Return of the Prodigal Gilvry

Chapter Five


Lying on the hard floor beside the bed in the dark, Drew didn’t know which was worse, listening to her get ready for bed and imagining her baring the slim body that he’d felt pressed against him for one brief instant out in the yard or glimpsing her chestnut locks spread out over a white pillow before she disappeared beneath the sheets.

And now there was the sound of her breathing inches from his head. His body ached at the thought of those sweetly curved lips and the image of soft little breasts rising and falling beneath the covers.

He couldn’t believe how much his body wanted more of those swells and hollows. The sparks prickling along his skin every time he came within just a few feet of her were one thing. This more intimate sensual knowledge had added a new and higher pitch to his lust.

He clenched the counterpane tight in his fists and rolled on his side, facing away from her. He didn’t want to find her attractive. He was his own man now, with no fetters or ties. That was how he wanted his life, and the sooner he left her with the duke, the better.

If he hadn’t said he was her husband, he could have spent the night in the common room, drinking with the other men. And fighting if he had to, though he had no recollection of the man who had looked at him with such rancour. It might be a case of mistaken identity. He rubbed his fingers over his scar, feeling the raised and twisted welts. Hardly likely.

No matter what, their kind of trouble was far more welcome than what he risked in this room. But if he was busy defending himself, there would be no one looking after Rowena. He didn’t dare take the chance of leaving her alone with a gang of cut-throats nearby.

He huffed out a breath. No doubt he’d have some explaining to do when he left her with the duke. There was no way around it, given that the innkeeper was the duke’s tenant, not to mention what the Pockles would hear when they arrived.

Thank goodness she was a widow. At least he wouldn’t be facing down an angry husband. Or worse yet, the father of an unmarried lass with a wedding on his mind. But the knowledge that she was a widow, an experienced woman, was a temptation he didn’t need. Disgust at his weakness writhed like a monster in his gut.

He forced himself to breathe deeply. To listen to the sounds of the night, the way he had done so often in the vast forests. The sounds of the men below filtered through the floorboards. The carousing seemed to have tapered off. There was only the occasional mutter or shout of laughter. No doubt they would slip beneath the tables as drink overcame them. It was why he had ordered the whisky. The inn’s comforting warmth would also do its work, since this sort of man usually slept out of doors. He could remember his own nights travelling the Highlands with contraband. He and Ian had thought it such an adventure, they hadn’t cared about the cold and the damp. But they’d been young then, and carefree.

Was Ian still smuggling brandy for Carrick? The men downstairs would likely know. McKenzie’s men from Edinburgh, the stableman had said. He wasn’t familiar with the name, but no doubt the people involved had changed over the years. What they did was the same as it had always been.

He had been tempted to go back downstairs and ask after his brothers, but it seemed he’d already aroused suspicions enough. And besides, what was the point of torturing himself with thoughts of a family who had banished him out of their lives? Aye, or with recollections of an older brother who had arranged for his death? He gritted his teeth as the old pain of it squeezed the air out of his lungs.

No, he’d find out soon enough what was happening with his family when he had delivered Rowena and her husband’s remains to Mere.

He forced himself to relax, to let the dark enter his mind, to welcome the oblivion of sleep.

A soft sound brought him upright, hand on the pistol he had primed and placed at his side before lying down. A whimper. From the bed. She was dreaming. No doubt she was seeing his face in her dreams. It would be enough to make anyone cry out.

She turned over.

He could see only her outline in the light from the candle, a lock of hair hanging over the side of the bed. His fingers itched to stroke its silky length.

She screamed.

He leaped to his feet and leaned over her. She was panting and fighting the bed sheets.

‘Rowena,’ he said, his mouth close to her ear, his nose filling with the scent of soap and warm woman. Lust surged. He bit back a curse. ‘Rowena.’ He shook her shoulder.

She opened her mouth. He cut off the scream with his palm. Her head thrashed back and forth, her fingers clawed at his hand. Scratching at his wrist.

‘Rowena,’ he said in an urgent whisper. ‘Stop. It’s me. Drew.’

