Return of the Prodigal Gilvry

‘That we don’t,’ said Pockle, cradling his mug just as Rowena had done and blowing on it to cool it. ‘Old McRae willna’ open the door to us if we arrive after sunset.’

Mr Gilvry glared at him. ‘Why did you say nothing of this before?’

Pockle shrugged. ‘We were making good time. Nae need to distress the lady for naught.’

Mrs Pockle took a deep swallow from her mug and made a little sound of satisfaction. Rowena had the feeling she cared more about the whisky than the tea. ‘Auld McRae is afraid of the piskies hereabouts,’ she announced. ‘Locks up tight come the dark.’

Mr Gilvry made no comment, but she could see the irritation in his expression. Not a man to believe in piskies, then.

‘We’d best be moving on,’ he said. He took her mug, tossed the dregs and wrapped it in a cloth, before throwing her back in the saddle. ‘We’ll make the best use of the downhill slope to make up a little time.’

‘I’ll catch ye up,’ Pockle said. ‘I’ve a need to empty my bladder.’ He handed his empty mug to his wife and jumped down.

‘Dinna be taking too long, man,’ Mr Gilvry said. ‘We’ll wait for you at McRae’s place and I’ll be sure of letting ye in, dark or no.’

Pockle touched a hand to his cap.

‘Don’t you think it would be better if we all stayed together?’ Rowena said. ‘What if we get lost? Pockle knows the way.’

‘I won’t get lost.’ Mr Gilvry growled. ‘I looked at the map before we left.’

He mounted up and grabbed for Rowena’s reins. ‘But you might.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘The sooner we get going, the sooner we will arrive.’

Normally she would not have considered letting a man lead her along like a child, but the worry in his eyes made such pride a foolish luxury. ‘Just be careful, Mr Gilvry,’ she said coolly. ‘I would not like to follow you off a cliff.’

His sharp stare said the prospect was not out of the realm of possibility and her stomach dipped. So much for trying to strike a lighter note. Something that actually never seemed possible with this particular man, any more than it had been with Samuel.

She sighed. Say nothing, and then you can’t possibly go wrong.

His horse moved ahead and hers followed at his tug on the bridle. After a few minutes of them heading downhill, big wet flakes drifted down to settle on her shoulders and her horse’s neck. They melted almost at once.

Mr Gilvry muttered something under his breath. A curse, no doubt. She felt like cursing herself. Instead, she ducked deeper into her hood.

After a time, the numbness in her fingers and toes spread inwards. She blew on her fingers with little hope it would help and lifted her head to peer ahead, then she wished she hadn’t. A gust of windblown snow stung her cheeks. But even that swift glimpse told her night was closing in fast.

Mr Gilvry stopped. Were they lost? Her heart began a sharp staccato in her chest.

She let her horse come up alongside his.

‘Lights,’ he said, leaning close so she could hear him through the muffling scarf he’d pulled up around his face.

The breath left her body in such a rush, she felt light-headed. ‘McRae’s?’

He nodded and urged his horse forward at a trot. Her mount followed suit.

He’d been right. He did know the way. She’d have to apologise for her doubts once they were warm and dry.

The inn stood alone, off to one side of the track they’d been following, a lantern lighting its sign. A golden glow spilled from the windows, making square patches of snow glitter as if dusted with stars.

Mr Gilvry helped her down from her horse. Not only light issued forth from the inn, there was sound, too. The sound of men talking and laughing. She glanced up at Mr Gilvry and, while she could not see his face, she could see his eyes narrow.

‘It seems we are not the only company tonight,’ she said.

‘Aye. Wait here. I’ll see the landlord about a room.’ He thrust the reins into her hands and ducked as he opened the door.

‘Duin an dòras,’ someone shouted.

Gaelic. Someone not pleased about the draught from the door being opened. The door slammed shut. Rowena glanced around. The stables must be at the back of the inn, but no one had come to take their horses. Perhaps she should take them herself. She was so cold, the wind biting through her cloak, even the thought of a stable was a lure.

Before she could make a move, Mr Gilvry returned with a man and a woman with a shawl over her head in tow. The man, a spry fellow, regarded her with interest before relieving her of the reins. ‘While I help yon lad with the horses, Mrs McRae will see you upstairs.’

