Return of the Prodigal Gilvry. Ann Lethbridge

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.’

      ‘If he knew him personally.’

      She whirled around. ‘You think he did not?’

      ‘Your husband was not always lucid, Mrs MacDonald. He suffered greatly. But he was most insistent on my contacting those in charge of Mere’s estate.’

      The Duke of Mere. Why did that name sound so familiar? She had heard it spoken of recently, surely? She didn’t care for gossip, but now she remembered her employer’s remark. She turned to face him. ‘The Duke of Mere is dead.’

      His jaw dropped. ‘But...’ He shook his head, got up and took a step towards her. ‘One duke dies. Another follows right behind. Like the king.’

      He was right. She swallowed. ‘Of course.’

      He drew closer. Very close, until she could feel the warmth from his body, the sense of male strength held in check, though why that should be she could not imagine. ‘Mrs MacDonald,’ he said softly, ‘dinna fash yourself. Jones will come tomorrow and your husband’s family will do their duty by you.’

      What family? According to Samuel he was as alone in the world as she was. It was one of the things that had drawn her to him. His need for family. Not that he had needed her, once he had her money. It would be nice to be needed. To be able to lean on a man and have him take care of her in return. She felt herself leaning towards Mr Gilvry, as if his strength could sustain her.

      Shocked, she straightened. She moved away, turning to face him with a hard-won smile against the melting sensation in her limbs. ‘You are right. It seems that Mr Jones holds the key to everything.’ She put a hand to her temple. It was throbbing again. Too much thinking. Too much worrying. Too much hope that she had not been entirely abandoned after all.

      ‘Mr Gilvry, my husband asked much of you.’ She looked at his poor ruined face and saw nothing but sympathy in his gaze. She hesitated, her mouth dry, the words stuck fast in her throat. She took a breath. ‘Could I trouble you some more? May I request your presence at the interview with Mr Jones?’

      If he was surprised, he hid it well. ‘If that is your wish,’ he said, his voice a little gruff.

      Instinctively, she swayed towards all that beautiful male strength, her eyes closing in relief. ‘Thank you.’

      She felt his hand on her arm, warm and strong and infinitely gentle. Once more, strange tingles ran up her arm at the strength of his touch. Did he feel them, too? Was that why he released her so quickly?

      ‘Sit down, Mrs MacDonald,’ he said in a rasping voice. ‘By the hearth. I’ll ask our hostess to send up tea. And the maid. It is a good night’s sleep you need. Things will be clearer in the morning.’

      When she looked up, he was gone. So silently for such a tall man. A man whose absence left a very empty hole in the room. But he had said he would stand by her on the morrow. She clung to that thought as if her life depended on it and wondered at her sudden sensation of weakness.

      Chapter Two

      Drew paced up and down between the stalls, cursing under his breath. Frustration scoured through his blood. Desire. He struck out at a post and accepted the pain in his knuckles as his just reward.

      What the hell did he think he was doing? The woman had just learned of her husband’s death and instead