Return of the Prodigal Gilvry. Ann Lethbridge

What the hell had he been thinking up there?

      How could he possibly consider wanting her, let alone begin envisaging her naked and open and...? He hit the post again, then sucked the copper-tasting blood from his knuckles and remembered her soft, wide mouth.

      Damn him. Hadn’t his experience with Alice Fulton been lesson enough? If his family hadn’t been desperate, he would never have taken her in order to force a wedding. The moment he did it, he’d known it would never work. Not for him. He’d have spent his life in purgatory.

      He’d never been so relieved as when she had backed out of their engagement. So why had he almost kissed Rowena MacDonald?

      Because he felt sorry for her? Or because he was grateful that, after her first horrified look at his face, she’d acted as if he was normal. As if his appearance didn’t make her stomach turn.

      Jones had better turn up tomorrow and take charge of this woman, because if he didn’t, Drew was just going to walk away. He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t. He’d sworn to himself that he would see her safe and secure. He didn’t have a choice, not when it was his fault her husband was dead.

      A man staggered down the steps from the loft. The old groom in charge of the stables. He glared at Drew, then recoiled as he saw his face in the light from the lantern hanging from a beam.

      ‘Isn’t it bad enough that your pounding and cursing knocked me out of my bed,’ the old man railed, shaking his fist. ‘Do you have to ruin my dreams with that devil’s face?’

      Drew laughed. He couldn’t help it. The old man’s reaction was exactly the same as everyone else’s, but at least he had the courage to say it.

      He bowed. ‘I beg your pardon.’

      ‘Aye, well ye might. If ye’re wanting to bed down, you best get up that ladder now, because when I’m back from tending to nature I’m bolting the trapdoor from the inside. To keep out Old Nick, you understand.’ He staggered to the door at the far end, still muttering under his breath.

      Drew wished he had something to keep out the devil he carried around inside him. But he didn’t. And while the devil wanted a woman, Drew wanted his revenge on Ian more. And so he would keep the devil caged. He’d done it for the past few years; he would continue.

      He had to get Mrs MacDonald off his hands and his conscience. Then he would send Ian to hell, where he belonged.

      * * *

      ‘A gentleman to see you, Mrs Macdonald,’ the maid announced from the doorway to her private parlour the next morning.

      She looked up from her struggle to compose a suitable letter to Mrs Preston, her employer, asking for a few more days’ absence. For a moment she thought it might be Mr Gilvry and her heart lifted a fraction. But at the same moment she knew it was not. He would not have asked the maid to announce him. ‘Did the gentleman give his name?’

      Emmie held out a square of white paper. ‘His card, ma’am.’

      Mr Brian Jones, solicitor, the card stated in bold black letters. On the reverse, a rather crabbed script added cryptically, man of business to the Duke of Mere.

      ‘Show him in, please. And ask Mr Gilvry to come up, if you will.’ The girl raised questioning brows, but hurried off without a word.

      Rowena moved from the writing desk to the sofa and sat facing the door.

      The man who stepped across the threshold a few moments later was surprisingly young for such a responsible position. In his mid-thirties, she thought, and reasonably fair of face, if one ignored the tendency of his long nose to sharpness and the slight weakness of his chin. But his pale blue eyes were sharp and his smile positively charming. He was dressed quite as soberly as one would expect for a lawyer, though his cravat was perhaps a shade flamboyant in its intricacy.

      ‘Mrs MacDonald,’ he said with a deeper bow than someone of her station warranted. An odd little slip for such a man.

      ‘Mr Jones. Please, be seated.’

      He settled himself into the armchair opposite without a sign of any nervousness. Indeed, if anything, he looked confidently in control. A small smile hovered on his lips as he waited for her to speak. She could wait him out. Her father had taught her the game of negotiation almost before she had learned how to sew a fine seam. But with her future in the balance, she wasn’t in the mood.

      ‘You received the message about my husband’s death from Mr Gilvry, I assume?’

      He arranged his face into an expression of sympathy. ‘I did. May I offer you my condolences on your loss,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘Indians, I understand.’

      She nodded. ‘So I gather.’

      ‘Most unfortunate.’ A touch of colour tinged his cheeks. ‘Did you—’ He coughed delicately. ‘Are you certain he did not survive the attack?’

      His eyes were fixed intently on her face. A strange feeling rippled across her shoulders. Her scalp tightened at the shock of it. It was something like the sensation described as a ghost walking over one’s grave, only more unpleasant. A premonition of danger. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who had wondered about the truth of Samuel’s death. ‘If you require confirmation, Mr Jones, you must inspect his remains. They have been returned to Scotland at his wish.’

      Distaste twisted his mouth. ‘Not me. I never met Mr MacDonald in person.’ He coughed behind his hand. ‘I have arranged for someone in the duke’s household to confirm his identity.’

      The duke’s household? ‘My husband never mentioned the Duke of Mere once to me during our marriage.’

      ‘Ah, dear lady, it is a distant connection. Your husband’s branch of the family has long been estranged from its senior branch. He visited Mere shortly before his departure for America. It was Mere’s wish that relationships that were broken be mended. The identification is mere formality, you understand, but a necessary one.’

      His smile felt just a little too forced. But then it was likely difficult to know what to do with one’s face in the presence of a supposedly grieving widow. He drew a notebook from his pocket and a small silver pen. He turned the pages as if looking for something. ‘It was a Mr Gilvry who discovered his body. It was his letter we received.’

      ‘Yes. He accompanied my husband’s remains from America.’ His voice made her wonder if he harboured doubts about Mr Gilvry. She pursed her lips. Where was he? He had promised to attend this meeting. ‘He will join us shortly.’

      He looked around somewhat disapprovingly as if he expected Mr Gilvry to pop out of her bedroom.

      ‘Nothing can move forward until the circumstances of your husband’s death are fully documented and sworn to,’ he continued. ‘It is this—’ he glanced down at his notebook ‘—Gilvry I need to speak to. As well as verifying the death of your husband and...’ He frowned. ‘And the validity of your marriage.’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘None of the MacDonalds were aware that Mr Samuel MacDonald had taken a wife.’

      ‘You will find it in the records of my parish church.’

      Again that delicate cough. ‘Or if there are offspring? Our contact with Mr MacDonald was most perfunctory.’

      ‘No.’ She raised her chin. ‘No offspring.’ And she’d been glad of it, too, given how he’d left her in the lurch.

      ‘And Mr Gilvry?’

      She glanced towards the door. Where on earth was he?

      * * *

      The call to attend Rowena and Mr Jones came at eleven. Damn it, not Rowena. Mrs MacDonald. All night he’d been thinking about the lovely pale skin glowing in candlelight over dinner, his memories of the challenge her slender curves and hollows presented to his own desires and cursing himself.

      He’d