Crown Hotel was located in the centre of Dundee, about a mile from the quayside, and when the carriage halted, Drew climbed down and saw to the unloading of the barrel. The driver put his battered valise beside it on the cobbles.
Mrs MacDonald stared at the leather bag for a long moment. She raised her gaze to meet his and his stomach dipped. She must recognise it as her husband’s. He had no choice but to answer her silent query.
‘You are right. It is your husband’s valise,’ he said. ‘I have made use of his clothes, since I had to leave mine behind.’
Not that he’d had much to leave, unless you counted a breechclout and a pair of moccasins.
She stiffened slightly. ‘And you travelled on his ticket?’
He had not been mistaken in the quick wits behind that high forehead. ‘Since he was making the journey in the hold, I saw no reason to purchase another.’ He winced at the cold sound of his words. ‘And I used what money he had for necessary expenses.’ Like the makeshift coffin. And a pair of boots. He could hardly travel barefoot and MacDonald’s boots had been far too small. He had bought the cheapest he could find, however.
‘How very convenient,’ she said.
She suspected him of doing away with her husband and stealing his property. And he had in a manner of speaking. He met her gaze without flinching. ‘I gave my word to your husband that he would board that ship, Mrs MacDonald. I kept my promise.’ Out of guilt. MacDonald had not really expected to die on the journey back to civilisation. He had been full of talk of a glorious future in his fevered ravings. And of riches beyond any man’s dreams. Riches that would no doubt remain untapped now he was dead.
Guilt stabbed Drew anew. But it would not change what had happened, nor his intentions to follow through with his self-imposed duty. He would see MacDonald’s remains and his wife delivered safely to the lawyer and that was all he would do.
He picked up the valise and strode into the inn.
‘Off the ship, are ye, then?’ the innkeeper asked, meeting him just inside the door.
‘Yes. The lady needs a room with a private parlour,’ Gilvry said. ‘I’ll bed down in the stables.’
The innkeeper looked him up and down as if trying to decide if he was trying to gull him.
‘A chamber is all I require,’ Mrs MacDonald said from behind Drew, her reticule clutched at her breast as if she feared its contents would not be enough to pay for her night’s lodgings.
He pulled out MacDonald’s purse and jingled the few remaining coins. ‘The lady’s husband charged me with her travel arrangements. A room with a private parlour, if you please, and the use of a maid. Mrs MacDonald will take dinner in her room.’
The innkeeper bowed. ‘This way, please, madam.’
‘Don’t worry about the rest of the luggage, Mrs MacDonald,’ Drew said as, stiff-backed with indignation, she followed the host up the stairs. ‘I will keep it safe.’
She cast him a look of dislike over her shoulder. ‘Then I hope you have a good night’s rest, Mr Gilvry.’
Ah, irony. He’d missed its edge all these many years. No doubt she was hoping her husband would haunt him. Which he would, because, in a manner of speaking, he had been, ever since he died.
Drew turned and stomped out to the yard.
* * *
It was only when Rowena had removed her coat and hat inside her room that she fully absorbed the news. Samuel MacDonald was dead.
She squeezed her eyes closed against the sudden pain at her temples as her thoughts spiralled out of control. She had to think about this logically.
She was a widow.
A destitute widow, she amended. She had very little hope that anything remained of the money Samuel had realised from the sale of her half of her father’s linen factory. Creditors had assailed her from all sides after his sudden departure for America, leaving her no choice but to find work and support herself. Her anger at her foolishness bubbled up all over again. How could she have been so taken in after fending off so many fortune hunters over the years?
But she knew why. After her father died when she was eighteen, she had lived with his partner and cousin. She’d hated it. Not that these family members had been particularly unkind, but whereas her father had respected her mind and listened to her advice, her cousin had insisted she leave all business matters to him. He had not valued her opinions at all.
As far as he was concerned, women were brainless. Only good to decorate a man’s arm and attend to his house.
And then she’d proved him right. She’d fallen for the blandishments of an out-and-out scoundrel who had fled almost as soon as he had his hands on her money, leaving her to face the creditors he’d apparently forgotten to pay. Her cousin, who had encouraged the marriage, had washed his hands of her, as well he might, once he owned everything.
She stripped off her thin leather gloves and sat down on the chair beside the hearth, holding her hands out to the flames, revelling in the heat on her frozen fingers. It was a long time since she’d had such a warm fire at her disposal. But creature comforts could not hold her thoughts for long.
Was it possible her cousin had insisted Samuel settle some money on her future when he acted on her behalf in the matter of the marriage?
If so, it was a relief to know that her only family hadn’t totally taken advantage of her lapse of good sense in accepting Samuel as a husband. When she’d learned her cousin had bought her half of the family business for a sum vastly below its true worth right after the wedding, she’d suspected her cousin of underhanded dealings.
It seemed she might have been wrong about her cousin. And about Samuel. Partly wrong at any rate, if arrangements had been made for her future.
Samuel was dead.
At least that was what Mr Gilvry had said. But how did she know for certain? She’d be a fool to take any man’s word at face value. And she hadn’t even seen Mr Gilvry’s face. He had raised his hat when he bowed, but not removed his muffler. Nor had he removed it when he entered the inn.
All she had to go on was what she had seen in a pair of piercing green eyes and heard in a deep voice with a lovely Highland lilt. And felt in the flutter deep in her stomach. Attraction. Something she should know better than to trust.
He really hadn’t told her what had happened to Samuel. Was there some reason behind his reticence she couldn’t fathom?
She got up and rang the bell. It wasn’t long before the maid the innkeeper’s wife had assigned arrived to do her bidding. ‘Be so good as to tell Mr Gilvry I wish to see him at once.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Please tell the kitchen I would like dinner for two delivered at half past seven.’
The maid bobbed a curtsy and left.
Now to see if he answered the summons. And if he did not? Then she would know that she definitely should not trust him.
And if he did? Did that mean she should? Likely not. But it would help put an end to the strange feelings she had in his presence.