The woman gestured for her to follow. ‘This way, ma’am. There’s a nice warm fire ready and waiting.’

Warmth. What more could she ask? She started to follow.

Mr Gilvry caught her arm, turned her around and brought her close, grasping her by her elbows and lifting her on her toes so she could see the glitter of the lamp over the door in his eyes. ‘The men in there are a dangerous lot,’ he murmured close to her ear. ‘Do not look their way.’

Then he kissed her. Full on the lips. A warm dry pressure on her mouth. The heat of his breath on her frozen cheek, the thud of his heart beneath her fingertips where they rested on the side of his throat.

He broke away, gazing down at her, his expression dark, his mouth sensuously soft. She must have imagined it, because he set her away from him with a laugh as if it was she who had kissed him.

Stunned, she stared at him and her hand fell to her side.

He swung her around, pushing her forward with a tap on the rump. ‘Ye’ll be saving that for later, lassie.’ He turned away, dragging her horse behind him.

Lassie? Later. What on earth...? She touched her lips still tingling from his unexpected kiss.

The landlady laughed. ‘That’s one cheeky lad ye have there for a husband.’

Husband? And so the goodwife might think after such a display. Her heart knocking against her ribs, whether out of fear for what she would find inside that he needed to warn her in such an odd way or the effect of that kiss, she didn’t quite know.

Right now she didn’t care about anything as long as she ended up close to the warmth of a fire. Later, though, when she wasn’t too cold to think—cold on the outside, that was—she intended to discover just what sort of game he thought he was playing.

As she entered the inn, she realised he was right about the men in what must be the only barroom in the house. She had a brief impression of three burly males filling the low-beamed room, all looking at her. She kept her gaze firmly fixed on the landlady’s back and mounted the stairs to a low rumble of male appreciation.

‘Dinna mind them, missus,’ the landlady said in comfortable tones, opening the door to a chamber at the end of a short corridor at the top of the stairs. ‘McRae won’t put up wi’ any o’ their nonsense.’

She hoped not.

Mrs McRae ushered her into a chamber that barely had room for a bed, a settle by the hearth and a table with two chairs in the corner.

The woman turned down the sheets and gave the bed a pat. ‘And that man of yours is more than a match for them, aye?’ She chuckled.

Rowena narrowed her eyes at the woman. Now, what should she say to that? Deny that Mr Gilvry was her man, or wait for his explanation? Discretion was no doubt the better part of valour in this circumstance.

‘Take off your cloak, my dear,’ the landlady urged. ‘I’ll send up my Sin to help you out of those wet clothes in a minute or two.’ And with that she whisked out, shutting the door behind her.

Sin. Well, there was an interesting name. She removed her bonnet and tossed it on the bed, then unfastened her cloak and hung it over the settle where it could dry. She held her hands out to the fire and watched the steam rise off her skirts.

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of Sin, who turned out to be a pretty, blue-eyed, auburn-haired girl of about eighteen. As pretty as sin indeed.

She bobbed a curtsy. ‘Mam says I’m to help you undress, mistress.’

‘I’m afraid my luggage is still somewhere behind us on the road. I have nothing dry to change into.’

The girl gave her a grin. ‘Your man said as how you was to take off your wet things and wrap yourself in the quilt.’ She pointed at the bed.

‘My man,’ Rowena said drily. What on earth were the Pockles going to think when they arrived with the landlady calling Mr Gilvry her man? And what if it came to the duke’s ears? She pressed her lips together against the urge to deny that Mr Gilvry was her man. She would let him explain, before she took him to task.

The girl scurried around behind her and began attacking her laces. ‘Very positive he was about it, my lady, you being so damp and all. He feared you might take a chill. Said I was to get you out of these wet things, no matter what you said.’

‘How very forceful,’ Rowena said, wryly imagining Mr Gilvry dishing out orders and feeling a little shiver pass down her spine.

‘Oh, yes,’ the girl said, coming around to the front to help her unpin her bodice. ‘Very forceful he was.’ She giggled.

A strong urge to bash the girl over the head with a poker arose in Rowena’s breast. Though why that would be, she had no idea. She didn’t care in the least if Mr Gilvry made an innkeeper’s daughter giggle. She probably hadn’t seen his face. Oh, now that was mean.

‘Was it a duel?’ the girl asked. She sounded breathless. Too breathless for the effort to undo a few tapes on a gown.