Her eyes opened, dazed, confused. Her breathing rapid, her body trembling with fear.

Slowly he lifted his hand.

‘It is you,’ she murmured. Her voice cracked on the last word, tears welling.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘You were having a bad dream.’

Staring at him, she took a few deep breaths and sat up. ‘You were trying to smother me.’

He reared back at the accusation in her voice. ‘You screamed. Another one and we’d have had that lot from downstairs knocking on the door offering assistance.’ Or asking to participate. ‘You didn’t want that, did you?’


‘Oh.’ Her eyes cleared as if she was only now coming fully awake and conscious. ‘No. Of course not.’

He let go a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. For a moment, when she’d looked at him in terror, it had given him an unpleasant, sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach. It receded and left a very fine appreciation for the way her breasts created two snowy mounds beneath her flimsy nightgown. Under his gaze, the peaks pearled, little hard nubs at the crest of high firm breasts the size of peaches.

She followed the direction of his gaze and her face flushed bright red.

He bit down hard on a string of curses and moved away from her, going to the hearth to rake at a perfectly smoored fire. After such violent treatment, he’d be lucky if it lasted until morning. He set to work putting it right, banking it so it would once more give off enough heat to keep the chill off the air, but not use all the fuel before it was time to rise.

‘I’m sorry I woke you,’ she said softly from the other side of the room.

‘It must have been a pretty bad dream,’ he said, standing up, satisfied with his efforts. He glanced her way and was surprised to see she had not pulled the sheets up, but instead was sitting with her arms around her knees, watching him with those cool grey eyes.

Blood stirred in his veins. His shaft responded to the quickening throb of his pulse. How did a woman who looked as stern as an angel of retribution able to see a man’s sins rouse his passions so easily?

Because he was little better than an animal, he thought bitterly. She had roused him, too. Made him a slave to her desires. It had been the only way to survive.

He turned away, running a hand over the beard forming on his chin. She’d hated those bristles almost as much as he had hated her. But if he’d stayed with her, Samuel MacDonald would still be alive and his wife wouldn’t be having nightmares likely brought on by all the details he’d revealed. And by hours of seeing nothing but his ugly face.

‘I think you’ll sleep better alone.’ He picked up the cotton cover and headed for the door. ‘I’ll be right outside the door.’

‘Drew,’ she said, and while she spoke quietly there was a note of panic in her voice. ‘Please. Don’t go.’

Stunned at the sound of his name on her lips, he stared at her. She looked away, twisting the sheet in her fingers. ‘I don’t want to be alone right at this moment.’ She lifted her gaze. ‘Talk to me. I’ve slept enough.’

She’d slept all of four hours. But she was still upset. Those restless hands were trembling.

She gave a small self-mocking laugh. ‘I’m sorry to make such a fuss about a dream. You need your rest. Please take no notice of my foolishness. And please don’t go sleeping in a draughty corridor on my account. Indeed, take the bed. I will be quite happy to sit in the chair.’

She was babbling like a nervous child, but she was smiling at him. A smile that made him think of kindness and courage. A smile that pushed back at the shadows he saw in her eyes.

‘I’ll no’ be putting you out of your bed,’ he said. ‘But I’ll stay, if that is your wish.’

‘You are very kind, Mr Gilvry.’

So they were back on formal terms. As they should be, but he couldn’t help liking the way his name sounded on her lips. It was a long time since anyone had called him Drew.

She had always called him her yellow dog. The others in the band had followed suit, when they called him anything at all.

Sometimes, in his head, he’d begun to think of himself that way, too.

He brought a chair from the table and set it near the bed. ‘Do you want to tell me about your dream?’

She frowned. ‘Something or someone was chasing me. That is all I remember.’

A common enough dream. A shaman might have read something into it, but Drew didn’t believe in their heathen superstitions. Or not much anyway.

