Return of the Prodigal Gilvry

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.’

‘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.’