Falling for the Highland Rogue

Horrified, she pressed a hand to her waist.

‘Are you nae well?’ he asked in that soft burr of his that she felt rather than heard. It was as intimate as a caress across her breasts. She felt them tighten and grow heavy against her will.

She prevented her fingers from curling into claws and raking across his pretty face, or from sinking into his shoulders to test the strength of him, to feel muscle and bone. Either response would not help her cause of remaining detached.

But he would pay for causing that little jolt of lust.

She smiled calmly. ‘Perfectly fine, Mr Gilvry. Your Edinburgh roads are less well made than London’s.’

He grinned, his eyes lighting with a flash of humour. ‘Please accept my apology. We Scots are a rough lot, so we do not mind a bit of bouncing around.’

A double entendre? Likely. She pretended not to understand. ‘And is it like this in Dunross also?’ She frowned. ‘Where exactly is Dunross? I do not believe I have heard of it.’

His smile broadened. ‘Oh, aye. Not too many people have heard of it, even in Scotland.’

‘I assume it is not a large place, then?’

‘Not large at all.’

He was hardly being forthcoming. Did he suspect her of an ulterior motive in her questions? If he didn’t, he should.

‘And you have brothers, I understand. Do they also live in Dunross?’

‘My older brother, only. And his wife. My other brother Niall lives here in Edinburgh.’

Not someone she would be meeting, no doubt, but she could not help sharpening her claws on his conscience.

‘Oh, how nice for you. Are you staying with them?’ Her expectant look said she hoped he would take her for a visit.

His mouth tightened a fraction and his gaze slid away from hers. ‘I have lodgings elsewhere.’

The man had quick wits, clearly. ‘So you live and work in Dunross. It must be hard, living so far from civilised society. From town. From all this activity.’

He shook his head with a rueful smile. ‘I am thinking I get activity enough in my line of work.’

‘Smuggler.’

‘Aye. Not that I’d be admitting it to just anyone, you understand.’

‘Naturally.’

He leaned back against the squabs with an expression of curiosity. ‘What about your family, Mrs West?’

‘I have no family.’ None that would admit to a relationship, anyway.

‘Then no Mr West, waiting for you in London.’

Checking out the pitfalls. He was a smart lad. A husband might be one way to keep him at a distance. But, no, Jack would not countenance such a move on her part. ‘Sadly, no.’ She gave him a mocking smile and saw faint colour stain his cheekbones. ‘I am quite alone, now.’ Except for Jack and his damned schemes.

‘I am sorry for your loss.

He looked sorry. And her heart gave a stupid little hop.

‘You find living in London to your taste?’ he asked.

She hated London and its dirt and corruption. ‘There is no finer city in the world.’

He glanced out of the window with a grimace. ‘I might have argued, but this weather does not help my cause. Hopefully you will see Edinburgh on a better day.’

‘It is certainly full of people.’

‘Aye. All the folk have come to see the King. It is not usually quite sae full as this. O’Banyon was lucky to find rooms so close to the heart of it all.’

The carriage slowed, then halted. He leaned forwards to peer out at the street. ‘We are here.’ He opened the door.

Rain splattered his hair and face and shoulders. He reached up, grabbed an umbrella from the footman perched on the box, opened it and let down the steps. He held the umbrella up, ready for her to alight. Held it so it covered her completely and left him in the rain. She did not hurry. Let him catch a cold from a damp coat, or soaking wet feet. Not that he seemed to care about the rain as it trickled down his face and disappeared into his collar.

She took his hand and stepped lightly on to the pavement. ‘Thank you.’

He nodded. ‘Come back for us in an hour,’ he called up to the coachman and she trod daintily across the flagstone and under the portico of the shop. Petty. Very petty. It was almost as if she had to remind herself to despise him. How could that be? She wasn’t one to play favourites. She despised them all equally.

He opened the door and she stepped into the dry of a well-appointed dressmaker’s shop.

The seamstress came forwards with a smile of greeting when she saw him. Her smile turned to a slight crease in her brow as she realised Charity was not someone she recognised.

‘Good day, Mr Gilvry,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting you, was I? I don’t think I have any items for Lady Selina.’

Lady Selina, was it? Not just a common smuggler, then. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he, if he could command an invite to a ball attended by the King. Oh, he really deserved to be punished for that piece of folly. Even if it did fall in with Jack’s plans.

‘What a lovely shop you have, Mrs...’ She arched a brow.

‘Donaldson,’ Gilvry supplied. ‘This is Mrs West. She needs gowns for the King’s Drawing Room and the Peers’ Ball.’ He flashed the woman a charming smile. ‘I told her that you are the best mantua-maker in Edinburgh.’

The seamstress preened at his flattery, then caught herself with a frown. ‘I am no’ sure I can do anything so grand at such short notice, Mr Gilvry. I don’t mean to be disobliging, you understand.’

Charity trilled a little laugh. ‘Oh, come now, ma’am, any dressmaker of note in London would not disoblige a customer of Mr Gilvry’s standing.’ She unbuttoned her spencer. ‘I swear I am damp to the bone after braving the rain. A cup of tea would not come amiss.’

Mr Gilvry helped her out of her coat. His eyes widened when he took in the gown beneath it. A sheer lemon-muslin creation that had a bodice more suited to the drawing room of a bordello than an afternoon of shopping. She smiled up at him. ‘Do you like it?’

One look at the dress had the seamstress as stiff as a board. ‘Mr Gilvry. I really do not appreciate you bringing your—’

For the first time since she had met him, his jaw hardened as if carved from granite and Charity felt a flash not of the pleasure she had expected from making him pay for his lustful thoughts, but of anxiety for the seamstress.

‘My what?’ he asked in what to Charity sounded like a very dangerous tone.

Apparently it had the same sound to Mrs Donaldson. ‘Your friend,’ the seamstress gasped. ‘This is a respectable establishment. Please, Mr Gilvry. I have my reputation to consider.’

‘And how many other ladies are you dressing for the King’s Drawing Room?’ he asked. This was the man who challenged revenue men and criminals like Jack. She should have guessed that the youthfully innocent demeanour was a front.