‘What would you like to talk about?’ He prayed it wouldn’t be more questions about her husband. He’d revealed far more than he intended over dinner. The lingering death. Their conversations. The man had been utterly callous with respect to his wife, only caring about the prospect of wealth. Nor did he want to reveal how he had slipped away from the band who had held him prisoner for two long years. It was their drunkenness that had given him the chance to escape. But he should have known that she’d want him back. They must have thought he’d try to join up with MacDonald. He’d known better, but it hadn’t made any difference.

‘Tell me more about you,’ she said. ‘Where you grew up. Your family.’

His blood ran cold. ‘I’m no’ a very interesting topic of conversation, I’m afraid.’

He slouched in the chair, trying to look at ease. It wasn’t easy when he was still as hard as granite. ‘Where to start?’

‘Where in Scotland did you grow up?’

As topics went it was fairly neutral. ‘My family is from Dunross, a small village north of Inverness. My father was the laird. And my brother after him.’

She straightened. ‘You have a brother? I had the impression you were alone in the world.’

Curse intelligent females who listened to what you said. ‘I have family, but they are not looking for me to return.’

‘Why?’

Well, here was his chance to confess just what sort of man she’d been trusting. A way to serve up a bit of reality to keep her at a distance. Yet something held him back. Pride. He did not want her to think worse of him than she already did. And a measure of lingering shame. He had hurt Alice badly. He couldn’t think about it without a nasty lurch in his stomach. He’d deserved his punishment. But he had not deserved to die for his mistake.

He shrugged. ‘Let us say it was better for all that I left.’

‘How long ago did you leave?’ she asked softly.

Hell, if it was the year 1822 now, then it had to be... ‘Six years.’

‘And you haven’t seen your family since?’

Hadn’t seen them or heard from them. There had been no way to get in touch even if he had wanted to. And he hadn’t. And when he did, it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

He shook his head.

‘And your parents?’

He winced inwardly. ‘My father died years before I left. My ma—’ It was hard to say it. He forced the words out. ‘Ma was alive when I left.’

‘She must be terribly worried.’

That was females for you. Straight for the kill. Rip out your throat or your heart. ‘I doubt it.’

A lie. His mother had been devastated when he had told her he was leaving. Had begged him to write. He hadn’t sent one letter. Ian had made sure of that.

They must all assume he was dead. He steeled his heart against a surge of longing. He’d made his decision. He’d see Carrick first. Confirm exactly what favour Ian had asked of him. And then he’d send Ian to the same kind of hell as he had endured.

Her face softened. ‘And your injury?’ She touched her own cheek. ‘If it is not too difficult a topic.’

He inhaled a breath though his nose. He could slough her off, but it would come up again. It wasn’t as though he could hide it, not really. And every time she looked at him, she would wonder. A deep longing filled him. The need to tell someone. To tell her. Something about this woman made him want to be rid of the weight of his past. To unburden himself. But he couldn’t. The shame of her knowing would finish off what was left of his soul. But he must tell her something.


‘I had been in America less than a week. I went hunting. It seemed like a grand adventure, ye ken.’ He paused to gather his thoughts. ‘There was an accident.’

It wasn’t until his fingers encountered the welted, knotted skin that he realised he had touched the scar. He grimaced, then smoothed out his expression. Any sort of emotion only made him look worse.

‘What sort of accident?’ she asked.

‘A stray bullet.’ It had strayed off its target. Either his brain or his heart, he didn’t know. His foot had slipped at the same moment the shot had been fired. ‘It knocked me off my feet and I fell into a river. An Indian band found me downstream in verra poor shape.’

At her wide-eyed gasp, he shook his head. ‘Nae those who killed your husband. A small, peaceful family. They did what they could. Fed me and cared for me. And when I was well...I just stayed.’

He’d been unable to face going back as he was. Scarred. Angry, yes, but also hurt that Ian had wanted to be rid of him in such a final way. He’d decided to try to forget the words he’d heard before the shot was fired. To let his brother think he had won. Then anyway.

‘You lived among them for six years?’

Not for the last two. But she didn’t need to know that. ‘It was a simple life. Almost spiritual. They are verra close to the natural world. It reminded me of the Highlands.’

