Return of the Prodigal Gilvry. Ann Lethbridge

      ‘I warned that you’d prefer it covered.’ Clearly resigned, he reached for the scarf.

      How many people must have turned away in horror at the sight? From a man who would have once drawn eyes because of his unusual beauty.

      ‘Of course not,’ she said firmly, deeply regretting her surprised response. ‘Would you like a dram of whisky?’ She made to rise.

      Looking relieved, he rose to his feet. ‘I’ll help myself.’

      He crossed to the table beside the window and poured whisky from the decanter, the good side of his face turned towards her. It made her heart ache to see him so careful. He lifted the glass and tossed off half in one go. He frowned at the remainder. ‘I didna’ expect to find you alone. Did they no’ give you the maid I requested?’

      ‘She has duties in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal.’

      He lifted his head, his narrowed gaze meeting hers, the muscles in his jaw jumping, pulling at the scars, making them gleam bone white. Her stomach curled up tight. She could only imagine the pain such an injury must have caused, along with the anguish at the loss of such perfection.

      Anger flared in his eyes as if he somehow read her thoughts and resented them.

      He did not want her sympathy.

      She looked down at her hands and gripped them together in her lap. She had asked him here to answer her questions. She might as well get straight to the point.

      ‘Mr Gilvry, I would like to know exactly what happened to my husband, if you wouldn’t mind?’ Did she sound too blunt? Too suspicious?

      She glanced up to test his reaction to her words. He was gazing out into the darkness, his face partly hidden by his hair. ‘Aye. I’ll tell you what I can.’

      She frowned at the strange choice of words. ‘Were you travelling with Samuel, when...when—?’

      ‘No. I found him some time after the Indians had attacked his party. He had managed to crawl away from the camp and hide, but he was badly injured.’

      ‘Why? Why were they attacked?’

      He turned his head slightly, watching her from the corner of his eye. ‘I don’t know.’

      Why did she have the sense he was not telling her the truth? What reason would he have to lie? ‘So you just happened upon him? Afterwards.’

      ‘I heard shots, but arrived too late to be of help.’ His head lowered slightly. ‘I’m sorry.’

      He sounded sorry. More regretful than she would have expected under the circumstances he described. ‘He was alive when you found him?’

      He took a deep breath. ‘He was. I hoped—’ He shook his head. ‘I carried him down from the mountains. For a while I thought he would live. The fever took him a few nights later.’

      ‘And he requested that you bring his remains back to me?’ She could not help the incredulity in her voice.

      He shifted, half turning towards her. ‘To Scotland. To his family. That is you, is it not?’

      ‘I doubt he thought of me as family.’ She spoke the words without thinking and winced at how bitter she sounded.

      ‘He had regrets, your husband, I think. At the last.’ His voice was low and deep and full of sympathy.

      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