Return of the Prodigal Gilvry

An odd lump rose in her throat. The thought that Samuel had cared. Even if it was out of guilt. It had been a long time since anyone had truly cared. She fought the softening emotion. It was too late for her to feel pain. How would it help her now? ‘And his executor is to meet us here? In Dundee.’

‘Aye. Or at least his lawyer. A Mr Jones. I wrote to him from Wilmington. But if you didna’ get my letter...’

‘The address you used, it came from Samuel? Naturally it did,’ she amended quickly at his frown.

‘Aye.’

‘I moved. I had no way of letting Samuel know.’ She’d also changed her name. She could scarcely have Samuel’s creditors coming to her place of employment. ‘An old friend forwarded Samuel’s note, because I asked him to do so.’ Her cousin’s butler, once her father’s man, would not have forwarded a letter unless he knew the name of the sender. There had been too many odd requests for money and not all of them from tradesmen. ‘I doubt your other letter was similarly impeded. Let us hope Mr Jones will arrive tomorrow.’

The sound of footsteps carried along the passageway outside. He turned to look, his fair brows raised in question.

‘Our dinner,’ she said with a little jolt of her heart, as if she was afraid he would leave.

‘Ours?’ He looked surprised.

‘I thought we could talk while we ate. That is, if you have not already dined?’

‘No, I havena’,’ he said warily. He turned his back on the room, once more looking out into the night as two maids entered, followed by the innkeeper’s wife who directed the setting up of the table and the serving of dinner. The plump woman curtsied deeply. ‘Will there be anything else, madam?’

‘No, thank you,’ Rowena said. ‘I think we can manage to serve ourselves.’

The woman’s gaze rested on Mr Gilvry’s back for a moment, her eyes hard. ‘Would you like our Emmie to serve you, madam?’

Rowena could see the woman’s thoughts about single ladies entertaining a gentleman in her rooms.

She stared at the woman down the nose that had been her plague as a girl, but now had its uses. An arrogant nose, it put people in their place. Her father had used his own bigger version to great effect in his business. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Robertson. That will be all.’

The woman huffed out a breath, but stomped out of the room, defeated.

Mr Gilvry turned around as the door closed behind their hostess, his expression dark. ‘The woman is right. You should ask the maid to attend you. Or dine alone. You must think of your reputation.’ He took an urgent step towards the door.

The vehemence in his voice surprised her. Was he was afraid for her reputation or his? Did he fear she might put him in a compromising position? It hardly seemed likely. ‘You honour me with your concern, Mr Gilvry, however, I am not accountable to the wife of an innkeeper.’ She lifted her chin as another thought occurred to her. ‘Or are you seeing it as an excuse to avoid my questions?’

He glared. ‘I have answered all of your questions.’

Had he? Then why did she have the sense he was keeping something back? ‘You have,’ she said. It would do no good to insult the man. ‘But I have more. You must excuse my curiosity. I know little of my husband’s activities in America.’

His mouth tightened. His gaze shuttered, hiding his thoughts. ‘There is little I can tell you on that score, I am afraid. Perhaps this Mr Jones can tell you more.’

Avoidance. It was as plain as the nose on her face. Her exceedingly plain nose on her exceedingly plain face, as Samuel had made no bones to tell her, once he had control of her money. But it wasn’t because she cared whether this man found her attractive or otherwise that she wanted him to stay; she simply wanted to know if she dared trust him. That was all.

For one thing, she had never before heard of this Mr Jones. And she was hoping Mr Gilvry could shed some light on how he fitted into the scheme of things before she faced the man.

She offered a smile. ‘I am sorry if I sound over forward, but I find I do not wish to eat alone tonight. My thoughts about the news give me no rest.’ And nor did her suspicions.

His shoulders relaxed. ‘Aye, I understand it has come as a shock.’

And a welcome relief. Guilt assailed her at the uncharitable thought. He would think her dreadful if he guessed at the direction of her thoughts.