He winced at how stupid that sounded, but her expression held only interest.

‘How fascinating,’ she said. ‘But you decided to leave? You weren’t satisfied with such a simple life?’

That life had changed. Later. When they were attacked by a band of renegades. The warriors had wanted to kill him, but their woman of magic had been fascinated by his yellow hair. She stopped them. And because she’d saved his life she considered him her property. He froze out the images that seared though his brain.

‘It was time to leave.’ Hundreds of miles from where he’d first been taken, when her husband had showed up with the firewater and given him the chance he needed. And her husband had paid the price.

‘What about you?’ he asked, changing the subject, hoping she wouldn’t delve any deeper. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he would not tell her the worst of it. ‘Where is your family?’

‘I was an only child. My mother and father are dead.’ Sorrow coloured her voice. ‘There is a cousin, of my father’s, but we are not close.’

He frowned. ‘The duke—’

She shook her head. ‘That is what I don’t understand. Samuel never mentioned Mere. He told me he was alone in the world apart from very distant relatives who would not approve of him marrying into the bourgeoisie.’ She lifted her chin. ‘It didn’t matter that Mother’s grandfather was an earl, of course, since she’d married into trade.’ She sighed. ‘I really thought he cared for me. But it turned out he just needed my money.’

What she was saying accorded pretty well with what her husband had said, and part of him was glad the man had died. Another part felt guilty, that he’d been the one to cause his death. She’d be a great deal better off if MacDonald had lived. ‘I’m sorry.’

She sighed. ‘It was my own stupid fault. I thought he was my one chance for happiness. It turned out that it only made things worse.’ She gave a small laugh and buried her face against her upraised knees. ‘Pride comes before a fall, doesn’t it?’

The pain in her voice was like a blade of steel pressing into his temple. It was as if her vulnerability called out to him. He couldn’t help himself, he leaned forward and touched her shoulder, felt the bone smooth, round and cool to his palm through the fine linen. ‘Any man would be proud to have you for a wife.’

Her short laugh was hard edged. ‘Mr Gilvry, please do not insult my intelligence. If he could have had the money without me, he would have been the happiest man alive. He couldn’t wait to escape, once he had my fortune in his pocket.’

He could hear tears in her voice and for some reason he couldn’t bear to think of her crying. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘Hush now. You’ve had a bad dream. It’s the blackest part of the night. Things will seem better in daylight.’

She sniffed, a small sound that made his chest clench painfully. He wanted to hold her in his arms, protect her, but he didn’t dare—even sitting this close had him hard with wanting. Something he could and would control. Besides, she would never consent to give him what he needed.

‘You must think me a fool.’

‘Not at all. I think you should sleep now, though. With the snow and all, it will be a long, hard day tomorrow.’

A small laugh shook her frame. ‘And the sooner we get there the sooner you can be about your own affairs.’ She looked at him, her grey eyes misty, but a brave smile pinned to her lips. Lips he wanted to kiss. He pushed the thought aside.

That was her, though, he thought. Brave. Full of courage. And no matter what she said about her marriage, she would be worse off as a widow if the duke did not treat her right. For a moment he considered confessing the whole of it. Unburdening his soul. What then? Likely she’d scream bloody murder and he’d find himself behind bars. Imprisoned yet again.

He stood up. ‘Try to get some sleep.’ He picked up the candle and blew it out. With the glow from the fire and the moonlight from the window now the storm had blown over, there was more than enough light for him to see his way to his blanket.

The bed ropes creaked as she lay down with a sigh. ‘Thank you, Mr Gilvry,’ she said softly.

‘For what?’

‘For listening to a foolish woman.’

If there was anything she was, it was not foolish. Anyone would be troubled with nightmares after the story he’d told her of what the savages had done to her husband and his party. He wrapped himself in the counterpane and settled into his spot on the floor. He put his hands behind his head and stared up where the ceiling would be, if it wasn’t hidden in the dark.

