Return of the Prodigal Gilvry

In the face of her distress, guilt squirmed in Drew’s gut like a live thing. But for him, Samuel MacDonald might have been standing on this quay greeting his wife, instead of him. Mrs MacDonald looked ready to faint, but touching her again was out of the question. She was nothing like the antidote he’d been led to expect. A veritable harridan of a female.

He could see why the doughy Samuel MacDonald might have found her physically daunting. She was imposingly tall for a woman, though the top of her head barely reached Drew’s eye level, and as lean as a racehorse to the point of boniness.

She was not a pretty woman. The features in her face were too strong and aesthetic for prettiness. Her jaw a little too square for womanly softness, the nose a little too Roman. Her best feature was her dove-grey eyes, clear and bright, and far too intelligent for a man to be comfortable. And yet for some odd reason he found her attractive. Perhaps even alluring.

He fought the stirring of attraction. The effect of too many weeks of male-only company on board ship when he’d been used to— Damn. Why think of that now? A shudder of disgust ran through him. Not only had the woman just discovered she was a widow, but there wasn’t a woman alive who would welcome his attentions. Not unless he was paying. Not when they took a look at his face.

The old anger rose in his chest. The desire to wreak vengeance for what had been done to him was always with him, deep inside and like a carefully banked fire. Once brought back to mind, it blazed like a beacon that would never be doused. Not until he had exacted justice from his brother.

Getting a grip on his anger, he glanced up at the sky. It was three in the afternoon, the sun was already looking to set and no sign of the lawyer who should take charge of the matter at hand. Damnation upon the head of all lawyers.

He glanced along the quay with a frown. ‘Where is your carriage, Mrs MacDonald?’

‘Carriage?’ she asked, looking nonplussed.

No carriage, then. A hackney? Or had she walked the mile from the town to the quay carrying the large bag sitting at her feet? The worn cloak, the practical shoes, the modest undecorated bonnet, things in the old days he would have taken in with one glance, now came into focus. Aye, she would have walked. For a man who bragged of his high connections and incipient wealth, MacDonald had not taken such good care of his wife.

So Drew would have to fill the breach. At least for a day or so.

He gestured for her to walk in the direction of the road at the end of the jetty. ‘Do you have a room booked for the night in town?’

She eyed him with a frown. ‘Of course not, Mr Gilvry. I must return to my place of employment. I spent last night here, but must leave today.’

Her strength of will in the face of adversity surprised him. A woman who would not submit easily to anyone’s command. A burst of heat low in his belly shocked him. He could not be attracted to this domineering woman, as her husband had described her in the most unflattering terms. But there was no denying the surge of lust in his blood. Had his last years among the Indians made him less of a man? His throat dried at the thought. But he knew it wasn’t possible.

Unnatural bastard. He’d heard the accusation more than once from the women he’d brought to his bed. But this would not be one of them.

The sooner he delivered her to her husband’s family and got on with the business of settling his score with Ian, the better. ‘I promised to see you safe in the hands of your husband’s family. No doubt the lawyer will be here in the morning. Or I will send him another message. Let us find a carriage to transport us and...’ He glanced back at the sailor with the cart, who was shifting from foot to foot with impatience.

She followed his gaze and a small shiver passed through her body. Clearly she was not as unaffected as she made out.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I will hear what this lawyer of yours has to say, if he arrives tomorrow. The stage let me down at the Crown. We will go there and I will change my ticket to tomorrow night. I cannot stay a day longer.’

Drew swallowed a sigh of relief at her practical manner. Despite MacDonald’s words, he’d expected to suffer through a bout of feminine hysterics. No doubt that would come later, when she got a good look at his face.

‘Ye’ll find a carriage for hire at the end of the jetty,’ the sailor said, who had clearly been listening in to their conversation. The man trundled off with his burden, leaving Drew to escort Mrs MacDonald and carry her bag.

Her spine was so straight, her face so calm, he resisted the temptation to offer his arm for support. She clearly didn’t need it or welcome it. So why did he have the feeling that, despite her outward appearance, she might collapse? She didn’t look fragile. Anything but. She could have outmarched a general with that straight back of hers. Yet he could not get past the idea that, beneath the outward reserve, she was terrified. The woman was a puzzle and no mistake. But not one he intended to solve.

