Return of the Prodigal Gilvry. Ann Lethbridge

of security she had not known in a long time.

      And that was a mistake. She’d thought the same about Samuel and look how that had ended. And if this trip to Mere ended the same way, she was going to be in dire straits indeed since Mrs Preston, rather than extending her leave of absence, had terminated her employment.

      All her reliance was now on the generosity of the Duke of Mere.

      They walked in silence, one behind the other for a while. Rowena turned to look back down the hill. There was no sign of the cart in the mist that had closed in around them.

      ‘Shouldn’t we wait for them?’ she called out.

      ‘They’ll catch us up at the crest,’ he replied. ‘I’ll make tea to warm us and have it ready when they arrive.’

      That was the other thing she found strange about him. The way he carried an assortment of objects in his saddlebag, as if he was used to living in the wilds. A handful of oats. A tin kettle to make tea. And of course the leaves. No milk, though. Just a flask of whisky from which he added a splash to the brew. It certainly warmed her from the inside out and she found herself looking forward to their arrival at the top of the hill.

      The Pockles also carried supplies in the cart—bread, cheese, some oatcakes—but Mr Gilvry’s tea was the best of all of it.

      * * *

      They had plodded upwards for what felt like a good half an hour. At this rate they would be lucky to make the last five miles to the next inn before it was dark.

      At the top, catching her breath, Rowena looked around her, but there was nothing to see. Just a rolling blanket of white and a barely visible track disappearing downwards. Disappointing, really. She’d been looking forward to seeing the Highlands in all their glory. But it really was the wrong time of year for travel. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her.

      Mr Gilvry set about making a fire from a clump of peat he had picked up somewhere along the way, or perhaps taken from the inn where they stayed the previous night. The inn had only one bedchamber. Everyone else was expected to sleep in the commons. Mr Gilvry had preferred the stables. She didn’t really blame him. The driver and his wife were a nice enough couple, if a little dour, but they were not as particular about their cleanliness as they might have been. She would not have wanted to spend a night with them in close quarters.

      It didn’t take him long to get the fire started and, while the small can heated over the flame, she bent to warm her numb fingers against the heat.

      ‘I wish I understood what game the duke is playing,’ she said softly. He crouched beside her on his heels. He looked so comfortable she thought about trying it.

      ‘The only way to find out is to meet him face-to-face,’ he said.

      ‘If he will meet with me.’

      ‘I canna see why he would not?’

      No, she could not either, but there was something odd about the way Mr Jones had insisted they make this journey. And then there was the issue of the date of Samuel’s death. Not just the lawyer’s swift change of mind, but the way Mr Gilvry had stiffened at the mention of proof.

      The water started to boil and she stepped back from the fire to give him room to brew his concoction. A few moments later, he held out a small pewter mug. She wrapped her gloved fingers around it and breathed in the steam. Bitter tea and whisky. While she sipped and felt the warmth slide down her throat, she stared into the mist. What sort of house would a duke have set aside for the wife of a distant relative? If she couldn’t sell it, and Samuel had not after all left her some money, would she be stuck out here in the Highlands for the rest of her life?

      It seemed likely. Unless she married again.

      She glanced at Mr Gilvry. He was looking back the way they had come with a frown. And then the jingle of a bridle pierced the muffling mist and the next moment the cart and its occupants came into view.

      Mr Gilvry collected the Pockles’ mugs and filled them from the kettle. He kicked out the fire and stamped on the embers. ‘We’ll keep going, aye?’ he said to Pockle. ‘We don’t want to be out here at nightfall.’

      ‘That we don’t,’ said Pockle, cradling his mug just as Rowena had done and blowing on it to cool it. ‘Old McRae willna’ open the door to us if we arrive after sunset.’

      Mr Gilvry glared at him. ‘Why did you say nothing of this before?’

      Pockle shrugged. ‘We were making good time. Nae need to distress the lady for naught.’

      Mrs Pockle took a deep swallow from her mug and made a little sound of satisfaction. Rowena had the feeling she cared more about the whisky than the tea. ‘Auld McRae is afraid of the piskies hereabouts,’ she announced. ‘Locks up tight come the dark.’

      Mr Gilvry made no comment, but she could see the irritation in his expression. Not a man to believe in piskies, then.

      ‘We’d best be moving on,’ he said. He took her mug, tossed the dregs and wrapped it in a cloth, before throwing her back in the saddle. ‘We’ll make the best use of the downhill slope to make up a little time.’

      ‘I’ll catch ye up,’ Pockle said. ‘I’ve a need to empty my bladder.’ He handed his empty mug to his wife and jumped down.

      ‘Dinna be taking too long, man,’ Mr Gilvry said. ‘We’ll wait for you at McRae’s place and I’ll be sure of letting ye in, dark or no.’

      Pockle touched a hand to his cap.

      ‘Don’t you think it would be better if we all stayed together?’ Rowena said. ‘What if we get lost? Pockle knows the way.’

      ‘I won’t get lost.’ Mr Gilvry growled. ‘I looked at the map before we left.’

      He mounted up and grabbed for Rowena’s reins. ‘But you might.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘The sooner we get going, the sooner we will arrive.’

      Normally she would not have considered letting a man lead her along like a child, but the worry in his eyes made such pride a foolish luxury. ‘Just be careful, Mr Gilvry,’ she said coolly. ‘I would not like to follow you off a cliff.’

      His sharp stare said the prospect was not out of the realm of possibility and her stomach dipped. So much for trying to strike a lighter note. Something that actually never seemed possible with this particular man, any more than it had been with Samuel.

      She sighed. Say nothing, and then you can’t possibly go wrong.

      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,