

Rowena’s face shuttered. ‘I am to travel on this cart?’

‘You may. Unless you prefer to ride. The driver, a man by the name of Pockle, and his wife will serve your needs along the road, which regrettably is a difficult journey this time of year.’

Did the man hope she’d become lost on the way? Drew glared at him, knowing only too well the dangers of cross-country travel. ‘How long will it take?’ Drew asked.

‘Two or three days. Longer if the weather is bad.’

‘And where is Mrs MacDonald to spend the nights?’ Drew asked. He could not get away from his sense of danger. ‘You surely don’t expect her to camp out in the hills.’

‘Certainly not. There are inns along the way. Please be ready to leave in the morning. I will take care of all the arrangements before I leave later today.’ He gathered up his papers and packed them away. ‘I look forward to our next meeting at Mere, Mrs MacDonald.’

He bowed and left.

Rowena frowned. ‘He was so keen on a date at first. Why do you think he changed his mind so quickly?’

The lass had a very sharp mind.

He shook his head. ‘That’s a tricky wee fellow, I’m thinking. You are right to seek out the duke.’

‘Are you sure you don’t mind going, too? While he seemed to want your presence at Mere, I could probably manage with the driver and his wife, since it is not too far distant.’

It was madness to agree to it. To spend more time in her company. To feel the call of her milk-white skin and find himself falling into the depths of her clear grey eyes. Madness and torture for the sake of a promise no one had heard but himself. ‘Once I start on something, I have to see it through.’

No matter how long it took.

A soft breath came from her parted lips and he wanted to capture it in his mouth. ‘Thank you.’

He turned briskly for the door. ‘It seems I must find some sort of nag for the journey.’

His business with Ian could wait. A week. A month. A year. It made no difference; it had waited so long already.

Yet he could not help feeling he might be making the worst mistake of his life. And he’d made some bad ones in the past.

Chapter Three

Why on earth did Mere have to reside in such an inaccessible place in wintertime? Rowena thought, huddling deeper into her cloak. Why couldn’t he live in Edinburgh like any civilised person? This was their second day since leaving Dundee and Rowena was already exhausted by the journey. The roads were so abysmal, the cart travelled at less than walking speed and, this afternoon, the sky had turned a lowering grey just skimming the hilltops.

The cold, damp air wormed its way through every fibre of her clothing. Worse was the way Mr Gilvry, riding ahead of the cavalcade, glanced up at the sky from time to time.

She urged her horse forward. ‘Is it going to rain?’

She was on his left side and the beauty of his features struck her anew, though she hoped she managed to hide the sudden hitch in her breath.

‘Snow,’ he said with such assurance, she did not doubt him.

Lovely. She shivered. ‘How long before we reach the next inn?’ She could just imagine a warm fire and a hot bath.

Mr Gilvry glanced back over his shoulder at the cart, where the driver and his wife sat pressed close together for warmth. ‘Our next stopping place is fifteen miles from where we stayed last night. Since we havena’ made more than ten miles, I would say we have another five to go.’

‘Can we make it by nightfall?’

‘Aye.’

He sounded confident, but she wasn’t fooled. These one-word answers were meant to disguise his concern. ‘You mean, if it doesn’t snow and if the cart doesn’t get stuck.’

He gave her a quick sideways glance and she could have sworn the corner of his mouth curled up in a smile. The effect was more than charming, it was wickedly seductive. Her inner muscles gave a little squeeze. Not the sort of reaction one should be having sitting on a horse. Or at all. But at least a new kind of warmth was now pulsing through her body.

‘Aye, that is just what I mean,’ he said.

To hide her flush, she also looked over her shoulder at the cart and its occupants. Twice it had become stuck in a muddy rut on the previous day. On both occasions, she’d been impressed with Mr Gilvry’s strength and his whipcord leanness when he had removed his coats and heaved with all his might.

‘I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t have just gone back to my place of employment and forgotten all about ever being married.’

His amusement faded. ‘Would you let that wee mannie Jones have the best of you? I don’t know what game Mere is playing, but your husband was telling me the truth. He made some sort of settlement for you.’

‘It won’t make any difference if I freeze to death out here.’

‘I’ll be certain that doesna’ happen.’

