Return of the Prodigal Gilvry by Ann Lethbridge

Author:Ann Lethbridge [Ann Lethbridge]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance
ISBN: 9780373297863
Google: JVZ1AgAAQBAJ
Amazon: 0373297866
Barnesnoble: 0373297866
Goodreads: 18812487
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2014-01-01T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Something was wrong. Drew could feel it deep in his bones. And in the bitter taste on his tongue.

He stomped out of the front door and made his way to the back of the cart. When he’d heard about the house set aside for her on the ducal estate, he’d assumed it meant a dower house in the grounds, near the duke’s abode, not some cottage in the middle of nowhere.

It was almost as if the duke had decided to isolate her from the world. As if she was some sort of dirty secret.

He threw back the tarpaulin. A cage full of chickens fluttered and squawked in panic. His gut fell away as he stared at the rest of the contents. Flour. Salt beef. Ham. A barrel of apples. Winter supplies. And those were the things he could make out at a glance.

He swung around to face Weir, grabbing the man’s lapels, bringing him close to his face with a snarl. ‘What the hell is going on?’

The steward leaned back, ineffectually batting at Drew’s hands. ‘How dare you, sir? Release me at once.’

Drew shoved him away. ‘Well? Answer my question.’

‘I do not take your meaning, Gilvry.’

‘I mean,’ he said, holding on to his anger, just barely, ‘she is the widow of the duke’s cousin, damn it. Why is she being treated like some sort of pariah?’

The little man’s moustache’s bristled. He tugged his coat straight. ‘She was Mr MacDonald’s responsibility. Not the duke’s. She has no official status in the family. He is being more than generous.’ He gestured to the house and the cart.

Drew’s fingers trembled with the strain of not closing around the other man’s throat and squeezing. Hard. ‘She’s a lady. Is she supposed to raise chickens? Keep a cow? Cook and clean?’

Weir retreated a step. ‘The Pockles were hired—’

He snorted his disgust. ‘The Pockles. A lazy good-for-naught and his slatternly wife and nowhere to house them decently. I demand that Mrs MacDonald be taken to the duke immediately, as is fitting.’

The little man stiffened. ‘Demand, sir? Demand? You are in no position to demand anything. Were you not the man who was present at Mr MacDonald’s death? And now the man who sticks like a burr to his widow?’ His lip curled. ‘And the pair of you giving the Pockles the slip? How many nights is it since the lady had any sort of chaperon?’

Drew’s hands curled into fists. Every muscle in his body tensed. ‘Are you accusing me of some sort of dishonourable conduct with respect to the lady?’

Weir hesitated, his beady eyes clearly calculating the odds of his escaping with his life. He must have realised they were not good. ‘No. Of course not,’ he muttered. ‘But you must see this from the duke’s perspective. A woman who the duke has never heard of arrives, announcing his cousin’s demise with the man who said he witnessed the death, and demanding settlement of her affairs. The duke is bound to be cautious. As are his advisors.

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