She gestured to the table. ‘The food is here. It would be a shame for it to go to waste.’

He swept a red-gold lock back from his forehead. ‘To tell the truth, the smell of the food is hard to resist and I doubt they’ll feed me in the kitchen, if yon mistress has aught to say in it.’

He glanced at the table with longing and it was only then that she realised how very gaunt was his face. His cheekbones stood out beneath his skin as if he had not eaten well in months. At first one only noticed the scars. And the terrible dichotomy they made of his face.

‘Then you will keep me company?’ she asked. She wasn’t the sort of woman men fell over themselves to be with, but he was not a man who would have much choice in women. Not now. She stilled at the thought. Was that hope she felt? Surely not. Hope where men were concerned had been stamped out beneath Samuel’s careless boots. What man would want her? Especially now, when she was poor.

He shook his head with a rueful expression. ‘Aye. It seems I will.’

The gladness she felt at his acceptance was out of all proportion with the circumstances and her reasons for inviting him. A gladness she must not let him see. With a cool nod, she let him seat her at the dining table.

He took the chair opposite. ‘May I pour you some wine and carve you a portion of what looks to be an excellent fowl?’

‘You may, indeed.’

While she had little appetite herself after the day’s events, it was a pleasure to see him eat with obvious enjoyment. And his manners were impeccable. He was a gentleman, no matter his poor clothing.

She cut her slice of chicken into small pieces and tasted a morsel. It was moist and the white sauce was excellent. And she could not help watching him from beneath her lowered lashes as she tasted her food. He might not be handsome any longer, but his youth, his physical strength and powerful male presence were undeniable. Big hands. Wide shoulders. White, even teeth. A formidable man with an energy she could feel from across the table.

She wanted to ask him what it was that drove him. What he cared about. What he planned. It was none of her business. She would do well to remember that.

She held her questions while he satisfied his appetite. It was her experience, both at home and in the two positions she’d held as a governess, that men became more amenable with a full stomach. She waited until he had cut himself a piece of apple pie before opening a conversation that did not include passing gravy or salt, or the last of the roast pork.

‘The locals say that it is likely to be a hard winter,’ she said, lifting her wine glass.

‘I heard the same,’ he replied.

She waited for him to say more, but was not surprised when he did not. He said little unless it was to the point. Idle conversation had a tendency to lead to the baring of souls. He was not that sort of man.

She took a sip of wine and considered her next words. Shock him, perhaps? Get beneath his guard, as her father would have said? Her heart raced a little. ‘The coat you are wearing is Samuel’s, is it not?’

Eyes wary, he put down his forkful of pie. ‘He had no more use for it. My own clothes were ruined on the journey to the coast.’

Defensive. But why? What he said made perfect sense. Perhaps he feared she’d be overcome by her emotions at the thought of him wearing Samuel’s clothes? Another woman might be, she supposed.

She kept her voice light and even. ‘It must have been a terrible journey?’

‘I’ve had worse.’

She stared, surprised by the edge in his voice. He looked up and caught her gaze. His skin coloured, just a little, as if he realised he’d been brusque.

‘But, yes,’ he said, his voice a little more gentle, ‘it was no’ so easy.’ His voice dropped. ‘Your husband bore it verra well at the end, if it is of comfort to you.’

It did not sound like the Samuel she had known. He’d been a man who liked an easy life. The reason he had married her money. Could there be some sort of mistake? Her stomach clenched at the idea, but she asked the question anyway. ‘You are sure that he is...I mean, he was Samuel MacDonald? My husband?’

Misplaced pity filled his gaze. ‘There is no doubt in my mind the man was your husband, Mrs MacDonald. We talked. Of you. Of other things. How else would I know about the lawyer?’ He frowned and looked grim. ‘But you are right. Someone should identify his remains. To make things legal. I didna’ think you...’

Her stomach lurched. She pushed her plate away, stood and moved from the table to the hearth. ‘No. You are right. This Mr Jones should do it.’