From anyone else she might have taken his words as bravado, but the determination in both his voice and his face gave her a modicum of comfort, even as her heart sank at the sight of the next hill rising before them. The track disappeared up into the clouds. Who knew what lay ahead.

It was the steepest hill they’d encountered so far. ‘We’d best walk the horses again,’ Mr Gilvry said, dismounting in a swirl of coat. ‘They need to rest, but we canna stop if we are to make shelter by nightfall.’

He reached up and lifted her down as he did each time she needed to dismount. Again the heat of his touch warmed her through and through. It was all in her mind, of course, there were layers and layers of clothing between his skin and hers, but it was the only bright spot in a very dreary day.

She smiled her thanks when he set her on her feet and received a nod in reply. A very cool nod, indeed. He was clearly regretting his agreement to escort her to the duke. But he’d given his word and he would keep it. Knowing he at least was a man of his word gave her comfort. A sense of security she had not known in a long time.

And that was a mistake. She’d thought the same about Samuel and look how that had ended. And if this trip to Mere ended the same way, she was going to be in dire straits indeed since Mrs Preston, rather than extending her leave of absence, had terminated her employment.

All her reliance was now on the generosity of the Duke of Mere.

They walked in silence, one behind the other for a while. Rowena turned to look back down the hill. There was no sign of the cart in the mist that had closed in around them.

‘Shouldn’t we wait for them?’ she called out.

‘They’ll catch us up at the crest,’ he replied. ‘I’ll make tea to warm us and have it ready when they arrive.’

That was the other thing she found strange about him. The way he carried an assortment of objects in his saddlebag, as if he was used to living in the wilds. A handful of oats. A tin kettle to make tea. And of course the leaves. No milk, though. Just a flask of whisky from which he added a splash to the brew. It certainly warmed her from the inside out and she found herself looking forward to their arrival at the top of the hill.

The Pockles also carried supplies in the cart—bread, cheese, some oatcakes—but Mr Gilvry’s tea was the best of all of it.

* * *

They had plodded upwards for what felt like a good half an hour. At this rate they would be lucky to make the last five miles to the next inn before it was dark.

At the top, catching her breath, Rowena looked around her, but there was nothing to see. Just a rolling blanket of white and a barely visible track disappearing downwards. Disappointing, really. She’d been looking forward to seeing the Highlands in all their glory. But it really was the wrong time of year for travel. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her.

Mr Gilvry set about making a fire from a clump of peat he had picked up somewhere along the way, or perhaps taken from the inn where they stayed the previous night. The inn had only one bedchamber. Everyone else was expected to sleep in the commons. Mr Gilvry had preferred the stables. She didn’t really blame him. The driver and his wife were a nice enough couple, if a little dour, but they were not as particular about their cleanliness as they might have been. She would not have wanted to spend a night with them in close quarters.

It didn’t take him long to get the fire started and, while the small can heated over the flame, she bent to warm her numb fingers against the heat.

‘I wish I understood what game the duke is playing,’ she said softly. He crouched beside her on his heels. He looked so comfortable she thought about trying it.

‘The only way to find out is to meet him face-to-face,’ he said.

‘If he will meet with me.’

‘I canna see why he would not?’

No, she could not either, but there was something odd about the way Mr Jones had insisted they make this journey. And then there was the issue of the date of Samuel’s death. Not just the lawyer’s swift change of mind, but the way Mr Gilvry had stiffened at the mention of proof.

The water started to boil and she stepped back from the fire to give him room to brew his concoction. A few moments later, he held out a small pewter mug. She wrapped her gloved fingers around it and breathed in the steam. Bitter tea and whisky. While she sipped and felt the warmth slide down her throat, she stared into the mist. What sort of house would a duke have set aside for the wife of a distant relative? If she couldn’t sell it, and Samuel had not after all left her some money, would she be stuck out here in the Highlands for the rest of her life?

It seemed likely. Unless she married again.

She glanced at Mr Gilvry. He was looking back the way they had come with a frown. And then the jingle of a bridle pierced the muffling mist and the next moment the cart and its occupants came into view.

Mr Gilvry collected the Pockles’ mugs and filled them from the kettle. He kicked out the fire and stamped on the embers. ‘We’ll keep going, aye?’ he said to Pockle. ‘We don’t want to be out here at nightfall.’