As the sailor had said, they found a hire carriage at a stand at the end of the quay and reached an agreement on terms to take them into the town centre. Drew helped the widow into the carriage, saw to the disposal of the luggage, then climbed up beside the driver. It would give her time to come to terms with her new circumstance. And allow him to avoid her questions, he admitted grimly.

* * *

The Crown Hotel was located in the centre of Dundee, about a mile from the quayside, and when the carriage halted, Drew climbed down and saw to the unloading of the barrel. The driver put his battered valise beside it on the cobbles.

Mrs MacDonald stared at the leather bag for a long moment. She raised her gaze to meet his and his stomach dipped. She must recognise it as her husband’s. He had no choice but to answer her silent query.

‘You are right. It is your husband’s valise,’ he said. ‘I have made use of his clothes, since I had to leave mine behind.’

Not that he’d had much to leave, unless you counted a breechclout and a pair of moccasins.

She stiffened slightly. ‘And you travelled on his ticket?’

He had not been mistaken in the quick wits behind that high forehead. ‘Since he was making the journey in the hold, I saw no reason to purchase another.’ He winced at the cold sound of his words. ‘And I used what money he had for necessary expenses.’ Like the makeshift coffin. And a pair of boots. He could hardly travel barefoot and MacDonald’s boots had been far too small. He had bought the cheapest he could find, however.

‘How very convenient,’ she said.

She suspected him of doing away with her husband and stealing his property. And he had in a manner of speaking. He met her gaze without flinching. ‘I gave my word to your husband that he would board that ship, Mrs MacDonald. I kept my promise.’ Out of guilt. MacDonald had not really expected to die on the journey back to civilisation. He had been full of talk of a glorious future in his fevered ravings. And of riches beyond any man’s dreams. Riches that would no doubt remain untapped now he was dead.

Guilt stabbed Drew anew. But it would not change what had happened, nor his intentions to follow through with his self-imposed duty. He would see MacDonald’s remains and his wife delivered safely to the lawyer and that was all he would do.

He picked up the valise and strode into the inn.

‘Off the ship, are ye, then?’ the innkeeper asked, meeting him just inside the door.

‘Yes. The lady needs a room with a private parlour,’ Gilvry said. ‘I’ll bed down in the stables.’

The innkeeper looked him up and down as if trying to decide if he was trying to gull him.

‘A chamber is all I require,’ Mrs MacDonald said from behind Drew, her reticule clutched at her breast as if she feared its contents would not be enough to pay for her night’s lodgings.

He pulled out MacDonald’s purse and jingled the few remaining coins. ‘The lady’s husband charged me with her travel arrangements. A room with a private parlour, if you please, and the use of a maid. Mrs MacDonald will take dinner in her room.’

The innkeeper bowed. ‘This way, please, madam.’

‘Don’t worry about the rest of the luggage, Mrs MacDonald,’ Drew said as, stiff-backed with indignation, she followed the host up the stairs. ‘I will keep it safe.’

She cast him a look of dislike over her shoulder. ‘Then I hope you have a good night’s rest, Mr Gilvry.’

Ah, irony. He’d missed its edge all these many years. No doubt she was hoping her husband would haunt him. Which he would, because, in a manner of speaking, he had been, ever since he died.

Drew turned and stomped out to the yard.

* * *

It was only when Rowena had removed her coat and hat inside her room that she fully absorbed the news. Samuel MacDonald was dead.

She squeezed her eyes closed against the sudden pain at her temples as her thoughts spiralled out of control. She had to think about this logically.

She was a widow.

A destitute widow, she amended. She had very little hope that anything remained of the money Samuel had realised from the sale of her half of her father’s linen factory. Creditors had assailed her from all sides after his sudden departure for America, leaving her no choice but to find work and support herself. Her anger at her foolishness bubbled up all over again. How could she have been so taken in after fending off so many fortune hunters over the years?

But she knew why. After her father died when she was eighteen, she had lived with his partner and cousin. She’d hated it. Not that these family members had been particularly unkind, but whereas her father had respected her mind and listened to her advice, her cousin had insisted she leave all business matters to him. He had not valued her opinions at all.

As far as he was concerned, women were brainless. Only good to decorate a man’s arm and attend to his house.

And then she’d proved him right. She’d fallen for the blandishments of an out-and-out scoundrel who had fled almost as soon as he had his hands on her money, leaving her to face the creditors he’d apparently forgotten to pay. Her cousin, who had encouraged the marriage, had washed his hands of her, as well he might, once he owned everything.