Return of the Prodigal Gilvry

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.