Tomorrow they’d reach the duke’s estate where he’d be questioned very closely. The thing was, would he tell the duke all of it? For her sake? Would it help? The lawyer had said since there was no proof, the date wasna’ important. His eyes said he was lying.

Drew listened to the sounds of a house breathing as his mind grappled with the question. The soft sounds of a dwelling at rest.

A creak. Outside the door. Heavy weight pressing down on wood. Metal against metal. He sat up. So did Rowena. Silently he rose, pistol in hand, leaning over her, once again pressing his palm to her lovely mouth. ‘Hush,’ he breathed softly in her ear.

She nodded. Not only brave, but trusting. Of him. Too trusting.

The thought was a sickening lurch in his stomach he could not afford to acknowledge. He crept to the door, careful to avoid the loose board in the middle of the room and another in front of the door.

The latch lifted, the door moved in the frame, just a wee bit. As far as the lock would allow. Now, who would be trying the door in the middle of the night? And what sort of idiot would expect it would not be locked?

He glanced over his shoulder. Rowena was watching him, her profile outlined by the glow of the fire, her body rigid.

The pressure against the door ceased and it returned to its former position in the frame, but he could hear the sound of quiet breathing on the other side. A sound of metal against metal. Whoever was out there was determined to get in and, if he wasn’t mistaken, they had another key.


* * *

All Rowena could see was the dark bulk of Drew’s shape in the shadows near the door where the moonbeams streaming through the window did not reach. Breath held, she watched, her stomach clenched tight, her throat aching with the urge to say something to break the tension she felt in the room.

Was someone really trying to break in?

A sharp sound. Something dropping to the floor. Drew picked it up. In a flash, she realised it must be the key from their side of the door. Startled, she threw back the covers.

At the same moment, Drew flung open the door to reveal two burly men, one holding a lantern. Rowena, half out of bed, covered her eyes against the sudden glare.

Someone—one of them, she thought—cursed.

When she looked again, she could see why. Drew was holding them at bay at pistol point. The man with the lantern was backing up, struggling to free his pistol from his belt, the other one had what looked like a lump of wood in his hand.

‘Leave that where it is,’ Drew said calmly to the man with the lantern. The man held still.

Drew narrowed his eyes. ‘Planning on robbing us while we slept? Who gave you the key?’

‘We just wanted to ask a few questions,’ the man with the cudgel said, his voice hoarse. He looked at the pistol and licked his lips.

Drew glared at him. ‘You could have asked me in the morning.’

‘We won’t be here come morning,’ the man with the lantern said. ‘I do know you. I’ve seen you afore.’

Drew stiffened. ‘I have never met you in my life.’

He frowned. ‘Gilvry your name is. Not MacDonald. Led us a pretty chase in Edinburgh last summer, didn’t he, Morris?’

‘Aye,’ the man called Morris said. ‘Caused our boss a load of trouble.’

An expression of shock passed across Drew’s face. He masked it quickly, but Rowena knew the man’s words had hit home for some reason. But how could he have been in Edinburgh last summer? It didn’t make sense.

‘You are mistaken,’ he said. ‘I am Samuel MacDonald. And this is my wife.’

The man with the cudgel, the one who seemed to be in charge, shook his head. ‘No, laddie. You might have fooled us poor folks, what ne’er meet with the nobs, but you can’t fool McRae. He’s met Samuel MacDonald. You’re a Gilvry. A spy. You ruined McKenzie’s business once—he’ll no’ be very happy if you ruin more of it. So what I wants to know is, what game are ye playing?’

Comprehension dawned on Drew’s face. ‘Whisky,’ he said. ‘You think I’m here because of the whisky. Well, I’m not.’

The man shook his head. ‘Not good enough, laddie. You’ll need to explain to McKenzie. We’ll be takin’ you to Edinburgh.’

Rowena gasped.

Drew smiled tightly. ‘I see. Well, if we are going on a journey, I hope you won’t mind if my wife gets dressed.’

The man with the lantern leered. ‘She is more than welcome to come as she is.’

‘Rowena,’ Drew said.

