opened her door to the passageway. He was a man who had done her a service, no matter how unpleasant. He should not have to scratch at the door like a servant. She shook her head at this odd sense of the man’s pride as she took the chair beside the hearth facing the door.
A few minutes later, he appeared before her, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. How odd that she hadn’t heard his footsteps, though she had listened for them. Nor had she realised quite how tall a man he was when they were out on the quay.
She frowned. He was still wearing his scarf, wrapped around his head and draped across his face in the manner of a Turk.
His dark coat, like the greatcoat he’d worn off the ship, fitted him ill, the fabric straining across his shoulders, yet loose at the waist, and the sleeves leaving more cuff visible than was desirable. His pantaloons were tight, too, outlining the musculature of his impressive calves, his long lean thighs and his— She forced her gaze back up to meet his eyes. ‘Please come in, Mr Gilvry. Leave the door open, if you please.’
She didn’t want the inn servants to gossip about her entertaining a man alone in her room. People were quick to judge and she didn’t need a scandal destroying her reputation with her employer.
The man did not so much as walk into the room as he prowled across the space to take her outstretched hand. His steps were silent, light as air, but incredibly manly.
The same walk she’d first noticed on the quay. The walk of a hunter intent on stalking his prey. Or a marauding pirate, or a maiden-stealing sheikh. All man. All danger. A betraying little shiver ran down her spine.
Trying to hide her response to his presence, she gestured coldly to the seat on the other side of the hearth, the way she would direct a recalcitrant student. ‘Pray be seated.’
He sat down, folding his long body into the large wing chair with an easy grace. But why hide his face? She’d thought nothing of the muffler out on the quay. She’d tucked her chin into her own scarf in the bitter November wind.
‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’ She looked pointedly as his headgear.
The wide chest rose and fell on a deep indrawn breath. He straightened his shoulders. ‘It is an invitation you might regret.’ There was bitter humour in his voice, and something else she could not define. Defiance, perhaps? Bravado?
Turning partly away he unwound the muffler. At first all she could see was the left side of his face and hair of a dark reddish-blonde, thick and surprisingly long. His skin was a warm golden bronze. Side on he looked like an alabaster plaque of a Greek god in profile, only warm and living. Never had she seen a man so handsome.
He turned and faced her full on.
She recoiled with a gasp at the sight of the tributary of scars running down the right side of his face. A jagged, badly healed puckering of skin that sliced a diagonal from cheekbone to chin, pulling the corner of his mouth into a mocking smile. A dreadful mutilation of pure male beauty. She wanted to weep.
‘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.
