The air rushed from her lungs. Her heart seemed to stop for a second as if all the blood had drained from her body. The ground beneath her feet felt as if it was spinning. ‘His remains?’ she whispered.
‘Aye.’ He reached out and took her by the elbow, clearly fearing she would faint. His coat streamed out behind him, flapping wildly. He wasn’t wearing any gloves, she noticed, and the warmth of his hand sent tingles running up beneath her flesh, all the way to her shoulder. Across her breasts. Female awareness. How could that be? Was the pirate now springing forth to plague her days?
She forced her thoughts into proper order. ‘Are you saying he is dead?’
He nodded tersely. ‘My condolences, ma’am. He was killed by Indians in the mountains of North Carolina. I was with him when he died.’
She stared at the barrel. ‘He’s in...?’ She couldn’t finish her question, but received another terse nod.
Staring at the barrel, she took a deep breath. And another. And then a third. ‘But why? Why bring him here?’
While she couldn’t see his face, she had the feeling he wished he was anywhere else but here. And that he disapproved of her question.
‘He wanted to be buried in Scotland.’ He released her elbow and stepped back. ‘I gave him my word to see him home.’ He gestured to the cart. ‘And so I have. Or at least I will have, when I have handed him over to an agent of the Duke of Mere.’
‘The Duke of Mere? Why on earth would you want to do that?’
The fair brows, just visible beneath his hat brim, lowered in a frown. ‘He is executor to your husband’s will.’
* * *
In the face of her distress, guilt squirmed in Drew’s gut like a live thing. But for him, Samuel MacDonald might have been standing on this quay greeting his wife, instead of him. Mrs MacDonald looked ready to faint, but touching her again was out of the question. She was nothing like the antidote he’d been led to expect. A veritable harridan of a female.
He could see why the doughy Samuel MacDonald might have found her physically daunting. She was imposingly tall for a woman, though the top of her head barely reached Drew’s eye level, and as lean as a racehorse to the point of boniness.
She was not a pretty woman. The features in her face were too strong and aesthetic for prettiness. Her jaw a little too square for womanly softness, the nose a little too Roman. Her best feature was her dove-grey eyes, clear and bright, and far too intelligent for a man to be comfortable. And yet for some odd reason he found her attractive. Perhaps even alluring.
He fought the stirring of attraction. The effect of too many weeks of male-only company on board ship when he’d been used to— Damn. Why think of that now? A shudder of disgust ran through him. Not only had the woman just discovered she was a widow, but there wasn’t a woman alive who would welcome his attentions. Not unless he was paying. Not when they took a look at his face.
The old anger rose in his chest. The desire to wreak vengeance for what had been done to him was always with him, deep inside and like a carefully banked fire. Once brought back to mind, it blazed like a beacon that would never be doused. Not until he had exacted justice from his brother.
Getting a grip on his anger, he glanced up at the sky. It was three in the afternoon, the sun was already looking to set and no sign of the lawyer who should take charge of the matter at hand. Damnation upon the head of all lawyers.
He glanced along the quay with a frown. ‘Where is your carriage, Mrs MacDonald?’
‘Carriage?’ she asked, looking nonplussed.
No carriage, then. A hackney? Or had she walked the mile from the town to the quay carrying the large bag sitting at her feet? The worn cloak, the practical shoes, the modest undecorated bonnet, things in the old days he would have taken in with one glance, now came into focus. Aye, she would have walked. For a man who bragged of his high connections and incipient wealth, MacDonald had not taken such good care of his wife.
So Drew would have to fill the breach. At least for a day or so.
He gestured for her to walk in the direction of the road at the end of the jetty. ‘Do you have a room booked for the night in town?’
She eyed him with a frown. ‘Of course not, Mr Gilvry. I must return to my place of employment. I spent last night here, but must leave today.’
Her strength of will in the face of adversity surprised him. A woman who would not submit easily to anyone’s command. A burst of heat low in his belly shocked him. He could not be attracted to this domineering woman, as her husband had described her in the most unflattering terms. But there was no denying the surge of lust in his blood. Had his last years among the Indians made him less of a man? His throat dried at the thought. But he knew it wasn’t possible.
Unnatural bastard. He’d heard the accusation more than once from the women he’d brought to his bed. But this would not be one of them.
The sooner he delivered her to her husband’s family and got on with the business of settling his score with Ian, the better. ‘I promised to see you safe in the hands of your husband’s family. No doubt the lawyer will be here in the morning. Or I will send him another message. Let us find a carriage to transport us and...’ He glanced back at the sailor with the cart, who was shifting from foot to foot with impatience.
She followed his gaze and a small shiver passed through her body. Clearly she was not as unaffected as she made out.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I will hear what this lawyer of yours has to say, if he arrives tomorrow. The stage let me down at the Crown. We will go there and I will change my ticket to tomorrow night. I cannot stay a day longer.’
Drew swallowed a sigh of relief at her practical manner. Despite MacDonald’s words, he’d expected to suffer through a bout of feminine hysterics. No doubt that would come later, when she got a good look at his face.
‘Ye’ll find a carriage for hire at the end of the jetty,’ the sailor said, who had clearly been listening in to their conversation. The man trundled off with his burden, leaving Drew to escort Mrs MacDonald and carry her bag.
Her spine was so straight, her face so calm, he resisted the temptation to offer his arm for support. She clearly didn’t need it or welcome it. So why did he have the feeling that, despite her outward appearance, she might collapse? She didn’t look fragile. Anything but. She could have outmarched a general with that straight back of hers. Yet he could not get past the idea that, beneath the outward reserve, she was terrified. The woman was a puzzle and no mistake. But not one he intended to solve.
As the sailor had said, they found a hire carriage at a stand at the end of the quay and reached an agreement on terms to take them into the town centre. Drew helped the widow into the carriage, saw to the disposal of the luggage, then climbed up beside the driver. It would give her time to come to terms with her new circumstance. And allow him to avoid her questions, he admitted grimly.
* * *
The 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