‘Was what a duel?’

‘The scar. Was it a duel over a woman?’ She sighed in the most nauseating way.

‘I have no idea,’ Rowena said repressively and stepped out of the gown. ‘I have never asked him.’

‘He must have been a right bonnie lad before...’ The maid’s voice tailed off.

Furious, and not knowing why, Rowena turned her back to give the maid access her stays. ‘Do you think so?’ She could not keep emotion from colouring her voice.

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. Not that he isn’t bonnie now, of course. Lovely wide shoulders and those green eyes of his. They almost make up for the scar. We don’t get many handsome young gentlemen passing through these parts.’ The girl sighed.

‘Are you done?’

The girl dropped the stays on top of the gown and picked up the counterpane. ‘If you will just wrap this around you,’ she said, ‘I’ll unpin your hair and gi’ it a good brushing.’

Chapter Four

Drew followed the stableman, his head reeling. What the hell had he been thinking, kissing her like that? He’d just wanted to impress on her the importance of his words, and then the way she’d looked up at him, so sinfully tempting and ready to argue, it was all he could think of.

No doubt she’d be having his hide for that piece of foolishness. And for saying he was her husband. But the moment he saw the men inside the inn, he’d known they were trouble. His suspicions were confirmed by what he saw around him. The stables were full to the brim with ponies and stacked with barrels.

The three men in the common room were smugglers, and a rougher-looking lot he hoped never to see. The storm must have brought them in, because if things remained as they had been before he left for America, they would usually avoid any place where the gaugers might visit. There would be no excisemen out on a night like tonight.

It was a damnable nuisance that Pockle had been unable to keep up. It would have evened the odds.

Drew jerked his chin in the direction of the inn. ‘Where are the men from?’

The little man’s face closed up tighter than a Scotsman’s purse. ‘You’ll find no loose tongues here, sir, but since you are a true Highland gentleman, I can tell you they work for McKenzie out of Edinburgh. A rough lot, I can tell you that. You would do as well to keep an eye on that wife of yours.’

Drew nodded and made a show of pulling his pistol from his saddle holster and tucking it in his belt along with powder and shot.

He glanced up to find the man watching him. ‘Aye, well, I’m a man who kens how to look after his own.’

The little man grinned. ‘As well to be safe as sorry, they do say.’

The cold feeling in Drew’s chest expanded. Pockle should never have suggested they stay at a known smugglers’ haunt. They should have stopped earlier in the day.

‘You can leave the horses to me,’ the groom said. ‘I’ll look in on them later. You’d best keep an eye on that woman of yours and get yourself warm.’ He gave Drew a nudge in the ribs.

Drew gritted his teeth at the thought of the impending chilly reception. He should not have let himself be tempted.

‘Is there a back door into the inn?’ he asked the groom.

‘Aye, straight across. You’ll go through the kitchen.’ He winked. ‘There’s but one set of stairs.’

Drew didn’t much like the sound of that. It was always good to have more than one way out. He picked up their saddlebags and heaved them over one shoulder, leaving one hand free to use his pistol. He just hoped he wouldn’t need it.

He crossed from the stables to the back door of the inn. The goodwife was busy at the hearth, a pot bubbling with stew. It didn’t smell too bad and right now he really didn’t think he cared what was in it as long as it was hot and filling. She waved her ladle at him. ‘I’ll be up wi’ your dinner in a minute or two.’

He entered the taproom. Only one man seemed to be taking any real interest. His eyes narrowed when they caught sight of Drew’s pistol. A grim sense of satisfaction filled him. At least they knew he was not easy pickings. Still, he didn’t trust them an inch.

He had nothing against smugglers. He’d dealt with enough of them in the old days. He’d been one. But these men were different. Harder eyed and not Highlanders by their speech.

He sauntered between them to the bar along one wall. ‘I’ll take a bottle of whisky and two glasses,’ he said to the landlord.

‘Yes, sir,’ the portly, red-faced fellow said, reaching under his counter.

One of the men behind him sniggered. ‘Wi’ that face you likely have to get her drunk before she’ll have ought to do wi’ ye.’

Drew turned and faced the room, fists loose but ready. ‘If you have something to say, you can say it to my ugly face.’