The word was a command. Legs shaking, she scurried behind the screen. Stays were impossible, but she could manage her shirt and riding habit. With a bit of a struggle she got dressed. If only her hands would stop shaking. And her throat was so dry, she couldn’t swallow.

She pulled on her boots and sidled around the screen.

‘Are you ready?’ Drew asked.

‘Yes,’ she croaked and tried swallowing again.

Drew smiled and cocked his weapon. ‘This pistol says I am no’ going anywhere with you.’

The men at the door gaped at him.

Then there was a noise beyond the window. A sort of scraping sound. From the cocking of his head, she knew Drew heard it, too. He jerked his head in that direction and she ran to look out.

And screamed, leaping back. There was a bearded face on the other side of the glass, grinning at her.

In that second, all hell seemed to break loose. The door slammed shut. The room went dark. A pistol fired with a blinding flash and deafening bang. Glass shattered. The smell of black powder hit the back of her throat. She threw herself to the floor.

‘Get up,’ Drew said, his voice cold, his hand gripping hard on her arm as he pulled her to her feet. ‘Get your cloak.’

As ordered she grabbed her cloak from the settle and wrapped it around her. Still damp, but warm from the fire.

Shouts and bangs came from beyond the door. Then the sound of someone running downstairs.

‘Come here,’ he said. He flung something out of the window and then knelt by the bed, tying something to the leg. A rope.

Then he picked up their saddlebags and threw them out. ‘What are you doing?’ she cried.

‘We’re leaving.’ He picked her up, flung her over his shoulder and climbed out of the window.

It was a short drop to a roof just below the window. And another to the ground. He landed in a shower of snow. Another bang and a flash. She ducked. Someone was firing at them from the window they had just left. A scream lodged in her throat.

‘Run,’ Drew said. ‘This way.’ He grabbed her hand, snatching up the saddlebags on the way past. They charged into the stables.

The horses stirred.

‘No time for saddles,’ Drew said hastily untying the horses. ‘Can you ride astride?’

She had no idea, but, too breathless to speak, her heart thundering too loud, she nodded.

He threw her up on her horse. ‘Tuck your skirts between your legs, aye.’

Her jaw dropped, but he’d left her to mount his own horse at a leap. Assuming he knew whereof he spoke, she did as he suggested. He grabbed her horse’s reins and they charged out of the stable door at a gallop.

A shape holding a lantern darted towards them, but when he realised they were not going to stop, he dived out of the way.

A gun fired. She half expected to feel a searing pain in her back. But no, it seemed whoever was shooting had missed. And then they were fleeing into the night, leaving behind them the sound of curses.

They rode uphill, sometimes walking the horses to give them a brief rest, sometimes breaking into a bone-jarring trot. Moonlight reflecting on snow made the landscape featureless and ghostly.

Ahead of her, Drew kept looking over his shoulder. She looked back once, but almost lost her seat, so contented herself with clinging on desperately and praying that they were not going to stumble off a cliff or fall into a burn. The cold bit into the bare flesh of her legs above her boots and stockings and the rough horse blanket rubbed against the insides of her lower legs. She could not deny she was glad of the fabric of her skirts between the blankets and her thighs, but even so she did not know how long she could ride without a saddle.

Soon it was clear the horses were blown and about the time she was going to suggest they stop for a rest, he halted. Once more he looked back.

Her heart tripped and stumbled. ‘Are they coming?’

‘No.’

The hoof prints in the snow would be hard to miss. ‘Do you think they will follow?’

‘Lucky for us, they only have ponies. The wee beasties canna follow us through the drifts.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’

He looked at her, then laughed.

‘What is so funny?’

‘Nothing. I’m just relieved you are no’ having a fit of the hysterics.’

‘Do you think it would help?’

‘Not at all.’ He looked up at the stars. ‘North-west is where we need to go if I remember right from the map.’

She looked up. ‘You can tell where we are from the stars?’


‘Aye. Something I learned from the Indians. It works the same on land as it does on the ocean.’

He turned away.

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?