as if he expected her to trust him when he did not trust her. ‘Unfortunately I am, until Lord Carrick returns.’ He stared at the letter and held out his hand.
Unfortunately. What did he mean, unfortunately? That really hurt. ‘This is a private letter, addressed to me from a friend of my father’s. It came via the tinker at this stall.’
Mr Gilvry’s lips thinned. ‘If it is all so innocent, why not simply send it by way of the post office?’
Why was he being so starchy? Surely he wasn’t jealous of her letter from home? Not possible. He was simply doing his duty. So he thought. She drew herself up to her full height. Not very impressive beside him, but necessary to make her point. ‘Again, it is none of your business.’
‘It is, if the getting of it puts you in danger.’
Did that mean he really was worried about her? Her heart gave a cheerful little skip. ‘How could I have guessed the man would be here and would risk an approach among so many people? Besides, I thought they must be far away by now, fearing the hue and cry.’
An odd look crossed his face: guilt. She frowned. ‘Did you know they were still in the area?’
‘I suspected it. I should have warned you.’
So it was guilt. ‘Yes, you should have.’
He huffed out a breath. ‘It would not have been necessary had you stayed where I left you.’
Now she felt guilty. ‘Well, I am certainly glad you came along at the right time.’
He glanced around. ‘Where is the tinker you came here to meet?’
She shook her head. ‘I have no idea. He ran off when he saw you.’
Should she mention the gypsy’s knife? She hesitated a moment too long and Mr Gilvry’s face hardened as if he guessed she was holding something back. ‘It is back to the dressmaker’s with you, Lady Jenna. And then home to Carrick Castle.’
‘Carrick is not my home.’ She belonged to Braemuir. Heart and soul, though no one else seemed to understand her devotion.
He marched her though the crowds as if she was the criminal, not the man who had accosted her. And yet she did not mind the feel of his hand in the small of her back, the warmth of his large body, and the protection it offered. Should she say something about her suspicion that the man had sought her out? He had probably figured that out for himself.
As he hurried her along, she caught a glimpse of the gypsy. He was watching them with dark unfathomable eyes. She wondered if she should point him out to Mr Gilvry, but before she could do so, the man faded from sight. Besides, if Mr Hughes trusted him, she should too. The person she must not trust was Niall Gilvry.
When they got back to the seamstress’s, Campbell already had the carriage waiting outside. He and Mary were deep in conversation at the horse’s heads.
‘Are you finished here?’ Mr Gilvry asked Jenna, nodding towards the shop.
She mentally winced. ‘Not quite.’
He sighed. ‘Verra well, let us go in. Miss Mary, your presence is required.’ He opened the door.
‘You don’t need to come with me.’
He gave her a look that spoke volumes. Anger. Frustration. And something hotter than either, though he was doing his best to damp it down.
An answering glow sparked in her own veins. Like a child playing near the fire, the closer she got to him, the more likely she was to burn. But there was something about him that made him hard to resist. And that made him dangerous.
With a shiver, she let him take her arm and escort her into the shop.
Chapter Four
Jenna couldn’t sleep. After an hour or so of tossing and turning, she’d given up and had moved to the window seat to gaze out into the night. Was it simply by chance that ruffian had been there in the market place? One of them had said something on the road, and it only just now had returned to her. You are sure this is the one? The one what?
It wasn’t only the ruffian intruding on her rest. She kept seeing Mr Gilvry, at first furious at her trickery, but then reaching for her, pulling her close, kissing her. Not a quick touch of his mouth, but something far more erotic, a melding that made her body burn with longing. The vision had sent her fleeing from her bed.
She glanced over at the tumbled bedcovers. Her mind was going around and around far too quickly for her ever to fall asleep.
She picked up the book she’d finished earlier. She could read it again. Or she could go to the library and choose another one. It might help her sleep. Something boring, like a treatise on sheep-raising. Or something a little more risqué, like a book of Gillray’s cartoons. Except that would make her laugh and keep her awake.
No, something deadly dull was in order. She pulled on her robe, shoved her feet in her slippers, lit a new candle from the stub in the candlestick on her bedside table, and headed for the library.
She was surprised to see a glimmer of light spilling out into the hallway from the slightly open door. She frowned. Surely the butler would not have left candles alight before retiring for the night. It would be the height of folly indeed. But it must be so, because she was the only one who ever used the library in the evenings. Her cousin never had time for reading and Mrs Preston preferred the drawing room, where the light was better for her needlework.
Still, she could not help feeling that someone was there. Cautiously, she pushed the door wide.
At one of the tables, a man sat in his shirtsleeves. The light from the candle fell on the book he was reading and cast half his face in shadow. She had no trouble recognising his broad shoulders, the large hand that turned the page, or the studious and handsome profile cast into planes and shadows. Mr Gilvry. An inner gladness bubbled in her veins. A glow of joy at the sight of him. A feeling like nothing she had ever experienced.
As if she actually liked the man.
How was this? Her breath stilled. Her heart sounded loud in her ears. It was as if she’d made some monumental discovery, but did not yet understand its import. But in her heart she knew what it was. Recognised the danger. A growing attachment. Something she could not afford. She owed it to her position to think with her head and not let her heart get in the way. To think logically, as a man would. She must stand on logic or fail those for whom she was responsible.
It left an empty space in her chest. A dark, cold fissure.
Resentment flowed in to fill it. At him, because he was here in a place she’d thought of as her own, surely, for no other reason. Was there nowhere she could go and not stumble over him? He might have saved her life—twice—but it did not give him the right to invade every corner of it. She turned to leave.
He must have heard the movement, because he looked up, then shot to his feet. ‘My lady.’
Blast. Now she had no way to escape without acknowledging his presence. ‘Mr Gilvry.’ If she sounded stiff and haughty, it was because it was either that or sound breathless.
‘Can