The oldest man in the room eyed him for a moment, then nodded an acknowledgement. He shoved at a scrawny-looking fellow with a straggling beard. ‘Yon Roger’s had a wee bitty too much to drink,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you, Roger?’

Roger looked sullen, but at another shove nodded and disappeared into his tankard.

‘You’ll have your men keep a civil tongue in their heads, man,’ the landlord said from behind Drew. ‘Or I’ll be sending you back out in the snow.’

Drew grinned. ‘I wouldn’t be asking a dog to go out in that, lads.’ He turned back to the innkeeper. ‘Give them all a dram on me.’

The mood in the room lightened considerably. Drew picked up the bottle and glasses and raised it in salute, strolling out of the bar as three men rushed forward. Sugar was better than vinegar any day of the week. Not that he’d trust any of them.

He didn’t take his eyes off them as he climbed the bottom steps, just to be sure he didn’t get a knife in the back. Roger turned and met his gaze. He had the look of a man who was trying to solve a puzzle.

Drew halted. ‘Is something else wrong?’

The man shook his head. ‘I just had the feeling I’ve seen you before.’

Drew raised a brow. ‘People don’t usually forget my face.’

The man grimaced with distaste. ‘You never had the scar last time I saw you.’

The hairs on Drew’s nape rose. Was it possible he had met this man in his smuggling days? ‘You are mistaken, my friend. Sorry.’ He continued up the stairs, but from the feeling between his shoulder blades, the man watched him until he was out of sight.

He’d known a lot of people in the trade in the old days. Him and Ian. But he could not think of a reason why any of them would hold a grudge.

He knocked on the door of the chamber assigned to him and Mrs MacDonald.

‘Who is it?’

At least she had sense enough not to just open the door without checking. ‘Drew.’

‘Just a moment.’

A rustle of skirts, the door swung back, opened by a maid, but his gaze went straight to the figure kneeling by the hearth, wrapped in a cotton cover, and his mind ceased working. Her unpinned hair hung down her back, as sleek and as shiny a chestnut as would do a thoroughbred proud.

There was something extraordinarily intimate about seeing a woman with her hair down around her shoulders. And on her knees, too. His body responded as if she’d offered him the most personal of attentions. He almost groaned out loud at the blaze of heat scorching through his blood. At this rate, he wasn’t going to need the fire to get warm. Disgusted by his reaction, he dropped the saddlebags off to one side and set the whisky and the glasses on the table.

‘Out,’ he said to the maid.

Mrs MacDonald rose up on her knees and turned to look at him, surprise on her face.

Drew looked at the maid. ‘If you don’t mind?’ he said as politely as he could manage.

The little lass bustled past him.

Drew closed and locked the door, using the moment to repress the wicked images his mind had conjured up.

‘Mrs McRae will be along shortly wi’ our supper,’ he said, annoyed by the hoarseness in his voice.

She put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t my dear husband.’ Her eyes sparkled like water running over pebbles in a brook. Anger or amusement. Whichever it was, it made a breath catch in his throat; she looked so lovely with her hair hanging about her shoulders and her cheeks flushed by the warmth from the fire.

He strode for the window and opened it.

The wind gusted in, bringing with it a whirl of snowflakes and a chill to his overheated blood.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, her voice rising in pitch.

‘Admiring the view,’ he said over his shoulder. And checking for a way out should it be needed. The kitchen roof jutted out a few feet below. An easy climb down to the ground.

He took a deep breath, closed the window and turned back to face her. ‘I’m sorry I had to tell them we were wed. I couldna’ leave you up here alone with that lot staying below.’

Her lips thinned. ‘And I suppose you are sorry you had to kiss me, too.’

Heat travelled up his neck. ‘It was necessary, but, aye, I’m sorry.’

The apology didn’t seem to mollify her one little bit.

He jerked his chin at her saddlebag. ‘Is there something dry in there you can change into?’

She glanced down at the bag and then up at him. ‘Only my nightgown. I wasn’t expecting to put up at an inn without my luggage, which is now with the Pockles who, by the way, will be surprised to find us calling ourselves man and wife.’

The Pockles were another worry. They could not have been more than a half hour or so behind them, so they should have arrived by now. He didn’t see any reason to let her know his concern, though.

He shrugged. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’

A rap sounded at the door. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, one hand going to his pistol.

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