Return of the Prodigal Gilvry

‘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.’

Chapter Four

Drew followed the stableman, his head reeling. What the hell had he been thinking, kissing her like that? He’d just wanted to impress on her the importance of his words, and then the way she’d looked up at him, so sinfully tempting and ready to argue, it was all he could think of.

No doubt she’d be having his hide for that piece of foolishness. And for saying he was her husband. But the moment he saw the men inside the inn, he’d known they were trouble. His suspicions were confirmed by what he saw around him. The stables were full to the brim with ponies and stacked with barrels.

The three men in the common room were smugglers, and a rougher-looking lot he hoped never to see. The storm must have brought them in, because if things remained as they had been before he left for America, they would usually avoid any place where the gaugers might visit. There would be no excisemen out on a night like tonight.

It was a damnable nuisance that Pockle had been unable to keep up. It would have evened the odds.

Drew jerked his chin in the direction of the inn. ‘Where are the men from?’

The little man’s face closed up tighter than a Scotsman’s purse. ‘You’ll find no loose tongues here, sir, but since you are a true Highland gentleman, I can tell you they work for McKenzie out of Edinburgh. A rough lot, I can tell you that. You would do as well to keep an eye on that wife of yours.’

Drew nodded and made a show of pulling his pistol from his saddle holster and tucking it in his belt along with powder and shot.

He glanced up to find the man watching him. ‘Aye, well, I’m a man who kens how to look after his own.’

The little man grinned. ‘As well to be safe as sorry, they do say.’

The cold feeling in Drew’s chest expanded. Pockle should never have suggested they stay at a known smugglers’ haunt. They should have stopped earlier in the day.

‘You can leave the horses to me,’ the groom said. ‘I’ll look in on them later. You’d best keep an eye on that woman of yours and get yourself warm.’ He gave Drew a nudge in the ribs.

Drew gritted his teeth at the thought of the impending chilly reception. He should not have let himself be tempted.

‘Is there a back door into the inn?’ he asked the groom.

‘Aye, straight across. You’ll go through the kitchen.’ He winked. ‘There’s but one set of stairs.’

Drew didn’t much like the sound of that. It was always good to have more than one way out. He picked up their saddlebags and heaved them over one shoulder, leaving one hand free to use his pistol. He just hoped he wouldn’t need it.

He crossed from the stables to the back door of the inn. The goodwife was busy at the hearth, a pot bubbling with stew. It didn’t smell too bad and right now he really didn’t think he cared what was in it as long as it was hot and filling. She waved her ladle at him. ‘I’ll be up wi’ your dinner in a minute or two.’

He entered the taproom. Only one man seemed to be taking any real interest. His eyes narrowed when they caught sight of Drew’s pistol. A grim sense of satisfaction filled him. At least they knew he was not easy pickings. Still, he didn’t trust them an inch.

He had nothing against smugglers. He’d dealt with enough of them in the old days. He’d been one. But these men were different. Harder eyed and not Highlanders by their speech.

He sauntered between them to the bar along one wall. ‘I’ll take a bottle of whisky and two glasses,’ he said to the landlord.

‘Yes, sir,’ the portly, red-faced fellow said, reaching under his counter.

One of the men behind him sniggered. ‘Wi’ that face you likely have to get her drunk before she’ll have ought to do wi’ ye.’

Drew turned and faced the room, fists loose but ready. ‘If you have something to say, you can say it to my ugly face.’

The oldest man in the room eyed him for a moment, then nodded an acknowledgement. He shoved at a scrawny-looking fellow with a straggling beard. ‘Yon Roger’s had a wee bitty too much to drink,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you, Roger?’

Roger looked sullen, but at another shove nodded and disappeared into his tankard.

‘You’ll have your men keep a civil tongue in their heads, man,’ the landlord said from behind Drew. ‘Or I’ll be sending you back out in the snow.’

Drew grinned. ‘I wouldn’t be asking a dog to go out in that, lads.’ He turned back to the innkeeper. ‘Give them all a dram on me.’

The mood in the room lightened considerably. Drew picked up the bottle and glasses and raised it in salute, strolling out of the bar as three men rushed forward. Sugar was better than vinegar any day of the week. Not that he’d trust any of them.

He didn’t take his eyes off them as he climbed the bottom steps, just to be sure he didn’t get a knife in the back. Roger turned and met his gaze. He had the look of a man who was trying to solve a puzzle.

Drew halted. ‘Is something else wrong?’

The man shook his head. ‘I just had the feeling I’ve seen you before.’

Drew raised a brow. ‘People don’t usually forget my face.’

The man grimaced with distaste. ‘You never had the scar last time I saw you.’

The hairs on Drew’s nape rose. Was it possible he had met this man in his smuggling days? ‘You are mistaken, my friend. Sorry.’ He continued up the stairs, but from the feeling between his shoulder blades, the man watched him until he was out of sight.

He’d known a lot of people in the trade in the old days. Him and Ian. But he could not think of a reason why any of them would hold a grudge.

He knocked on the door of the chamber assigned to him and Mrs MacDonald.

‘Who is it?’

At least she had sense enough not to just open the door without checking. ‘Drew.’

‘Just a moment.’

A rustle of skirts, the door swung back, opened by a maid, but his gaze went straight to the figure kneeling by the hearth, wrapped in a cotton cover, and his mind ceased working. Her unpinned hair hung down her back, as sleek and as shiny a chestnut as would do a thoroughbred proud.

There was something extraordinarily intimate about seeing a woman with her hair down around her shoulders. And on her knees, too. His body responded as if she’d offered him the most personal of attentions. He almost groaned out loud at the blaze of heat scorching through his blood. At this rate, he wasn’t going to need the fire to get warm. Disgusted by his reaction, he dropped the saddlebags off to one side and set the whisky and the glasses on the table.

‘Out,’ he said to the maid.

Mrs MacDonald rose up on her knees and turned to look at him, surprise on her face.

Drew looked at the maid. ‘If you don’t mind?’ he said as politely as he could manage.

The little lass bustled past him.

Drew closed and locked the door, using the moment to repress the wicked images his mind had conjured up.

‘Mrs McRae will be along shortly wi’ our supper,’ he said, annoyed by the hoarseness in his voice.